#it might be me not picking things that make it more useful though

[basementcoffee]

underdog / chapter 3 ghost x f!reader / cyberpunk au / masterlist

cw: extremely dubious consent, rape/noncon elements, power imbalance, violence and gore, minor character death, verbal abuse - full tags in masterlist

“Need you at your best tonight, Stella.”

“I’m always at my best.”

“I mean it.”

You’re at Solace tonight. A privacy pod at the back of the dining room—soundproof, one-way tinted glass. 

As always, Ghost at the ready. Hands folded at his front, blocking the exit. He hasn’t looked your way much since your reconciliation with Win. It strangely irks you, but there are other things to worry about.

“You haven’t told me what this is about.” Whatever it is, it’s serious. He never takes you to meetings like this. “Bushido?”

The past few weeks have been nothing but grind. Preparing for the screen test day in and day out since it’s the one big job on the table. More courses, more practice runs with old scripts. Even started a beginner’s boxing class that’s been kicking your ass four times a week to make you seem more believable. You don’t know the role or your partner yet, but you’ll be ready. You have to be.

Win’s mouth twitches. “No. Not that.” He steals your hand from your lap to kiss your knuckles. “You’re gonna act, though. Be quiet. Look pretty. The guy we’re meeting is serious shit and dry as dust. He’s looking for a partner, and I want him throwing himself at both of us before dessert.”

Your eyebrows hit your hairline, but before you can voice your immediate displeasure, Ghost speaks.

“They’re ‘ere.”

A thin man cuts through the sea of tables, flanked by two figures. You take stock of the leader.

Silver hair, amber eyes. Chrome stretches from cheekbone to cheekbone, crossing the bridge of his nose. His clothes are all wrong for Solace. Plain, utilitarian, function over fashion.

An optical scan returns nothing useful. All three profiles flag the same: Restricted Data.

It’s the green piping on the collars that gives it away. Neon, a tiny detail, but unmistakable.

Barghest.

To make it worse, you recognize the muscle. Muttonchops. You served the bigger men weeks ago, before you quit.

You shoot Win a wide-eyed look, but he’s already rising to greet them. You snap into place at his hip.

The trio enters the pod, and Ghost moves smoothly back into position, squared to the room. His counterparts mirror him.

Their leader wastes no time and closes the distance towards Win’s extended hand.

“Mr. Goforth.”

“Mr. Szabó, a pleasure.”

“The pleasure’s mine,” the man returns, clasping hands in a firm shake. “And who might you be? The starlet I’ve heard so much about?”

“In the flesh,” you smile.

“Organic and ample,” Win adds, gesturing to the table. “Shall we get down to business?”

Szabó lingers on you a moment longer before nodding. “Let’s.”

You never place an order, but the food and more drinks arrive like clockwork. And despite Win’s warning, it’s far from dull. You pick at your plate, sip a delicate gin, and pretend not to listen as the real conversation unfolds.

You can’t help it. This is your first real peek behind the curtain, and what’s behind it is staggering.

The conversation’s coded, but not enough to bar understanding. Product logistics, they say—smuggling. Client bookings, a euphemism for leveraging their high-profile talent, the Goforth Agency’s top shelf, as mules to Dogtown. Sanctioned by Hansen himself as part of a longstanding arrangement, and how Win funds his excesses.

But tonight isn’t about the status quo. It’s about expanding it. Transforming it. They’re talking regime change. 

Only, something’s off. They’re not aligned, tension barbing every word. Something went wrong somewhere and amends are piecemeal.

You gather that whatever Win was meant to accomplish in ‘Palm Springs’ backfired spectacularly. He played his hand too soon and inadvertently tipped off a man named Chester Bennett to the plot. Not only did he lose money, he gave Bennett a reason to start digging.

That name conjures something cold and queasy. You’ve heard it before—from the men Ghost turned into ground meat outside Prism.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom and barely make it. The world tilts, stomach churning as you press your forehead to the cool tile. You don’t lose your dinner,but the nausea swells and recedes in punishing waves. Whatever Win’s dragged you into, it’s not just dangerous. It’s suicidal.

When you return, a chill waits in your seat. Ghost stands rigid, fury etched into every line of his body as he glares at his boss.

Win makes a show of furrowing his brows and getting to his feet as you settle.

“Apologies, Szabó, I need to take a call. Shouldn’t be long. Come on, Ghost.”

Ghost doesn’t move. His gaze darts between you and the man across the table.

“Ghost,” Win hisses.

It takes a beat, but he finally pushes off the wall. As he exits, he casts one last glance over his shoulder—then the door shuts, and you vanish from his line of sight.

Szabó watches them go with a small smile. With a flick of his hand, the Barghest dogs file out to stand sentry.

You’re on your own.

Szabó says nothing at first. He reclines slightly, staring. Neither leering, nor with contempt. It’s clinical. Curious.

You shift, prickly under the sudden scrutiny. “You get out of Dogtown often, Mr. Szabó?”

He ignores the question completely, instead  gently swirling his untouched cocktail, studying the way its indigo color clings to the rim.

“You’re very beautiful, but you’re not my type.”

You blink. “What?”

“I was wondering if you were Win’s backup plan,” he goes on, cutting clean through whatever excuse you were about to stammer. “Let me guess. He told you to, I don’t know, to flutter your eyelashes and push your tits out?”

Your blood rushes hot, and for a moment, you think you’re drunk—because shame hits in one hard wave.

“Oh! No, I mean—that’s not—I’m not—Win didn’t—”

Szabó sips, unbothered. Pity quirks his mouth. “That is what’s happening. You’ve been served up as dessert. Happens more often than you think.” He tilts his head, eyeing you like something pinned to a board. “According to my intel, he’s done this before. Dozens of times. Bright-eyed little starlets pushed into laps as party favors when he loses leverage. Sold off if and when they’re no longer useful.”

He produces a rumpled handkerchief, presenting it without slowing.

“The young Goforth is laughably and appallingly transparent. Seems the apple didn’t just fall far from the tree—it rolled off a cliff.”

Reluctantly, you take the cloth.

“Shame,” he murmurs. “Scorpions like him always find something soft to sting. You strike me as a decent girl.”

The words dislodge something in your chest. You swallow against the rising lump, but your throat’s too tight. What he’s pointing out—what he’s spelling out so plainly—you’d known it. In that deep, avoidant corner of your mind. The one walled off from everything you don’t dare admit.

You thought you were different. That if you played it right, you’d be safe. Out from under his wings and flying.

You cling to the lie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m one of Win’s clients. I’m an actress.”

“And you’ve no doubt followed our conversation this evening, haven’t you?”

You don’t answer.

“Then you already know,” he says. “Win’s clients are never just pretty mouthpieces. Call yourself what you like. But you’re not a client. You’re an employee. Employees are tools—useful, but always, always replaceable.”

You go somewhere inside yourself to survive the rest of that sentence. Float a little. You see Win in your kitchen, wild-eyed and dangerous. At Embers, feeding you cake with stained fingers, toasting your future in place of an apology. You thought you understood the trade. One last shot at making it.

“Why are you telling me this? Why not ignore me?”

“There are very few ways in which Junior and I are alike,” he says coolly. “But our preferences in tools? That, I suppose, is where we overlap. You may be useful, yet.” 

His gaze dials to the middle distance as he fires off a message. Outside the booth, Muttonchops taps a finger to his temple.

“We’re done here. I will inform Mr. Goforth of my decision. Let Ghost know he’s free to collect his girl.” 

He rises and extends a hand, and you hesitantly take it.

“My apologies in advance, by the way. I’m about to make your…boss, let’s call him that, very angry. Still, nice meeting you.”

You don’t need to ask what he means.

The soundproof hush bursts like a bubble as the door slides open and noise from the restaurant floods in. The mohawked guard appears, holding the door while Szabó releases your hand. He strides out without looking back, and Muttonchops falls in behind him.

“Hope to see ye again soon,” the remaining Barghest soldier lilts. His gaze ticks toward the front of the restaurant—and his lips lift in a grin before he chuckles. “That’s my cue tae go.”

Ghost weaves back through the restaurant, servers skittering out of his path.

The Barghest guard’s laugh rings as he slips through the door, leaving you alone for a precious few more seconds as Ghost approaches.

You start to rise, seeing now what he intends, but he’s faster. The solid wall of him fills the entrance before you’ve even taken a full step. His hand finds your shoulder, pushing you back inside.

“Not yet.” He doesn’t stop moving.

He drives you backward until the edge of the table digs into your rear, pinning you there as he looms. His eyes blaze cold fire over his mask.

“Did Jago touch you?��

The question steals the air from your lungs. So he knew. Knew what Win left you here for.

Your lips part, choking out a frantic, “No. No, he didn’t.” 

Ghost still leans back enough to look you over anyway, chin dipping to his chest. A finger traces the side slit in your skirt, then disappears beneath it. The others follow until his palm is flush with your outer thigh.

“Did you want him to?”

“What? No.” you hiss, adamant, more confused and flustered than ever. 

There’s no urgency in his face. No impatient or cruel words. He’s closing in deliberately slowly, until he swallows the room, until there’s nothing but him crowding your vision. Until you can practically hear his systems humming.

You break first, turning your head away, tracking the cabling that snakes from his neck into the collar of his shirt. Anything to avoid those eyes.

“Isn’t Win waiting?”

“I’ll say you had to use the toilet,” Ghost murmurs, then, “You remember what to do if there’s trouble?”

His hand slides from your thigh down to your knee, where it stops. A chill bleeds through his glove as he rubs a slow circle into your skin. When you hesitate, his pressure deepens.

You look at him again, and this time he’s bent low, stooping until you’re face-to-face. An inch apart.

“Call you? Why? What—what do you know?”

His brow furrows. “Enough.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

His hand hooks around your knee like a brace, fingers slipping into the hinge. He must feel the shiver that rips through you.

“Don’t worry, baby.”

That word again. Baby. It rattles through your skull like a pinball.

He peels away as if the contact meant nothing, catching your arm at the elbow. He steers you toward the exit, reaching for the privacy booth’s door, but you grab his wrist.

“Ghost, wait, I’m scared—”

His eyes flash with something awful at that, like he might drag you back inside, but you don’t flinch. That’s what terrifies the most. You’re not reaching for comfort. You’re reaching for the one thing scarier than whatever’s waiting outside.

But the moment passes. 

You stumble over the threshold, and he doesn’t stop. Drags you through Solace securely tethered in his grip, and outside into Win’s orbit just as the call cuts off.

He spins to face you—pale, eyes wide, a storm gathering behind them like a thunderhead ready to break.

You’re sealed in the backseat—doors locked, windows shut, privacy barrier engaged. Ghost and the driver are nothing but shadows beyond the darkened panel, a world away. It’s another soundproof and sightproof box you’ve been shoved into tonight to try and please another audience.

The car pulls away from the curb, and the simmering fury shaking Win’s shoulders at last turns on you.

“Start talking. What happened? What did you say to Szabó?”

“I barely said anything,” you blurt, pressing yourself into the door, hand gripping the handle you know won’t move. “I asked if he liked Night City, and then—”

“Then?” he snaps, eyes rolling as he fights with his lighter, trying to catch the flame to the end of a cigarette.

“He said he...he knew you left me with him so he could—so I could…”

“And? Did you nick him with your teeth or something?”

Ice floods your chest, seizing your heart so tightly you think it’s stopped completely. There’s a tired, put-upon irritation underscoring his anger, like this is a problem you created. Like you failed by not playing the part he sprung on you.

“He wasn’t interested.” 

There’s nothing else to say—nothing smart or safe enough. You’re trapped in a moving car with a man who wanted to cash you in like a poker chip.

“Clearly,” he snorts derisively. “Fuck, Stella. Did you even try? I don’t think you did. No—you didn’t. Because if you had, he wouldn’t have pulled the plug on the whole fucking thing.”

You flinch. He barrels on.

“Now what am I supposed to do, huh? He’s got Hansen’s ear. Probably going to tank our agreement entirely. I was this close to locking it in. I was gonna give him Hansen’s head. Make him the leader of Dogtown and make out like a bandit doing it.”

He slouches forward, and the rest comes out miserable.

“Fuck. Dad’s gonna kill me.”

It catches you off guard. It’s so unexpected, so pathetically small. A man playing at kingpin, whimpering over daddy’s disappointment. A laugh escapes, little more than a breath at first, but it snowballs, spilling out in tittering waves. The would-be architect of some ill-conceived revolution, undone at the thought of his angry father. Sitting there, moaning about a coup that never even got off the ground. A boy crying over a toy out of reach.

“What the fuck is so funny?” he snarls.

You shake your head, nearing hysterics.

The cigarette slips—‘accidentally,’ he’ll say later—and lands on your bare knee. Your laughter shatters into a scream that punches through the cabin. The car jolts as the driver brakes.

Win pounds on the divider.

“Keep fucking driving!”

At the very least, you tend your tiny wound in familiar territory.

The burn gel cools the angry welt, but it’s not enough to distract from Win’s pacing. Back and forth, wearing a groove into the floor and your nerves.

You watch from the loft, listening to his desperate calls. He hasn’t acknowledged you since you returned, and it’s just as well. The thoughts swirling in your head are far from charitable, and one look might spill them all. 

You know how this goes. Once his temper tantrums end, it falls to you to soothe him. Say whatever needs saying to keep things civil.

This is the last time. He might not be finished with you, but you are with him.

As for how to extricate yourself, that’s a puzzle that can’t be solved overnight. You haven’t seen the contracts since you signed, but you know what they likely say. Escape means making moves before Win even suspects you’re thinking of it. Maybe Irina knows someone who can get you to NU-SSR. A summer on Baikal doesn’t sound so bad now. A smuggler, new identification—you can afford it if you’re clever.

You wonder if the Bushido screen test was ever real. If the acting classes were just to prime you, make you palatable and pliable for whomever came up. The parties and friends you met—they were his real clients.

Funny. A few weeks ago, the idea of giving it all up was unthinkable. You were so certain you’d come out on top after making a deal with a devil. That you’d somehow become a star, untouchable and out of reach.

How many others has Win set up like you? The previous tenant. The one who ‘fell behind on rent.’ Is that what happened? Nausea rolls thick and hot, and you grip the railing to ground yourself.

Snapping fingers call you out of your head.

Win stands at the bottom of the stairs, expression hard and expectant. Right. Your cue. Time for an encore.

You descend, simpering, and weave into his space. “You know, I still think Seattle’s a good idea,” You slip your arms around his neck. “A little break could do us good. A reset. Forget Bushido, forget Szabó. Let’s get out of here. Just us.”

“No.” He shakes you off like lint. “We’re going to fix this. It’s not too late to throw in with Bennett. I’ll send over a peace-offering, nab a meeting. Do it over. This time, we close. This time, you do your job.”

You shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s another gut punch. There’s no bottom with him. Just layer after layer of rot. 

“Is that a good idea? After Ghost, y’know…”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Men like me and Szabó and Bennett—we understand it’s business. It’s never personal.” 

Right. Those men were going to carve you up, but it was nothing personal. 

“Trust me, Stella,” he goes on. “A couple crates of contraband and dinner with you? Bennett’ll forget the whole thing.”

You stare at him, hollowed out. “You’re serious? After everything—you’re still trying to sell me? To fucking Barghest?”

He bristles. “Sell? Don’t be crass. This is your second chance. Third, really.”

You shake your head. “I don’t get it. Why are you trying to play fixer? Arming a coup, really?”

“What do you think I do for a living?”

“A scout? An executive?  I don’t know, your family runs a talent agency!”

Win waves that off. “And you know we do more than that.”

“Well, yes, but I thought—”

“You can’t be this naive.” His voice cuts clean across yours. “Stella, I’m not here to babysit starlets and aging rockstars. When my dad finally kicks the bucket, I’ll be running the whole show. I’m going to take us out of the dark ages. Entertainment’s chump change. You think I care about actresses who peak at twenty-eight? I’m done with that.”

A feverish flush rises high on his cheeks. “I want to be a kingmaker. Politicians, dictators—that’s where the real money is. Real power.”

There it is again, what you glimpsed in the car. He could get a whole new faceplate tomorrow and he’d always look like this to you. Unhinged.

You step back. “You’re insane.”

“Am I?” He follows, tilting his head like he’s genuinely considering it. “I think you’re failing to understand the big picture here. Dogtown wants change. I’m helping to make that happen. All you have to do is help close the deal. A few nights playing host. A little charm to keep the wheels greased once the new regime lands. In exchange? Money. Notoriety. Everything you wanted. Didn’t I tell you these things take sacrifice?”

You retreat toward the kitchen island. He shifts with you, veering off to flank instead of chase like he’s done this before. Maybe he has.

“What if I don’t want it anymore?” you try, desperate now. “Do you really not feel a thing for me?”

“I gave you everything. Everything.” He sweeps an arm at the apartment around you. “You’d still be kissing ass for tips if not for me. I pulled you out. I made you.”

“And now you want me to what? Kiss your ass?”

“I want you to stop fighting me!” he explodes, slamming his hand down on the stone so hard it rattles the drawers. “Stop questioning every goddamn move I make and listen when I talk. I brought you into this life. And if you keep acting like this? I’ll take you out of it just as fast.”

You don’t wait.

You spin and bolt—bare feet slipping on the floor, grabbing the counter to help launch yourself away. Behind you, a stool clatters to the floor as he gives chase. You sprint, dodging past the dining table and hook toward the stairs.

“Get back here!” he screams behind you. “You think this is over, Stella? You think I’ll just let you walk away?”

You scramble up the steps two at a time.

“You don’t get to quit when it gets tough. You don’t get to run!”

You won’t make it to the bathroom. No time. You dive for the bed, arm plunging beneath the pillow until your fingers close around cold steel and—

The pistol kicks in your hand.

Recoil jars your shoulder. A heavier impact slams the bed frame against the wall. A hand claws at your ankle. A wet, choking sound. Another heartbeat, and the grip vanishes.

Your ears ring in the silence that follows. Several seconds pass before you crawl across the mattress to peek.

Win lies crumpled, twitching like a bug. His chest heaves, a grotesque breath dragging in and out of his mouth. Blood pulses in a shallow geyser from a wound just left of center. His eyes are wide, glazed over. Prismatic shades of green kaleidoscope as his vision goes offline.

“Win?” you whisper.

His fingers scrabble at his chest, blindly fumbling.

A fresh bolt of fear poleaxes as you realize he’s searching for his biomonitor. It’s probably already triggered a Trauma Team response. When they arrive, it won’t take long to connect the dots.

There’s only one option drilled into your brain.

Ghost answers on the first ping.

“On my way up. Door better be open.”

You must look like hell. Bloody hands and knees, blood spattered across your face. Your dress soaked in gore. 

Ghost takes it all in, giving you a once-over that lasts a little too long, then strides upstairs to confirm what he already knows. That Win’s last breath rattled out minutes ago.

When he returns, he chucks your chin, tilting your face into the light to admire the flecks of red. Everything’s muffled, far away, except for his voice.

“Look at you, little killer. You want to get out of ‘ere?” 

Bone-chillingly reverent. Oddly tender. It’s still the kindest thing anyone’s said to you in days.

“Know where you can lie low. You’ll owe me, though.”

Tears break loose, hot and fast, carving tracts through the blood on your cheeks. You try to turn your face, but he beats you to it—watching with eerie intensity, pupils blown. His thumb catches a tear. Lifts it, considering it a second, then smears it across his gums and wipes it over tongue.

Your stomach drops. He’s excited. Giddy, even. Like this is a gift that has been a long time coming.

You don’t move. Can’t.

If there’s anyone who might survive this, it’s him.

What’s another bargain, when the flames are already licking at your heels?

“Okay.”

Even in your daze, you know something’s wrong when the lift carries you up instead of down. The button for the roof aglow, not the garage. 

When the doors slide open, they yawn wide to the night, wind whipping into the car and biting your cheeks. An AV waits. Old, dented, and its paint faded to belong to Win. Instinct grinds your heels into the floor but Ghost is a relentless force. 

The gullwing door opens, and before you can protest, his hand is at your back, shoving you inside. Piling in after, pushing you to the far wall. He lumbers to the controls and the hatch seals. That’s when you see it. Spray-painted across the inner panel in streaks of lime: a snarling dog, teeth bared. Barghest.

Fuck.

You throw yourself at the manual release, fingers scrabbling for the lever, but it’s too late—the AV’s moving. It lurches. Chugs. You’re climbing into the dark, sailing above a sea of screens and boards.

You grab for the nearest jumpseat as you lose your footing. “Ghost? What...You can’t…”

A click, then a flat and mechanical voice: Autopilot engaged. Flight plan confirmed.

Ghost heaves out from the pilot’s chair. The world lists sideways, not from the ascent, but the sight of his bare face again. His vest hangs from his vest. 

He stuffs himself down the narrow aisle, reaching for you.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? Your face on every corner?” Ghost asks, cupping your jaw, forcing you to stare down at the city as the AV takes the long way to Dogtown.

Far below, commandeering screen after screen, News 54 takes over the City Center and the Glen. The footage rolls outward from the epicenter, an oil spill smothering everything with the breaking news: the chaos outside your apartment building, Goforth Sr. screaming into a camera. Then there’s your face. Half of every screen, name stamped underneath it. 

Suspect at large.

The tears return anew, and he’s ready for them. His mouth brushes your cheek, tongue sweeping to intercept before they fall. A sound rumbles out of him, almost a purr, vibrating against your spine where his chest presses flush to your back.

“Gotta ‘and it to you, wasn’t sure you were gonna do it. Thought I’d ‘ave to save you again. But you did it all by yourself.”

You sniffle, unable to duck him when his mouth finds your neck.

“Shh, shh. It’s alright, princess. We’re goin’ ‘ome.”

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

The Man In Your Apartment

Pairing: Mark Meachum x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: First dates are stressful enough without Mark Meachum showing up to make you second guess your entire life.

Tropes: Friends With Benefits, Mutual Pining, Implied Slow Burn.

Word Count: 10.8K (Don't look at me like that)

Warnings: I'm gonna just label this 18+ to make sure. References to Sex, Sexual Innuendo, Implied Sex, Reader's hair is long and is described as "curvy", Cursing, Angst, Talks of Cancer, ANGST, Self-deprecating thoughts from the reader and Mark, Unhinged joke about starfish, Flirting, Mark might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! I'm just starting to write for Mark, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Main Masterlist

A/N: Yes, yes I did finally watch Countdown, and the unthinkable happened… I wrote another Jackles character fic.

"Ow, ow, ow. Hot! Hot!" You yelp, releasing the chunk of your (now) perfectly curled hair to stick your singed index finger into your mouth while staring at your reflection in your bathroom mirror.

This looks nothing like the video.

You think with a groan, eyes shifting to your phone that shows the supposedly effortless updo being displayed by the girl on screen.

I should've known better than to try something new one hour before I'm supposed to go out on a date! There's no way I can salvage this.

The reflection of you in the mirror looks at you raises an eyebrow as if asking you 'did you expect anything less?'

"Shut up." You mutter with a huff.

You’d thought that by now you'd be used to the first date jitters. The swarm of butterflies that erupted in your stomach in nervous anticipation, the small tingle of excitement at the thought that anything could happen, and the anxiety of trying to find the perfect first date outfit.

There were enough "first date outfits" strewn over the floor of your bedroom for you to go on a hundred dates, the same hundred outfits you'd modeled for your best friends Evie and Sam over video chat for two hours before you chose the current ensemble. It was the one that they'd said would 'give your date a heart attack' all the while whooping so loud it made their next door neighbors start banging on the wall.

The black ankle length dress clung to your body like a second skin, hugged your every curve, and swept low over your breasts to give a hint of cleavage. It was the emergency dress, the one thing in your closet that you'd never worn, but bought months ago hoping to wear it for someone else. The same someone else that you hadn't seen or heard from in nine months.

Not thinking about him right now.

There weren't exactly many places that you could wear something like this, especially not to the firm of York, Goldman, and Preston. Your power suit and heel staple was more sensible anyway, though did little to stop one of the senior partner's wandering eyes whenever you bent over to pick something up while twisting the golden wedding ring on his left hand.

Pig.

Products in bottles and containers of varying colors and shapes are scattered over the small single sink in your bathroom, foundation is smeared on the marble countertop, a thin dusting of eyeshadow flecked in the mirror, a broken eyeliner pencil sits forgotten on the floor an inch from the toe of your stilettoed boot, a single earing lies aimless, and the makeup brushes you'd used are shoved into the small makeup bag you put them in all the while lying to yourself and saying that you'd clean them the second you got home. The same thing you told yourself each time you took one out and ran your thumb over the stiff makeup caked bristles before applying your makeup each morning.

But despite the support from your two college roommates turned best friends after four years in the trenches, you were still nervous.

It was the first date you'd had with anyone in over nine months. The never ending pile of depositions and case evidence on your desk had kept you plenty occupied, and this was first time you'd allowed yourself to make time for something like this.

Devin was another junior partner at the firm, a nice guy that had asked you out several times in the past, but you'd politely declined. Now, after a nine month dry spell and no other prospects you were willing to give him a chance.

He's not terrible, just a little too much like vanilla yogurt, plain and often not enough.

But you were willing to give Devin a shot, maybe he wouldn't be as straight laced outside of the office as he was in it. Maybe he had a secret bad boy side that would surprise you and sweep you off your feet. 

The playlist that Evie made aptly titled "Get Back Out There and Get It" switches to an upbeat song that makes you swing your hips and hum under your breath, while you change the part in your hair, frowning again at your appearance before you flip the piece back over to the side.

I'm done. I can't look at myself anymore.

Pickle, your French Bulldog, trots into the bathroom happily, sniffling around the bottom of your dress and licks tentatively at your ankle.

"Hey buddy." You lean on the counter and scratch behind one of his pointed ears. "What are you up to huh?"

His leg thuds against the floor rhythmically, nudging his flattened face against your leg once before he turns to sniff along the rumpled pile of clothing in your closet and leaving you to the deranged spiral of your thoughts. They were hanging from the chandelier by now in a ritzy mansion with the Unsinkable Molly Brown.

Devin was taking you to a little Italian restaurant a few blocks from the high rise you worked at in downtown LA, and he was due to be here any minute, which meant that you probably had no time to fix your hair.

Maybe I can pretend that I got a stomach bug and reschedule. He seems like he would be plenty understanding and-

Your phone buzzes on the counter,  the group-chat titled "Feral Friends" flashing once on the screen to distract you from your reflection for a few moments.

Evie: You better not be staring at yourself in the mirror thinking about faking an illness

Sam: Or contemplating toaster bath to get out of this.

Evie: You look so hot in that dress. Devin is gonna want to have all your babies!!

Sam: He's a dude Evie.

Evie: THAT DOESN'T MATTER, SEAHORSE RULES BITCH!

Sam: As a marine biologist I can't condone your behavior… but as your friend I say that it can totally happen.

Evie: Thanks babe. Does that mean you're gonna finally let me come back to the lab?

Sam: Nope. I'm not going to let you molest another starfish.

Evie: I just wanted to see how mermaids get them to stick!

Sam: I know this is difficult for you, but mermaids aren't real.

Evie: I don't believe you! The government probably paid you to say that and now you're keeping them from me.

Sam: Why do you want them to be real?

Evie: And I bet you know the location of the necklace that old lady threw into the sea!

Sam: The lady in Titanic?

Evie: YES!

You stifle a snort.

Evie and Sam had been such a big part of your life for years now. Through thick and thin, the family that you never had, but always wanted. The three of you, three parts of a whole that fit together seamlessly even though you lived in LA and they both shared an apartment back in Florida on the other side of the US. You were planning a trip for the end of the month to see them, desperately needed it like the air you were breathing, couldn't wait to camp on their lumpy couch and catch up on Love Island while eating greasy pizza and waking up between Evie and Sam like nothing had changed. Like the three of you weren't still complaining about how small your shared apartment was and eating cup a noodle at every meal while dreaming about marrying rich to avoid getting a soul-sucking nine to five.

You: As scintillating as this conversation is, it's not helping.

Evie: That's why they pay you the big bucks smarty pants, because you use words like that.

Sam: Girl, come on, the guy's gonna fucking plotz right in his pants as soon as he sees you. I don’t know why we're even having this conversation.

Evie: Or why you're going out with him… The guy is about as interesting as a sack of flour. Never seen someone so white in my entire life, thought I was going to go blind when I stalked his insta and saw a picture of him in shorts.

Sam: EV!

Evie: What? We're all thinking it! This guy would be lucky to get a foot pic from you babe, let alone the whole package.

Sam: She's right, but at the same time please don't sell pictures of your feet. You got that one wonky toe…

You: I've told you multiple times that it's not wonky and we're getting off topic again.

Pickle walks back into the bathroom toting his prize, a red lace thong that you'd ruled out as 'impractical' for tonight, choosing rather a black one that matched the bra you were wearing. You still weren't sure where the date would end up, but you were being optimistic, dwelling in the possibility that Devin would surprise you.

"Drop it." You order.

Pickle freezes, eyes wide, his little gray body tensing.

"Pickle." You say sternly.

He bolts into your bedroom full speed, his little legs scrambling against the hardwood floors, nails scrapping against the wood as he goes.

Damn it.

"Get back here!" You shout as you run through your home and down the darkened hallway behind him in swift pursuit, but Pickle continues to run as fast as he can through your two bedroom apartment his little mouth chewing furiously because he knows his days are numbered.

Just as you cross from the hallway into your living room, a pair of hands come out of nowhere and catch Pickle, yanking him up into the air.

You screech to a halt, eyes widening as you focus on the stranger standing in your apartment.

The man comes into focus, broad shoulders encased in a black leather jacket, brown hair kissing the collar in a soft wave, his hardened muscular body molded like a statue in Greece, perfectly chiseled as if from stone. Pickle writhes fruitlessly in the man's arms, trying to escape from air-jail, but the man only laughs at him. The sound of his chuckle trailing goosebumps over your skin.

But even though the stranger's back is to you, but you don't need to see his face to know who it is.

Mark Meachum.

You'd met in the courtroom or rather outside the courtroom when you were running exactly five and a half minutes late and slammed into him after he'd given testimony. The trusty briefcase you'd had for years decided at that moment to give up the ghost, splitting open and scattering the notes and papers you'd worked so hard on all over the floor. And while others continued to walk by, Mark had stopped to help you, flirting all the while, and by the time he'd handed you the last paper you had a date for drinks and a reason to grin and bear it while a senior partner yelled at you for your tardiness. 

The relationship, if you could call it that, started then and there.

Late night phone calls, late night drinks, followed up by late night rendezvous, memories of beer, sweat, and the spicy scent of Mark's cologne that clung to your sheets long after they went cold. The haunting memory of his rough hands dragging over your soft skin, finding places that no one else seemed to, every inch of your body and his fitting together so well if the world was burning outside your bedroom neither of you would be none the wiser.

It was all going so well… until it wasn't.

Mark was content to keep things the way they were, but you weren't. You wanted more. A total cliché, you knew that, but when the two of you started you didn't have time for more than just a few hours, but you liked Mark and you wanted to try, thought that there was something worth exploring between the two of you.

He didn't.

He'd said that he didn't want things to change, that he wasn't looking for anything serious, and that led to the inevitable parting of the ways…

Except Mark didn't stay away for long, never did. He'd showed back up at your apartment in the weeks that followed and each time you let him in all the while trying your best not to take it personally that he didn't want more.

Sometimes you thought he did though.

When all was quiet and you couldn’t sleep because something was bothering you and he actually listened to you talk instead of the usual grunt you got from the handful of men you’d tried to date in the past. When you’d find him in the kitchen in the morning nursing a cup of hot coffee and pinching the bridge of his nose to drive away the headaches he had so often, and he allowed you to gently rub at his temples to soothe the ache, while he watched you with curious green eyes as if he couldn't believe you were real.

Those moments made you think that maybe Mark wanted more. More than just the heat of your body beside him, more than the sweat soaked sheets and gasps of his name into the night air, and more than just the pleasure you brought him when the two of you were alone and nothing else seemed to make sense but the rock of your body against his and the moans of your name into your mouth from his lips. But just like clockwork the next day would dawn and Mark would get up, get dressed, kiss you goodbye and saunter out of your life so easily it made your head spin.

Until 9 months ago, when you told him you couldn't do this again, that it was the last time and you needed him to stay away for good. You remember how you'd said it, wrapped in your sheets when he got out of bed and got dressed. Mark had winked, dark hair falling forward into his face, before he kissed on in the forehead the same patronizing way he always did. You’d hoped that he had actually gotten the message, that he was finally, finally listening to you when you told him that.

Apparently not.

"These for me?" Mark smirks, the bright red thong dangles between his long fingers. There's a familiar glint of mischief in his green eyes, the same glint that always seemed to get you in trouble whenever he was around, the one that ended with you breathless in bed with Mark's body nestled snuggly between your thighs like he belonged there. "You shouldn't have."

You snatch away the offending garment from his outstretched hand. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood." His eyes trace over your body, bringing a pleasurable tingle down the length of your spine.

Your body didn't seem to get the memo about being anti-Mark, but you weren't surprised. It had a tendency to disconnect from your mind whenever he was in your general vicinity and usually wanted things that were bad for you.

The Bluetooth must not be working because there's a flood of warmth to the apex of your thighs the longer that Mark stares at you with the same mischievous smirk he gave you the last time you saw him.

Your eyes flick to the open window in your living room where the floral curtains billow and flap in the night breeze.

Did he come in through the window? I'm three floors up!

"Did you break in?"

"No." Mark answers scratching Pickle behind the ears, who has now turned traitor just as your body had and is licking Mark's jaw where the prickle of his beard has begun to shadow.

Something that you too wished you could do.

Stop it! Stay strong. I will not relapse. If only there was a green-eyed, dark haired man anonymous group on the internet for addicts like me.

You clear your throat, eyes shifting to the open window and then back to him, raising an eyebrow in a silent question. Mark chuckles low under his breath, the gradual rumble going up through his chest that makes your throat tight.

Distant thunder before a storm hints.

And what a storm it would be if your let him back into your bed. A category five hurricane, a damn tornado so destructive that Tyler Owens was out there chasing after it.

"I've been telling you to fix that window forever. Do you have any idea how many home invasions there are in LA every year?"

"I'm on the third floor Mark!"

"See-" He holds up a finger. "That's exactly the kind of thinking that lets these freaky bastards free and clear to go through underwear drawers."

"Strong words from a man who was holding my thong ten seconds ago." You cross your arms over your chest.

"Blame Pickle. He obviously wanted me to have it."

The dog in question has his tongue lolling out of his mouth, smiling happily up at the man who ruined your life.

He didn't, not really.

It was your fault that you kept going back to him, your fault that each time he showed up on your doorstep, dark hair scrunched up around his face, glimmering eyes that raked over your body, and charming smile that you couldn't say no.

"What are you doing here?" The question is measured, each word slowly rolling out of your mouth with precision.

Truthfully, you knew what he was doing here, it was the same what that you had told yourself you were never going to go back to. It had taken you all nine months since you'd seen him to get over it, overworking yourself, going too hard at the gym on the treadmill because it was easier to fall asleep when you were so exhausted rather than sitting up all night and thinking about the man with the glowing green eyes. The endless marathon of rom-coms that made you feel like Elle Woods throwing a box of chocolates at the tv also didn't help either.

A part of you was angry that he was here now, that he had stayed away because he knew it really was the last time and now he had some warped alarm inside of his head that told him you were finally moving on and he had to come back.

Mark puts Pickle on the couch giving him another affectionate scratch before he focuses back on you.

"I thought I'd stop in and say hello. You look nice. Hot date?" Mark's eyes trace over your figure again taking in the black dress, the one you’d bought for him in mind because you thought that it would change something, but never had a chance to wear it.

“Yes, actually.”

Is it hot in here?

The fact of the matter was that despite your brain wanting nothing to do with him, there was another part of your body that was ready to rip all his clothes off and act like the last nine months hadn’t happened.

“Huh.” Mark scratches his chin as he takes one step towards you so close that you catch a whiff of the same cologne that was long gone from your sheets. Hints of sandalwood and sunshine that you’d let yourself breathe with his pillow crushed to your chest when he left for the last time, tears burning in your eyes. “Is that so?”

He towers over you, smirk quirking on the end of his mouth, humor flashing through his eyes the longer he stands there looking at you. Some of his dark hair has fallen forward over his forehead that your fingers itch to push away, remembering the way that the smooth skin of his temples felt beneath your fingertips whenever you soothed away the headaches he seemed to have so frequently.

It’s a few inches shorter than the last time you saw him, but he looks just as good if not better. The thick dusting of his beard over his strong jaw makes him look rugged in the best way and again makes the irrational part of your brain start rattling the bars of her cage.

“Y-yes.” You stammer.

Top of my class in litigation and yet every time he looks at me like that I can’t form a single sentence.

"I like what you did with your hair." Mark's smile widens, eyes softening as he raises his hand and pushes back the chunk of hair that singed your fingertips moments ago. "It's pretty."

Please for the love of mashed potatoes keep it together. Heart of a warrior!

You chide yourself, feeling your legs turn to jelly under his gaze that makes your right foot wobble in the stilettoed boot.

9 months ago when he'd left, Evie and Sam had shown up out of the blue and the three of you performed a "Markxorcism." You'd burned sage, lit candles, chanted ridiculous things, and then eaten so much junk food that Evie puked into Sam's purse.

Now you were realizing that it didn't work, because your subconscious obviously didn't get the memo.

There's a blush creeping up through your cheeks with the brush of Mark's fingertips against your skin. All it did was remind you of the moments the two of you had spent together in the past, with those same fingertips exploring parts of your body that no other man ever seemed to be able to reach.

Please don't think about that right now.

The song on the playlist shifts to something softer, a melody that you've forgotten the name of, but does little to push the memories of Mark and you in this very apartment. The soft light in your living room accentuates Mark's strong jaw, making the shadow of his beard a little bit darker while catching in his glimmering green eyes. The memory of the day he left washes over you in a fluid wave. When his hair was rumpled from where your hands had tangled through the strands the night before, when the glow of his freckled skin caught in the early morning sunlight that shone through your curtains, and when the familiar scrape of stubble rubbed against your forehead as he kissed you goodbye.

"You should go." You clear your throat again, voice sounding a little higher than it usually does.

"Why?" Mark's breath wafts over your face in a minty wave.

"Because it's gonna be hard to explain-"

"Explain what baby?"

"Why you're here."

Mark chuckles low under his breath, his tongue wetting his bottom lip. "And why do you think I'm here? Hmm?"

Something dark flashes in his eyes as his gaze drops down over your body once more, catching on your curves like flypaper. Goosebumps flicker across your skin, following the trail of his eyes on you and making warmth pool in the pit of your stomach.

Oh dear Lord why does he always have to look so good?

Your mouth is dry, the last shred of willpower you have pulled so tight that you know it'll snap at any second. You hated that he did this to you, that one look from those glowing green eyes turned off whatever rational part of your mind usually drove and sent you scuttling back into the stone age, like taking one look at the rugged man in front of you suddenly stimulated the primal animal instinct that lived in the dark recesses of modern man.

You can take the cavewoman out of the cave… but you can't take the cave out of the woman.

And damn you wanted to drag Mark back into yours.

A soft knock sounds at your front door breaking the spell between the two of you, but also sends a bolt of anxiety through your body.

You groan audibly.

How the hell am I going to explain Mark being in my apartment?!

“See if you feel that way when the guy shows up, you might as well just not go at all. Don’t worry, I’ll let him down easy for you.” Mark turns to go towards your door.

“No!” You shout grabbing the back of his jacket, tugging him back, but Mark doesn't move an inch in your direction.

Damn him for being so solid and broad.

Instead, he opens the door.

Devin stands there in the brilliant light of the hallway, holding a small bouquet of magenta and white carnations, wearing the same sharp black suit, blue tie, white shirt combo that he wore every single day to work without fail. His auburn hair is combed back in simple waves that curl behind his ears, the dark dusting of freckles over his cheeks giving him a boyish quality, the exact opposite of the infuriating man blocking you from view.

"Hey-" Devin's greeting stops mid-way as he makes eye contact with Mark, who only smirks down at the man inhabiting the space just beyond your front door.

Mark is taller than him, broader too. Seeing the two of them standing there reminded you of those pictures on the internet of Kevin Hart and Dwayne Johnson.

"Hey there champ." Mark says while flashing a broad smile. He's obviously pleased with the turn of events and it makes you want to curl up into a ball in die. "How's it going?"

Because how in the hell were you going to explain Mark to Devin?

"Oh hey Devin! This is Mark, he stopped by for a quickie before our date" did not sound like something that you said to the father of your future children.

"Um… good." Devin clears his throat, still not able to see where you're standing behind Mark in your living room. "I'm sorry I must have the wrong apartment."

"I think you do bud-" Mark begins to shut the door, but you push past him- well, you try to. Mark is built like Paul Bunyan and moving him was like Moses trying to get water from a rock.

"No, he doesn't-" You whisper sharply under your breath to Mark, only earning the same glorious rumble-like chuckle that makes your knees feel like they're clacking together. "Hi Devin!" You say to him with far too much anxious enthusiasm. There was enough of it crackling through your synapses that you could power all of NYC in a blackout.

"Hi." Devin repeats, his eyes flicking from Mark to you as he tried to figure out what he was missing.

"Sorry. Mark was just stopping by for-" Your hands wave anxiously in front of you, the excuses and lies you were about to spew from your mouth would have made milk curdle.

Devin's gaze falls to the red thong that you still have clasped in your right hand, the tips of his ears pinkening when he realizes what it is.

Oh sweet baby corn.

"The laundry, right baby?" The humor in Mark's voice makes you want to feed him to Pickle, who would probably just lick him to death given how much Pickle loved Mark.

"NO!" You shout, eyes widening in panic. "Um. He was-um… fixing the window. Can never be too careful in LA right?" The awkward laughter that follows catches in the back of your throat as you toss the thong around the corner and into a potted plant out of sight. "All those break ins and whatnot."

"Yeah." Devin coughs out a half-laugh, but he doesn't look too convinced, probably because you live on the third floor. "Um. You look really nice."

"Thank you." You smile, but it was hard to. Not when Mark was still looking at you like a cat that got the canary and you felt your heart was flip-flopping around in your chest.

At this point you wished that your elderly neighbor Mr. Wyatt came out and flashed the three of you the way he always did whenever Evie and Sam visited, at least then there would be something else to awkwardly laugh at other than you.

I'll never understand why he moved out of that nudist colony, he sounds so happy whenever he talks about it.

"I got you these." Devin holds out the carnations. His hand trembles, gaze still shifting from Mark to you.

You didn't blame him.

You'd run into Mark at a bar one time when he had a date with him. A woman that looked like she walked right out of a playboy magazine, beautiful, sexy, poised… The rest of the night you couldn't help but compare yourself to her, focusing far too hard on all the little flaws that never let you rest whenever you looked at yourself in the mirror. And you were sure that Devin was having the same spiral of self-deprecation inside of his head at the moment given that Mark was well… Mark.

"Aww that's sweet." Mark coos. "Look he brought you flowers."

Anger surges up in a wave of heat to your cheeks.

Is he being serious right now? He shows up in the middle of the night after zero contact for nine months and he has the audacity to make fun of a man who is actually interested in dating me?

It was enough to remind you of why Devin was here. Devin was here because he genuinely wanted to take you out, because he genuinely wanted to have something more than whatever the hell Mark and you had. Something real.

Because you were worth more than this. Worth more than an errant text in the middle of the night that ended with Mark and you rolling around in your overpriced 1000 Egyptian cotton sheets.

And the thought is enough to sober you up.

You grind the stilettoed part of your heel down into Mark’s big toe, hoping that it hurts. "It is. Thank you Devin!" You take them gratefully with a genuine smile. "I love it when someone brings me flowers. Haven't had that in such a long time."

Mark stiffens slightly beside you, but you don't notice.

"I'm gonna go put these in water and grab my purse. Mark you can go." You don’t bother looking at him again when you turn to the kitchen to find the only vase you have, a crystal vase that is a relic of another time, when men actually brought flowers and held open doors for women they liked.

Not show up in the middle of the night like a bat out of hell looking for a quickie.

"So soon?" Mark says to your back, but you can hear the grin in his voice. "I was hoping to get to know your friend Devin a little better. See what his intentions are."

"Oh-oh well- um I mean-" Devin coughs awkwardly, before adjusting his round glasses with a trembling hand. "I mean she's-"

"That's none of your business Mark." You glare at him from behind the kitchen island before unwrapping the plastic from around the stems and placing the flowers in the vase.

My life is none of his business. I told him countless times that I didn’t want to keep doing this. I’m not going to give in because he shows up out of the blue and gives me attention.

"I beg to differ."

"I don't."

"Tomato, Tomah-to." Mark shrugs. "So Devin where are the two of you going tonight?"

Devin opens his mouth to answer.

"Don't answer that." You interrupt, giving Mark one good shove to push him out into the hallway beside Devin before you lock the door. "He doesn't need to know."

"Actually I do. There's a lot of unsafe places in LA-"

"No, you don't." You fluff your hair over your shoulder giving him a glare. "Now go."

The movement makes Mark's eyes go back down to the soft and supple skin just above your breasts, lingering for a moment too long to be just friendly. "You sure you don't need a coat?" His voice has dropped a few octaves, a coarse grit that lives in the back of his throat.

"Why would I need a coat?"

"Because it's cold tonight." Mark clears his throat, but you watch his gaze flicker to Devin, who also has his gaze focused on your chest.

Wait a minute is he… jealous?

"You can have mine!" Devin offers, his eyes flicking away from the top of your chest.

"Aww." A smile pulls at the corner of your mouth as you gently touch the end of his tie. "What a gentleman. It's nice to see that chivalry isn't dead.” The glare that you throw in Mark's direction makes the end of his lips twitch.

Mark mutters something under his breath, but you don’t care. You were past all of this. Mark didn’t have a right to suddenly show up in your life again, so you weren’t going to give him the time to. And he certainly had nothing to be jealous about, not when you gave him every opportunity to date you.

“Now if you’ll excuse us, we’re going to dinner.” You loop your arm in Devin’s. “I’ll see you around Mark.”

You don’t give him a chance to answer you, instead you lead Devin down the hallway and into the elevator that by some miracle is on your floor and you don't have to wait awkwardly for it to arrive feeling the heat of Mark's gaze on your back.

But as the doors begin to close, you catch one last glimpse of Mark where he stands outside your door, and even though he's wearing the signature smirk, something flashes in his eyes that you can't place, an emotion that briefly flickers through the familiar green for a moment so fast you think you missed it.

"And I told him not to take his brother's toy, but Snowball is such a little stinker that he never listens to me-" Devin babbles, auburn hair waving around his head with the enthusiastic bob of his head. His phone is clutched in his right hand, stretched half-way across the table to show you a video of his not one, not two, but six cats all tumbling together on the floor of his apartment in a multicolored heap of fur and teeth. "And just look at Kida! She can't wait to start biting Milo's ears."

"Oh wow. That's crazy." You tip the rest of your wine glass back to catch the last few drops of red before trying to make frantic eye contact with your waiter who is nowhere to be found to beg him with your eyes for another glass.

By now the amount of times that you'd fake smiled in the past twenty two minutes was making your right eye twitch and your cheeks burn.

The car ride to the restaurant had been fraught with awkward silences, each one filled with the image of Mark back in your apartment, when he'd stood so close to you that all you could smell was the heady scent of his shampoo and you could feel the rough trace of his fingertips against your cheeks while his smirk did so many things to your body it felt like it had betrayed you.

Is this how Obi-Wan felt? No. Because Obi-Wan wasn't on the worst date of his life with someone who described in detail every single pair of socks he had in his sock drawer.

At first you'd thought that maybe you were imagining how boring Devin was, because you were still focused on Mark's sudden appearance, but by now you knew that you should have just left whatever this was back at the office rather than bring it out in the open.

Which really sucked because the restaurant was perfect.

Each table was covered in white tablecloths with soft yellowed light coming from a flickering candle, there a small raised platform in the corner had a band singing just low enough to bring the tickle of music through the air, the attentive waiters wove through the crowded restaurant wearing perfectly pressed suits, and the rich smell of cheese, bread, and wine flooded out into the room on a wave that made your mouth water. It was the kind of place that had just the right amount of romance and magic that would make a first date unforgettable…

Unfortunately the only thing making this date unforgettable was the three videos that Devin had showed you about the pack of cats he had living in his apartment, the conversation he'd started about the different kinds of paper he used at the office and how to avoid ink smudges, and the shadow of Mark's reappearance on your doorstep.

The bread basket laid empty on the table between the two of you, a side-effect of the stress eating that wouldn't stop from the second you sat down because you were trying not to say something that would hurt his feelings. Shoving bread in your mouth seemed to be a better option.

Truthfully, the only thing you were really trying to do was not compare him to Mark, but that was hard.

Mark was everything Devin wasn't. The two of you never had a problem finding something to talk about and Mark never failed to make you laugh. His sense of humor and wit brought something light to conversations and you never laughed as much as you did whenever he was around. Which was about as infuriating as it was annoying, that Mark not only was gorgeous, but he had the charm to back it up.

But the longer you sat on this date with Devin all it did was discourage you. The men that you liked never wanted to be more than just "friends" and the ones that you tried to like never seemed to live up to the hype of the ones you did. All you wanted was for someone you actually liked to be interested or at least be willing to try.

It was enough to make you want to go back to your apartment, curl up under a blanket, and watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding or some other rom-com where the love interest didn't disappoint you.

"I'm going to go to the little boys room." Devin says, pushing back his chair with a grating scrape against the hardwood floor that makes the people in the tables around you turn and look at him.

Maybe it’s not too late to fake an illness.

You were already planning to send the code word to Evie and Sam so they gave you a call, but you were hesitant. As disappointed as you were with this date, there was still some little part of you that wanted it to work, to justify wearing this dress and this amount of makeup out on a Friday night. You had carved out the time to do it, you had spent hours trying to figure out what to wear, and it felt like a waste to just cut your losses and go back to your empty apartment.

That was the most unfortunate part of this, that you would end up at your apartment all over again, where the memories of the time Mark and you spent there were haunting the halls like a Victorian ghost in a creaky mansion on the coast. All it would do was remind you of how single you were and how much you wanted something to change.

You’re contemplating this exact thought when a familiar voice shatters through the wave of disappointment.

"Ugh, I thought he'd never leave." Mark breezes as he slides into Devin's recently emptied seat. "How many stories can one man tell about his six cats? Just embarrassing. He's like a walking life model replica of the 40-year-old virgin. Talk about a mood killer."

He sends a knowing smile in your direction as if you're sharing a private joke. “And what’s up with ‘little boys room?’ He’s a man trying to get a woman into bed with him and he calls himself a ‘little boy?’ Come on! Does he want you to read him a bedtime story or something too?”

"What the hell are you doing here?!" You whisper yell as loud as you dare.

And older couple at the table beside yours gives you a dirty look.

I’m sorry that my soap opera of a life is shattering your romantic anniversary! Really I am!

You say with your eyes, but they only turn back to each other, the same annoying lovey-dovey looks in their eyes pulling at your heartstrings.

Sometimes it was hard to see how happy everyone else was.

It’s enough to make a girl want to be a divorce lawyer.

A busty blonde at another table wearing a dark red dress gives Mark a once over and bites the inside of her cheek, it does little to soothe the feelings of anger and frustration that grind your teeth together whenever he shows up in your life.

"Did you follow me? Are you stalking me?"

"Believe it or not, not everything revolves around you sweetheart." Mark leans towards you over the table with a smile that could warm a penguin standing on an ice floe in the middle of a frozen sea.

"Oh please." You narrow your eyes. "I'm not buying that for one second. Why are you here?"

"Alright, I have the chicken parmesan for the lovely lady." Your waiter says as he appears beside your table, toting an overlarge tray. "And the lasagna for-" The waiter tilts his head to the side when he spies Mark. You can see the gears turning in his head while he tries to figure out if he remembered wrong and Mark has been there the whole time. "Um- you I guess."

"Thanks buddy."

"Can I please get another glass of wine, please?" You ask.

I'm gonna need the whole bottle to get through the rest of tonight.

Your waiter nods, casting one more odd look at Mark before walking away.

Mark takes a bite of Devin’s lasagna and audibly moans. “Fuck that’s good. I'll say this about Dev, he knows how to order!”

“Don’t eat his food!” You smack the fork out of his hand so hard it clatters to the floor. "What are you doing here?"

"I was worried about you." Mark leans back in Devin's chair, running a hand through his dark hair.

Your mouth drops open in shock.

He was worried about me? Really?

A little voice inside your head whispers. It was the same little voice that often appeared when he would be laying beside you and offered advice when you would complain about your job or your parents. The one that sometimes made you think that Mark wanted more, the small sliver of hope that clung on with bloody fingernails.

“Why are you worried about me? Devin's a lawyer, not a murderer."

"You never know. But I had this gut feeling that you'd need someone to help you bail out of this date. I mean come on, you're going to waste a dress like that on him?" Mark's eyes drag down the length of your body, the candlelight kissing the soft curves of your body.  "Did I mention how beautiful you look tonight?"

A thrill pulses through your body with his words, but again you hate him for doing this. For showing up all over again right when you had cut him out of his life and were trying to move on, for him thinking that the two of you could just go back to doing whatever it was and him leaving every single morning like it didn't break your heart each time.

I can't only blame him. It's my fault too.

You ignore the compliment. “Can you please get out of here before he comes back?”

“Good idea! I’ll call you in five minutes, fake an emergency and see you back at your place.”

“I am perfectly capable of faking my own emergency thank you very much!” You hiss.

“So you admit that you need to?

You hated how smug he looked, hated that he seemed to be having the time of his life acting like a complete jerk while you were trying to salvage what was left of your trainwreck of a dating life.

“Mark!”

“Okay, okay.” Mark chuckles, standing up from the chair. "I'll see you around." He turns to go, but looks back over his shoulder. "You really do look beautiful-" Mark says your name in that lovely rumble that curls deep into the pit of your stomach.

Water falling over rocks.

A soft patter of rain against the roof of a car.

The crash of the waves on an empty beach.

Why do I keep doing this to myself?

"Oh wow this looks so good." Devin says as he slides back into the chair across from you without the same lithe grace of the man who vacated it moments ago. "Huh, where'd my fork go."

"Your glass miss." The waiter places another glass of wine in front of you.

Yeah. Definitely gonna need the bottle.

The sharp click of your door closing is the only thing that gives you hope when you enter your apartment. You press your face against the strong wood of the inside of the door as if it could give you strength. The rest of the date had been a downward spiral. Devin kept trying to make conversation, but each time it fizzled out into nothing.

So you like cats?

Yep.

*awkward silence*

What do you think about the economy?

It's economic.

*silence*

Do you think that the government has been hiding the technology for lightsabers?

Maybe?

The entire night could go into the same category as the Hindenburg and the Titanic. Evie and Sam were waiting with bated breath for you to call them and give them the low down on everything that happened, but you didn't want to call because then you'd have to bring up Mark. They'd heard enough of him in the past, told you that you were too good to go back to start that all over again, and you partly believed them.

You did think that you were worth more, the problem was finding someone that made you feel the same way you felt about Mark, and if tonight was any indication about the dating pool in LA, it seemed like there was nothing to look forward to.

You exhale heavily.

"Oh good you're home. I fixed your window." Mark's voice floats through the air.

You turn around and spy him reclining back on your couch, beer bottle in hand, face illuminated by the blue glow of the Lakers game that's playing on your TV. Pickle sits next to him, laying his head on Mark's thigh, snoring as if the man in question isn't trespassing.

Some watchdog.

"Oh for the love of- why are you still here?! Don’t you have someone else to bother?!” You snap.

Mark tilts his head to the side in contemplation. “Nope.”

"Mark please-" Emotion lodges itself in the back of your throat, frustration and anger forming a hardened ball that makes your eyes burn.

"What?" He stands, worry pulling his eyebrows together, mouth turning down in a frown. "What's wrong? Did that asshole try something?"

"No! But this asshole did!" You throw your clutch at him.

It glances off his broad chest and tumbles to the ground. Pickle leaps off the couch to pick it up before dragging it back to his lair in the corner. It was really an old throw pillow that you'd had forever that was shaped like his namesake, but…

"Me? What did I do?" Mark looks confused.

"Everything!" You seethe.

Surely he can't be this stupid.

"You're blaming your bad date on me? Come on sweetheart. That was gonna tank. Who brings someone carnations? That's what you bring your sick grandmother in the hospital. He should have brought you roses-"

"Don't you dare mock him for that! You have no experience bringing me flowers!"

Mark only rolls his eyes. "If you wanted me to I would have."

"I can't do this with you. Please get out of my apartment." You sigh, attempting to push past him to go to your bedroom, but Mark shifts his imposing figure to block your way, staring down at you with a mix of confusion and concern.

"Not until you tell me what's wrong-"

"Why do you care?" You spit. "You've made it perfectly clear that you only care about me for one thing."

He blinks, once, twice, holding up his hands in front of him defensively. "Whoa I mean I-"

"No! No talking!" You shove your finger into his chest, the angry tears spilling from your eyes, smearing the makeup down your cheeks. "I will not do this to myself again. I will not fall back into this sick pattern I have with you where you use me and I-"

"I do not use you! It's not like that-"

"Yes it is! Each time we go through this I hate myself. I hate myself for thinking that I deserve this. Hate myself for not being able to cut you loose. Shit, I think I must be a fucking masochist because very single damn time you come slithering back into my life with that charming smile, piercing green eyes, and sexy-"

"You think I'm sexy?" Mark interrupts as he raises a teasing eyebrow, making the all-American rage burn even hotter through your body, beating it's wings against your rib cage so hard it hurts.

"Get out."

"Come on-"

"No. Each time I fall for it. I think 'this time will be different, that maybe he'll change his mind' or 'wow he's really changed,' but you haven't. You're still the same selfish asshole that I keep falling back on and keep letting into my head and into my heart-." You shake your head with a heavy sigh. "But it's my fault too.  I'm the one who knew you didn't want me and yet I still kept letting you in like I think it will change, but it never does! And every single damn time I pick up the pieces of myself when you leave and try not to think 'what did I do?'"

"I didn't know that."

Something crosses through Mark's eyes that looks surprisingly like remorse, but you ignore it, because you're not sure if he even cares, if he's just trying to do it to make you feel bad for showing him the cards that you've kept so close to your chest the entire time that you'd known him.

"Oh you did! You know that I wanted to be more and instead of staying gone, you just keep coming back! But I'm not going to do this to myself anymore. I am worth more than just whatever the fuck this is!"

You try again to push past him, not wanting to look at him anymore, wanting to curl up beneath your blankets and try to shut the rest of the world out, but Mark doesn't let you pass.

"No." He frowns.

"What?" You blink in surprise, rubbing your face with the back of one hand.

What the hell is he talking about? Why won't he just get out?

"No. I'm not going to leave. Not when you're like this."

“If you don’t leave I’m going to call the police!” You threaten.

“Okay." He shrugs. "Call them. I'll just tell the chief that my girl is just acting crazy and don't bother sending a patrol car.”

“I’m not acting crazy! And I’m not your girl!”

“It’s what you want though right?”

You open and close your mouth, gaping at him like a fish out of water. Mark's head is tilted to the side something hovering in his eyes that pries open your ribcage. “Not anymore.”

It's a lie and you know it. It was harder to believe it when his musk was everywhere all over the room, the one that made your head feel fuzzy and the butterflies in your stomach take flight.

More like a murder of crows.

“You hesitated.”

The smirk is back, haunting, sexy, annoying as fuck. The familiar glimmer of humor in his eyes like a slap in the face. You hated that he was turning this into a big joke.

“No, I didn’t.” The back of your hand that you swipe over your cheeks comes back smeared with foundation and mascara.

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t-“

“I don’t understand why you want to stand there wasting all this time giving me shit when we could be getting to the fun part.” Mark shrugs.

“I told you that I wasn’t going to sleep with you!" You scream at the top of your lungs, so done with all of this, done talking to him, done trying to explain what he should already know instead of laughing at you.

It’s the closest that you'd ever been to hitting someone, which was odd for you because you’d rather use your words than physical violence. It was, after all, why you became a lawyer.

“So you’re admitting that sleeping with me is the fun part?” He chuckles.

Your teeth grind together so tight you can hear the scrape in your ears. 

How can one man be so infuriating and so hot at the same time?

"I'm not going to do this with you right now. I'm exhausted and I want to go to bed-"

"Good me too."

"We are not going to have sex! How many times do I have to say that?"

"One more time, I love the sound of your voice."

"Mark." His name comes out in a growl. "Why won't you leave? What is so important that you think you need to stay?"

Mark hesitates. His body shifts the weight from foot to foot, contemplating his next words as his eyes slowly drag over your body. "I don't know I've been-" He sighs. "I've been really thinking about you over the past nine months."

"And you didn't come by once?" You feign shock, pressing one hand to your chest. "Wow, must have taken some restraint."

And because Mark obviously isn't going to let you go to your bedroom, you turn to the kitchen to find something a little stronger than the wine you had at dinner. The buzz was wearing off and you weren't ready for any of this.

There were two parts of yourself at war, the part that wanted him to go because you were so tired of him and the other part that lived in the hope that Mark really did care.

I'm so pathetic. Why can't I just let this guy go? What is so damn special about Mark Fucking Meachum that I feel the need to torture myself over and over again?

You grit your teeth together to stop the flood of frustrated tears from coming again.

"I couldn't exactly stop by. I was undercover." He shakes his head to flick away the thought. "But that's not important. The most important thing is that I missed you."

"Wow." The heavy slam of the glass in your hand from the cabinet against the counter punctuates the word. "I can't believe you."

"What did I do now?"

"That you would stoop that low to say that you missed me to get me to sleep with you. What is wrong with you-"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You show up here at night," You slam closed the cabinet. "Messing with my life all over again," Another cabinet slams. "and even though I've said several times that I want you to leave you keep hanging around making me think that you actually give a fuck."

It would help if you could remember where you hid the emergency bottle of scotch that one of the senior partners gifted you at Christmas, at least then you'd be a little more drunk and the possibility of remembering this conversation would be less.

"I do give a fuck!" Anger flashes in his eyes as he takes a step closer to where you're hovering in the kitchen. "You are being so unreasonable right now-"

"No, you don't-" You turn away from him reaching for another cabinet, hoping that this one will have the bottle you so desperately need. "You're here because you're bored. You've made it perfectly clear that you only want one thing from me and I'm not going to give it to you. Not anymore.”

Mark's hand comes down hard on your shoulder turning you fast into him that you drop the glass in your hand to the floor, sending the shards in every direction. Mark's gaze catches yours, green eyes burning through the light of your cramped kitchen, the feeling of his rough hands against the bare skin of your shoulders making the familiar shiver travel down your spine.

"I don't want one thing from you." Mark growls. "I want all of you. But I can't."

"Oh fuck you. How stupid do you think I am? That sounds like a ridiculous fuckboy line. I want to be with you, but I can't? Same as it’s not you it’s me. Come on-" You struggle to turn away, but Mark jerks you back to look at him.

"It's not a damn line and I don’t think you’re stupid. I can't." He says through gritted teeth, face contorted in frustration.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm-" Mark squeezes his eyes shut, jaw locked tight together. "Because there's no future with me!"

"What the hell you talking about? Is this about your job? How dangerous you think it is? Because I don't care what you do-"

"It's not about that."

"Then what is it?” You scream back at him. This entire situation was reaching ridiculous levels and all you wanted was for it to reach a head so he could leave and you could cry, really cry over the phone with Evie and Sam. "What is this big secret that you just can't-"

"I have cancer!" Mark shouts.

The statement sucks out all the air in the room. For a moment you're not sure you heard him right, but judging from the way he releases your shoulders and bows his head like he's been caught running with scissors you know you did. You blink at him, mouth opening and shutting in surprise. "What did you say-"

"I have cancer." He repeats. "Fucking brain cancer actually. Can you believe that after all the reckless shit I've done, I get taken out by something like cancer. Really?" Mark flashes a signature grin, but it doesn't reach his eyes and comes across more rueful, cruel. "Fuck-" He sighs.

You're not sure what's more surprising… the fact that he has cancer or the fact that Mark admitted that he did want more, the very thing that you’d been hoping for since the moment he sauntered into your life.

Mark goes back to the couch in your living room to find his beer, taking a swig before he sits down. The leather forms around his body with a high pitched squeaking sound, the silence growing the longer he sits there.

"You don't know that." You say tentatively to his back.

"I do. Talked to a specialist, basically signed a death warrant." Mark mutters, running his hand over his face. His head is bowed, forearms braced against his muscular thighs as he stares down at your hardwood floor.

"What about chemo?" You ask him as you take a step closer, still a little unsure.

"No point."

"Surgery?"

"Inoperable."

"How do you know that?"

"That's what the doc said."

He hasn't looked at you since he said the 'c' word, almost as if he's ashamed to admit it, as if there's some part of him that thinks you'll think less of him for being vulnerable, for being human.

You sit beside him on the couch, measuring your next words. "And you just listened to him? Took his word for it?"

"Yes? What else was I supposed to do? Why would he lie about something like that?"

You nod for a second, quietly contemplating the entire situation. Well, you were, until you decided to get angry again. The pomegranate beaded pillow comes down hard against Mark's unprotected shoulder with the force of your swing.

He looks up at you, eyes wide in surprise. "What the hell was that for?"

You bring it down hard again, and he shifts up off the couch to get away from you, but you follow, chasing behind him and brandishing the pillow.

"Stop! What are you doing?!" Mark holds up his hands moving around the back of the couch with you in close pursuit.

"I can't believe you! You're just sitting back and letting this take you? You who are the most stubborn man I've ever met in my entire life is giving up?!” You shriek, going in for another swing that Mark dodges. 

"I am not giving up! I'm still working!"

"Oh good. Glad to hear that you're recklessly throwing yourself into your job. What a typical Meachum move." You hit him again.

"Stop it! I am not-" Mark huffs out a breath, holding one of his arms up to protect his face. "What else are you suggesting? It's fucking cancer!"

"Then we find you a new doctor!" You shout.

"What?"

"We get a second opinion!"

"But what if-"

You swing the lumpy purple pillow in an ungraceful arch to hit him in the shoulder, hoping to knock some sense into him because someone had to.

"No! ifs! We keep trying to find a solution. Until we find a doctor that understands that Mark Meachum isn't just going to sit on his ass and let something like this beat him! Mark Meachum is not going to go quietly into the night damn it!"

He's looking at you like you're crazy and maybe you are. Maybe you care way too much for the man who has annoyed you to death all night long, but you don't care. All you cared about was him, even if he didn't want to be more than friends or whatever the fuck the two of you were, you weren't going to let him sit and wallow like a jilted bride.

There's irony in there somewhere.

"I cannot believe that you would just sit back and-" You begin to say, but you don't get far.

Mark's body crashes into you, tackling you back against the leather couch so fast that you don't have time to take a breath. The pillow tumbles from your hand onto your hardwood floor.

His mouth molds against yours, lips soft and urgent, his beard burning pleasantly against your cheeks.

"Mark what are you doing-"

"I've never understood how you do that."

"Do what?" You breathe.

"How you seem to know exactly what to say to make me lose my damn mind." His thumb rubs over your swollen bottom lip. "Fuck, each time I come here you always kick my ass into gear. I don't know what it is, you're like a damn unicorn."

Emotion builds in your chest as he stares down at you. "Mark I'm being serious, I can't do this to myself again. I-"

"You won't have to." Mark murmurs, brushing his lops back against yours so earnest, so differently than all the other times he'd kissed you that it pulls the air from your lungs.

It's like muscle memory the way he feels on top of you, the rough grate of his stubble rubbing against your cheeks, your heels locking behind his waist as he makes a home for himself between your thighs, and your hands coming up to hold both sides of his cheeks as if you never wish to let him go.

The rational part of your mind has gone silent, the animal released from it's cage as you lose yourself in everything Mark is. His body is hard and unyielding where it rests on top of yours, his hands trailing fire across your chest and down to your hips, finding the familiar curve of your thighs where you've trapped him in. He makes a sound in the back of his throat that you echo, the only thought in your mind fueled by the fear of losing him.

Because it was there, anchored just under your heart where you'd hidden it for the past nine months while you tried to ignore how much you thought about him.

He pulls back, large hands tight on your waist, thumbs moving in soothing circles around the curve of your pelvis. Mark's green eyes have gone dark, pupils so wide that you're not sure what's the stormy green and what has faded to black.

"You really don't care?" Mark breathes.

"Care about what?" Your hands cup his cheeks, gaze urgently searching his and trying to find some clarity. "You? Of course I care about you. I wish I didn't."

"No." He shakes his head with a painful smile. "That we'd have an expiration date?"

"Like a dairy product? A best if used by? Those aren't exactly the most reliable."

The joke makes him chuckle, the vibration of it working up through his chest, dragging along your own nerve endings where he's pressed against you. "You don't think it's a waste of time?" Something vulnerable flashes in his eyes, something that you'd never seen before.

"No." You shake your head, thumb stroking across his cheekbones as you pull his face down to yours once more. "Not if it means that I got to be with you. Having all the time in the world is overrated, plus I'm sure that you’d annoy me to death way before you kicked the bucket."

"Somebody has to."

His lips meet yours again, hands dragging down your curves in a way that makes you gasp and arch upwards into his chest while working your fingers into the dark hair at the nape of his neck to pull him impossibly tighter against you, wanting to drown in everything he was, afraid to let him go for even a second.

"Will you go out with me?" Mark whispers against your lips.

"I thought you'd never ask."

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! The comments really keep me going!

Taglist:

@jollyhunter @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @roseblue373 @angrydragon90

@kmc1989

[yellowf1nch]

Minors do not interact, suggestive themes, themes of violence, potential spoilers

Follow up to the Date Everything lore post I made (I had more thoughts and some clarifications for how I personally interpret it)...

Edit: I finished speaking all the lore points in game, a more comprehensive and less speculative post can be found here.

There are two large ideas that are being tossed in my mind with all of this: the first I can imagine/have an explanation for, the other is still giving me pause.

The former is the idea of physical interactions with the dateables. Not just for intimacy, but the sensations of being grabbed/grabbing them, being hugged, holding their things, etc. It's clear there is some form of physical interaction... or is there? given that the dateviators essentially act as a bridge between realities, and Skylar's explanation on how percieved sexual encounters work, I'm under the impression that it's almost like dreaming, where your brain would simulate physical sensations without your body actually experiencing them. Interacting with the dateables/dateviators essentailly gives the dateables the ability to transmit wavelengths your brain can pick up on that would mimic sensations they can't actually perform. Some sensations, however, can be more or less real (like getting shocked at the breaker box from Eddie/Volt, burned by Dante, etc.). This would also mean that the dateables can't really seriously injure/harm you outside of the capabilities of their object; for example, if Abel were to try and hurt you, any pain he might inflict as a person would be limited to what your brain/nervous system could simulate by itself.

As far as the dateables experiencing physical sensations, a few more complications are introduced. We know they can interact with each other (outside of having the dateviators), given the number of intimate relationships we are made privy to and some of the personal histories (like Drysdale talking about his sexual encounters). Some of the interactions we have with the objects that could be painful/uncomfortable seem to be more along the lines of inconveniences or things that don't really bother them at all. Wallace voices no displeasure at having things being hung on him (though he does seem to be harmed by fire), walking on Stella/Florence isn't something that's brought up really at all. However, a number of characters do note that their physical well-being is tied to their physical objects (such as Daisuke, Rainey, Wyndolyn). In short, one could try and push around/hurt the personified version of the dateables, but it probably wouldn't do anything since that is more a projection-- their well being is directly tied to their objects (though, some things like stains, spills, etc. don't seem to be terribly harmful depending on who it is.)

What I personally have more questions about is how the dateables appear. [And once again, here is the taking a very literally "suspend-your-disbelief" lore far too seriously. I don't know if this is something Skylar explains, I don't believe I've gone through all her dialogue.]

Do they choose what they look like? Is their wardrobe/skin color/height/etc. predetermined with whatever object they are, or do the dateviators simulate that (Skylar does mention that everyone is considered hot, and explains the dateviators as a translator, though some of this is very clearly writers and developers making something fun and entertaining)? Is it like a character creator that they get to simulate what they think they look like when the dateviators are used? Once again, I bring up Dorian-- he has different appearances depending on what kind of door it is, but characters like Lux and Abel don't. This is why I believe that the appearance change for Dorian is more a personality aspect, but it still raises questions like: does Dorian choose for his hair to be brown? Do we ever change how a dateable looks by interacting with their objects? Taking off Phoenicia's case doesn't undress her, for example, but things like coffee stains or spills do seem to directly impact Abel and Florence. The few foreign objects you learn about through Gaia's quest talk about where they are from; and some, like Keith, know a lot about these places. Even with that, the dateables still don't have a physical form outside of the objects, so is it merely chance that they look the way they do, are there some cross-dimensional genetics at play, or is it that they can observe the people around them and approximate what they look like (basically making a human-sona)? [It's clear this was something meant purely for diversity, Gaia's storyline where you speak to the foreign objects and get some cool worldly facts was very entertaining, educational, and fun... but the lore????]

I like to imagine that the objects pull in the information of the world around them, sometimes including where some of their parts are from/where they were made to influence what they would look like if they were human. This goal of becoming human is something that Skylar says is a good thing that objects want, and anytime you mention Realizing a dateable they seem honored/excited. This would also explain why they are all "hot," since they're able to essentially get a good view of generally attractive features... not to mention, the dateable's Realized forms are almost identical to their object personifications... so... somehow things like skin/eye/hair color are true in spite of the objects not actually having skin, eyes, or hair.

[I have yet to finish the game so this may be something I return to.]

I apologize if my rambling has upset anyone, I simply have enjoyed playing this game and wanted to take the lore too seriously (in trying to rationalize meta-physical people that are tied to non-human counterparts).

[mythals-whore]

WIP Wednesday

thank you @sugar-peanut-cat @woodlandeelf @woundedsoul12 & @gingervitus for the tags((:

I will be passing it along with reverence to: @the-sparrohawk @madamemortem @antivan-sprig @bygonesigh @serensama @basedonconjecture @biowaredisasterbisexual @mageofquandrix @becausedragonage @hedwigoprah @daydreamingstories @glitteringdust @papayafig @cute-ellyna @davrinsleftpectoral @serstolas @rooks-dagger @blightedcrow

divider from here (:

Ashur ignores the knowing smile that curls her lips.

The two of them fall silent as the piano picks up again, a lilting piece that evokes mystery and longing. And for all that the wine seems to have long since-soured, Ashur can't deny that the atmosphere is far better than any other he's been to, especially in Minrathous. Though he supposes the very nature of the drinking establishments in Hightown are diametrically opposed to this one. Most of those are for Altus families to wine and dine one another, magisters to make backroom deals and arrange engagements.

But this place, seems less about the drinks and more about the chatter. A glance around the room tells of heads bent close together, hands on knees and even one couple in the corner who can't seem to help the languid kisses they share. Ashur averts his eyes.

"You didn't invite Elias to come with you?"

Ashur doesn't know what possesses him to ask it, regrets the words the moment he hears them aloud. Slightly mortified and hiding it well, he stares into the deep red of his wine and wonders if something wasn't slipped into his it to make him lose his head so completely—but Cyri's mouth curls into a true smile, like it's the funniest thing he could have said.

She casts him a pointed sidelong glance, "I didn't invite anyone here."

Rightfully chastised, Ashur reaches again for his goblet. Her eyes flick upward in an image that might have been devout were it not so fleeting. She sighs heavily, throwing back the rest of the liquid in her tumbler. Ashur pretends not to watch the movement of her throat as she swallows, wondering why warmth blooms low in his stomach as the sight.

"Ashur," she says, drawing out his name like pulling at a piece of threat, "Elias was just…" she shrugs one shoulder, head lolling against the back of the seat to look at him more fully, "Passing the time."

"I see." He doesn't, but he's happy to pretend. The song ends, but Ashur is a bit too dumbstruck to bother with applause. "Is that what you're doing here?"

She's sat back against the booth now, and doesn't bother looking at him as she answers, somewhat distractedly, "Something like that."

The waiter from before returns, sliding another tumbler across the table to Cyri, who glances up at him with a warm smile.

"So you'll pass the time with…?" Ashur's eyes follow the other man across the bar. He doesn't much look like Elias, with his lithe frame and goldspun hair. Though maybe that doesn't matter much.

"Petras?" she asks, clearly amused. But when Ashur looks over, her eyes are also trailing him across the room, eyebrow arched. She takes another, almost appraising sip and then shrugs, "Maybe."

"But not with me?"

Ashur doesn't have much in the way of experience, he knows courting—and he's seen enough women drape themselves over his brothers to recognize flirting when he sees it.

At least, he thought he did.

She's looking at him so strangely—a little perplexed but all amused. After a moment, that softens into something that's faintly amused. It's almost patronizing, but that's something Ashur is used to feeling around her.

"No, Ashur." It's almost a scoff, though maybe not quite as harsh. And then she smiles, and it's warm, almost teasing. "I like you too much."

When Ashur feels the familiar bolt of shame, he reaches for that old training—and manages a quiet chuckle. It's not a surprise, not really.

He tries for a self-effacing smile, "I'm supposed to take that as a compliment, am I?"

Ashur can feel her looking at him, can only ignore it for a few long moments before he turns to her at last. Her smile has sobered, the amusement in her eyes softened to something else entirely as they bore into his, "The highest one I can give."

[hey-that-hurt]

Various CRT TV Research for Tenna Purposes

GO TO PART TWO

please use this information to hurt him. or do other things to him. also send me links

I grew up with CRT TVs as a kid but like. I was a kid. I'm much more of a computer science person than a mechanics person but whatever

I'll also toss in some speculation on what each thing could mean for tenna here and there

Depending on how long the Dreemurs have had their TV, Tenna could probably be from anywhere between the mid 80s to the early 2000s.

I went to a manuals website and picked the Panasonic TC-14S3R at random. From what I can tell this particular TV is from the 80s, and I'm going to base a lot of the information here on that particular manual.

Various Settings

Contrast: Low contrast = more gray, less range in color and brightness. High contrast = more vibrant colors, lights are brighter and shadows are darker. Both increasing and decreasing contrast can cause detail to be lost. Lowering contrast can lose the subtle differences between similar mid-level shades and colors, whereas increasing it loses differences in bright and dark images. Could perhaps correlate with emotional state? Low contrast = low emotional range (maybe not necessarily depressed, but both happiness and sorrow etc. are muted? Could have a similar effect to taking an anti-depressant, perhaps), high contrast = high emotional range, highs are higher but lows are lower. Perhaps helpful for being exciting for TV but difficult to deal with emotionally.

Colour: The manual didn't specify what this does that I saw, but it's probably just the saturation setting. No saturation = black and white, high saturation = extra bright colors. Emotionally, I imagine low saturation would correlate with depression, whereas high saturation would correlate with joy (or even mania).

Brightness: Pretty straightforward. Darker image vs brighter image. If contrast and color were to stand in for emotional state, I imagine brightness would be more associated with energy levels. Perhaps his screen gets dimmer as he gets more tired.

Sharpness: Low sharpness = blurry image, high sharpness = things look clearer and harsher. Perhaps his image would become sharper as he focuses... and things like drugs and alcohol (or equivalents) could cause his image to blur.

Also related to image settings: The colored bars you often see are the SMPTE pattern. It's used for calibrating brightness and other color settings.

Here's a screenshot from a video I referenced that shows some other settings you might see on a CRT TV:

Some I didn't list already include:

Mode: From what I understand, just a bunch of presets for watching different sorts of things. Pictured is sports mode but there might also be a movie mode among others. Modern TVs still generally have this

Apparently "Picture" here is just contrast.

"Hue" as far as I can tell lets you shift, well, the hue. It's not normally something you need to mess with. If your reds are red and your blues are blue, etc. You're probably fine. If we assume that colors have some association with Tenna's emotions, though, I imagine that messing with his hue settings could really screw him up. Make him happy when he should be sad, something like that.

And then there would also be things like volume (I feel like turning down his volume has a lot of potential), input (normally he'd get input through his RF Input, as discussed in the next section, but I feel like switching him over to a different port would again, have potential.

Ports and Such

Alrighty, the spicy stuff.

So there's a few different ways to get an image and such onto your CRT tv.

Usually with a modern TV you'll just have HDMI and that's it. One cable and you're done. Maybe your tv will even be fancier than that and have a USBC port. I feel like QUEEN is probably a bit too old for USBC, but she probably does have HDMI. But I'm getting off track.

RF Input: Stands for Radio Frequency input. Handled both video and audio with one cable. As far as I can tell it became common in the 70s? Was often used for cable TV or "over-the-air" broadcasts from TV stations. The cables are also called Coaxial Cables. They have a prong in the middle, and are attached by screwing them on. Apparently RF is also prone to interference. Things like wifi, bluetooth, and microwaves can all cause RF interference, apparently. And also electric fences. So basically put a shock collar on that guy and see what happens

This is what Tenna's antennas would be connected to. I imagine disconnecting him from this would be... disconcerting, at the very least. He'd probably go blind and deaf or something.

Composite: The red white and yellow cables. Very common, you've probably seen them before. The yellow cable handles video, while the white and red cables handle the left and right audio specifically. Having one cable unplugged doesn't stop the others from working: you could have just the right audio but nothing else, or just video but no audio, for example. Again, implications. possibilities. This is what my Nintendo Wii uses. Usually provides a clearer signal than an RF connection but not considered great.

S-video: A cable for video transmission that's better than composite, apparently. Doesn't do audio though, so the audio data needs to be plugged in separately.

Component: Needed for high-definition television. Three cables for Luminance, Blue difference, and Red difference. Doesn't seem to handle audio by default?? And apparently there can be up to 5 of these cables??? They were quickly wiped out by HDMI cables though. Considering Tenna's age it seems unlikely he would have had ports for these.

The power cable on a CRT tv would usually be permanently attached.

Screen and Internals

Right so this is where I start to struggle to understand things, but I'll do my best. If I get anything wrong here please let me know or reblog with a correction.

The front of a CRT screen has a coating that glows when it is hit by electrons. The screen does not technically have pixels, but does have an array of different colors of phosphor (the coating). To create different colors, different dots are hit. As far as I can tell this functions very similarly to pixels or how images are printed in magazines.

Anyway, at the back of the TV there is basically a laser (not the right word I don't think because it's not beams of light it's beams of electrons but whatever) that is shot at the different areas of the screen to create an image.

Anyway it's all rather complicated if you want to learn more read the wikipedia page or watch one of the videos I linked. Here's the stuff I care about:

CRT screens are very delicate and you basically can't repair them, because they are vacuums. When you smash a CRT tv you can kind of see them implode in a cloud of dust. You can't really come back from that. From what I can tell the only way to repair a CRT tv with a shattered screen is to replace the screen entirely, which seems to be by far the most important, complicated, expensive part. If the screen shatters you can salvage some components but ultimately the screen will need to be rebuilt or replaced entirely. Also, they don't make CRTs anymore because they are so complicated and the market isn't there. What I'm saying is Tenna is extremely lucky the Knight didn't break his screen, and if Tenna's screen ever did break that man is screwed. And not in the fun way. Unless you are me.

I added too many images so I'll reblog this again with the rest of the info I find

GO TO PART TWO

Sources

How to Calibrate and Correct Color and Brightness on a CRT TV, BVM and PVM Using SMPTE Pattern.

Panasonic TC-14S3R User Manual

History of Video Cables

TELEVISION CONNECTIONS EXPLAINED: RF vs. RCA vs. HDMI… COMPOSITE VS. COMPONENT

F connector

What Is RF Interference, What Causes It, & How To Block It

S-Video Cables

Component Explained

Cathode-ray tube (Wikipedia)

What is Color CRT Display?

How Cathode Ray Tubes Work. (YouTube video)

[spindle-and-nima]

hihi!! im thinking about getting a pair of bunnies someday when im financially stable and dont have cats anymore, and id like to know a few things, if thats alright!! feel free to not answer if theyre basic questions and/or if you just would rather not answer :} im just getting conflicting answers when i look this stuff up (maybe im using the wrong keywords???)

questions:

i know its possible to litterbox train bunnies according to what i Could find, but how hard is it in your experience, if its something youve done?? ive heard all sorts of answers to that question... or is it an instinct some are born with, to use only their litterboxes?? i definitely know that pet potty accidents happen sometimes though of course... i just would love to have (mostly) free range (but only in my house) bunnies, but i dont know how possible that is with the fact i dont want bunny waste all over lol, i dont mind Some bunny waste (theyre little critters, animal waste will happen) but if i were to free range them, itd be an issue if they werent trained...

another question: ive read that bunnies do best in pairs and its not good to keep just one at a time. i definitely would not keep only one at a time of course since according to others they need a friend. i would love to have two bunnies, but in your experience, is there anything i should know about bunny pairs that isnt common knowledge online??

one more, and this one might be complicated so if its not one youd want to answer or one you dont feel equipped to answer thats ok: in your opinion, what do you think bunnies would be like for someone who uses mobility aides? i use a walker with wheels, and while i havent accidentally hurt my cats with it since getting it at the start of the year, i know bunnies are more fragile. i also worry about scaring them and stressing them out, since animals are usually wary of my walker at first...

i love your blog, thank you for running it, and for all the work you do for the bunnies in your care!! and if you answer these, thank you as well!! i hope you have a lovely day, pet your bunnies for me :}

Hi there! The entire purpose of this blog is also to be there for making information accessible. So I’m more than happy to answer.

First,

Yes. Bunnies can be litter trained. They are actually inclined naturally to find a corner to do their business in. Even wild rabbits tend to pick a poo spot!  So what you do, is you set up your pen so that the furthest corner (basically I usually go for a corner in the back that’s got some coverage aka flush against a wall) and put an extra-large litter box there. Don’t use the triangle litter boxes, those are not good for the natural posture of a rabbit. Rather, a litter box should be large enough for the rabbit to comfortably turn around and lay down in at full length. Because they certainly will. So I recommend not free ranging your rabbits until they are trained, then expanding the area they are allowed in slowly and gradually until you are certain they are going to only use their litter box. This is how ive always done it and ive had a great success rate. Rabbits will naturally drop some poops in areas they perceive as their territory, so if you do free range, know you will see a few poops now and then. I always just sweep it up and put it in the litter right away. Typically, with harder to train cases, I have to be on almost constant observation and if I spot them doing the booty scoot to pee outside of their litter box, I will put them in the litter box. Or if they poop around it, I scoop up the poops and put them in the litter box and most of the time they get the point. When you change litter, for the ones learning at least, keep a scoop of dirty litter and just put it in the cleaned out litter box so they understand that’s where to go.

Second,

Bunnies should be in pairs. You can get them pre-bonded at shelters or even have a shelter bond rabbits for you. Now a lot of people don’t know this but couples do fight! Sometimes fully bonded rabbits will have “arguments” but in general they remain bonded. If you have to take one rabbit to the vet, take its bond with it for comfort. Because stress can actually undo bonding. Second, bonded rabbits are not just friends—it’s a hierarchy. In rabbit relationships, theres always a dominant and submissive rabbit. The dominant one gets kisses on demand basically lol and if you feed a treat, you should give the dominant rabbit one first to not upset the hierarchy. Humping is normal and not always sexual. Its pretty much never sexual in fixed rabbits its actually a dominance display where the one humping is dominant and the one being humped is submissive. As long as the one being subjected to the humping is ok with it, theres no need to split it up or interfere. Drama queens, the lot.

Third,

I think you should choose a rabbit based on demeanor. Bunnies should definitely be fine with mobility aides, the only thing being the personality of the bunny. If you pick a very skittish rabbit, its going to be very freaked out about it. But if you have a docile rabbit that’s just overall pretty chill, they are usually unphased by such things. A walker with wheels should be fine just be careful for zoomies! Otherwise I mean, just like the rest of us youll prob have a moment where your friend is so excited he or she bolts right in front of you with zoomies and you wind up stumbling into them….but yea. Docile and calm rabbits will be just fine in your case.

Im glad you felt comfortable reaching out and asking questions, that means im doing something right. Im always happy to help and if you ever need anything you just let me know my friend!

[imtrashraccoon]

This fic is more or less a love letter to @llamagoddessofficial 's siren boys. I loved the idea of sirens for years, and when I first read Tilikum, I just had to try my hand at my own story. I would also recommend Below the Ice by my friend @voidandabyssal

My friend @aylish91 has been beta reading this fic for me and I am beyond grateful because it's tricky to figure out how to write all the character dynamics for whatever reason. Check out her fics because they're really good!

Next Chapter

Swarmed by Sirens

1.0 Eel-ated to Meet Ya

Word Count: 5,488

You stirred in your sleep as a few rays of sunlight flickered into your cozy burrow, reflecting off of some of your shinier treasures. Your pale eyelids fluttered open and for a moment, you curled deeper into your nest of soft seagrass and some sort of thick blanket you'd found recently.

This morning seemed peaceful and you felt energized from how well you'd slept. It was the perfect day to go hunting for treasure! Or at least, you hoped it would be, but you really should keep an eye out for more crafting materials since you were out of a lot of them.

Of course, that was when your stomach decided to remind you that it had been several hours since you ate last. Fine, you'd go hunting first and then you'd go scavenging for new treasures. Maybe you'd even find a new wreck that hadn't been picked through yet.

You slithered out of your nest and stretched your muscles, starting with your upper body and ending with your muscular tail. Retrieving your dinglehopper from the little ledge you kept it on, you ran it through your wild brunette hair, focusing on getting the knots out of the ends. Your hair was just a bit too thick to comb out the whole length at once, so unless you were willing to spend hours doing so, it wasn't worth it. Besides, it naturally had a tight curl so it didn't tangle too much if you were careful to tie it up, which you did fairly often.

Previously, you had braided some thin strands of kelp together to make a sturdy cord and attached small pieces of coral or shiny shells to act as beads. Using this, you tied up your hair so that it was half up in a fluffy ponytail. You weren't done though and next you tucked a couple of carved fish bones into the cord to complete your hairdo.

You also shimmied into a top you'd made from a mixture of larger pieces of kelp and sewn together with a fishing line as thread. After putting on a few more pieces of jewelry, such as a few bracelets and a necklace that you'd made from different shells, shiny stones, and fish bones, you felt like you could say you were ready to start your day.

It was a silly thing really.

You didn't need to put clothes or jewelry on as it didn't help you blend into the environment. You'd never seen any other sirens making or wearing anything like you did either, even with the limited amount of contact you did have with them. It seemed to be strictly a human thing, which to be fair, you were absolutely fascinated by. They just made so many interesting things and, if they weren't so irritating or dangerous, you might try to interact with them.

It was just something you liked to do.

You lived alone and rarely saw anyone in the rocky reef that you'd claimed as your territory years ago. Large human seacrafts generally stayed away because of the shallow water and while smaller vessels occasionally passed through, they never stayed long, so you were normally able to hide away from prying eyes. Not that you weren't opposed to defending yourself, as you'd already done so a couple of times.

As for other sirens, you almost never saw them and when you did, you were quick to dart into one of your many safety burrows. They generally ignored you, but the hostile ones that did take notice often left once they realized they couldn't reach into the hole to get you. Those who persisted quickly learned the hard way why putting their hand into a narrow hole in a reef was a bad idea.

Needless to say, you weren't a fighter as you really weren't built for it. Sure, your fingers were tipped with sharp claws and your powerful jaw had two rows of needle-like teeth, but you were an ambush predator and you didn't have the mass of, say, a shark siren. So that was why you'd taken to digging out dozens of narrow burrows throughout your territory. Besides, you really didn't mind hunkering down for a couple of hours if it meant living another day.

The last thing you grabbed before leaving your burrow was a slightly faded orange duffle bag to carry back home anything you found. While it stood out a lot, it was sturdy and could be worn on your back to keep your hands free. You suspected humans used it to keep something important safe as it used to be quite good at keeping water out, but you'd had to repair it a few times now so it had since lost that feature. Not that you cared since you didn't collect anything that wasn't already wet.

Your burrow was connected to a long tunnel that twisted and turned to keep any intruders from spotting you when they looked inside. Granted, there were a few smaller crevices that small fish could swim in or out of, but you didn't mind because they let the sun stream in and fresh water to circulate throughout the interior.

You hesitated at the entrance, listening for anything amiss and watching for any predators that could be lurking in the area. There didn't seem to be anyone else around though, except for a few schools of tiny fish whose scales flashed the occasional sunbeam into your eyes.

Slowly, you slid from the mouth of the tunnel and began to make your way along the sea bed. The careful, almost lazy, ripples of your tail stirred up the sand in your wake, but otherwise you swam without leaving a trace of your presence.

It didn't take you long to catch and kill a small crustacean, but it wasn't enough to satisfy your hunger. Sometimes you liked to go after actual fish but they were a lot harder to catch in your experience. Catching crustaceans and collecting shellfish was far easier and just as tasty.

Normally, you preferred to hide in one of your burrows while eating, but today you were rather impatient. Except for a couple of mollusks that would take effort to open, you simply ate as you hunted today, stowing the rest in your bag for later consumption.

You were so preoccupied that you stopped being so cautious. It was only when you noticed a large shadow that the sun cast against the rocks, that you realized you weren't the only predator around.

You didn't even turn to see what made the shadow before you darted off towards the closest burrow to hide.

You weren't nearly fast enough though.

Just when you could see safety, your path was blocked by the body of a large tiger shark.

You turned and swam in the opposite direction but he was there again, and you nearly collided with his ribcage this time.

You desperately swam backwards to stay out of his immediate striking range, although you let out a sharp gasp when your back hit a large rock.

You were trapped.

"easy there, doll, i'm not gonna hurt ya."

His voice was low and had a bit of a drawl that gave it an almost exotic quality.

He swam slightly closer and tilted his skull in curiously as his eyelights roamed over your body.

"Wh-what do you want then?" you whimpered.

Of all the sirens you'd come across over the years, you'd never met one as large as this guy, in fact, you had never even seen a skeleton one either. Well at least, you think you would certainly remember if you had.

He was at least twice your size, maybe between ten to twelve feet long, and had numerous scars over his exposed ribcage as well as along his tail. The majority of the scars looked like they were from bite or slash wounds, probably from getting into fights with other sirens, but there were others that could be from human weapons.

He had razor sharp teeth which was quite fitting for a shark siren, although one of them had been replaced with a gold one. You couldn't help but wonder how he'd lost it and the way the sunlight was glinting off of it was captivating. He had a pair of smoldering crimson eyelights in his otherwise empty sockets and each of his phalanges ended in sharp claws.

The short of it was that he looked quite aggressive and if he was telling the truth, you dreaded finding out why he'd cornered you in the first place. He didn't look like he was in heat but that didn't entirely rule out the possibility. You weren't even the same subspecies though, so him being friendly at all was unusual.

You really hoped he wasn't planning on forcing himself on you. There was no way you would be able to get away if he held you down. Well, at least getting away unscathed anyways.

"me? i just wanna talk with ya." His permanent grin widened as his eyelights flicked over you again. "can't say i've ever met anyone as interestin' before though," he added.

"Okay...um, thank you?"

"gotta name? or can i call ya mine?" he purred.

You balked and looked around for a way out of this situation. Unfortunately, you were still stuck between a rock and a hard place...because he was made of bones of course.

He apparently found your reaction hilarious if the quiet chuckle was anything to go by. "aw, i'm just messin' with ya, dollface."

Taking a deep breath, you scrutinized him carefully, but nothing about his body language seemed intrinsically aggressive at the moment, just overly friendly.

"I...don't have a name..." you murmured.

He tapped his clavicle with a phalanx and shifted slightly so he could look at you better. "huh. no wonder ya freaked out so much..."

You nodded weakly and chewed on your lower lip. "Yeah, sorry... I barely interact with anyone so it's never been an issue before."

"nah, 's all good." He held out one of his clawed hands and tilted his skull. "name's red, i guess ya could say i'm eel-ated to meetcha, sweetheart."

You felt your cheeks grow oddly warm but without really thinking, you reached out and shook his hand. Despite your initial fear, his overflowing charisma was helping to calm you down.

Red gave you a bit of an odd look when you let go of his hand. "interestin'..." he murmured.

"What, what'd I do?"

"i didn't expect ya to actually shake my hand. i've never met someone who's familiar with surface traditions before."

"Oh." You looked down at your hands with a slight frown. Why had you done that? You didn't remember ever shaking anyone's hand or even wanting to for that matter.

Rather than pursue the topic further, Red changed the subject, which you were grateful for. "i've never seen a moray eel siren before but if they're anythin' like ya seem to be, i'm guessin' you're rather secretive. do ya live in the area?"

You narrowed your eyes at him and crossed your arms. "If you're trying to hint that you want to come back to my place, I'm not interested," you stated firmly.

He laughed and had to brace himself on the rocks behind you with one hand to keep himself steady. Once he'd calmed down enough to speak again, he ran his other hand over his skull.

"so, ya have jokes~" he teased. "i wasn't actually referrin' to that, but i wouldn't be opposed if ya ever got curious, doll."

You uncrossed your arms and clenched your fists at your sides. "I'm not, and never will be, interested in someone like you!" you hissed.

Your anger dissipated seconds later and you felt a little bad for lashing out. He raised a bonebrow but otherwise showed no indication that your words had bothered him.

Instead, he held out his hands in an effort to calm you down. "easy, i can tell i've crossed the line. i only asked because i might be hangin' around in the area if the huntin' is good. maybe we could chat again at some point?"

You clicked your tongue and started to swim past him. He didn't try to stop you, which was a little surprising but also a huge relief. Once you were out of his reach and between him and the burrow you'd originally been trying to get to, you half turned around to respond to his question.

"Do whatever you want. The larger fish barely come into this area because it's rather shallow, so I don't care if you stay or not. Although, if you're planning on causing trouble, take my advice and leave before the Siren Hunters find this place."

As you swam away, he didn't move to follow. Although you heard him make one last comment before you were out of earshot.

"i guess ya must be a cute-fish instead of an eel..."

>⁠`⁠)⁠～⁠～⁠～

You encountered Red several more times after that and quickly concluded that he had chosen to settle somewhere nearby. He was too large to stay in the shallow waters that you generally roamed so you figured he was hunkered down below the drop off, where most of the ship wrecks you liked to pick through were located.

You stuck especially close to your safety burrows whenever you had to go out for food or materials. Sure, Red hadn't tried to act aggressive ever since your first meeting, although he proved to be a serial flirt. Weirdly enough, he never actually made any moves to initiate anything and you soon drew the conclusion that he just liked the thrill of the chase. He was a literal shark afterall so it wasn't that unusual.

He always went out of his way to strike up a conversation whenever you crossed paths. Granted, you immediately dove into the nearest safety burrow whenever you spotted him, but he didn't seem to mind. More often than not, he would end up lounging on a nearby rock while you lay in the opening of the tunnel with only your head visible. You knew he was strong enough to smash through the rocks and drag you out if he felt like it, but you still felt safer inside the burrow than not.

Today, you were swimming in slow indecisive circles in the small open space of your home. You were hungry and hadn't left your burrow in at least two days, for fear of running into him again. You weren't exactly afraid of him, but you were used to living in solitude, and there were many days where you just didn't feel like talking.

With a shaky exhale, you watched the little stream of air bubbles from your gills make a mad dash to the ceiling and leak out of the small openings to the surface above. You couldn't put off eating any longer, unless you wanted to die a slow and painful death anyways.

Shouldering your bag, you began to make your way outside. Reaching the mouth of the tunnel, you peered out and listened intently.

Nothing.

It was cloudy today but you didn't mind. The lack of sunlight only made the water slightly chillier than usual but not so much to be uncomfortable. You were just going to hunt for enough food to satisfy yourself for a day or two and then you'd quickly return home rather than linger out in the open.

You had only swam a few meters outside when you felt the current change, but before you could turn around, you felt someone grab onto the thin part of your tail.

You let out a strangled cry.

It was almost like you had tunnel vision as you whipped around.

You unhinged your jaw and bit down on the offending party but your teeth didn't pierce into flesh like you'd expected, rather they immediately struck bone.

It was him. Because of course it was.

No sooner had you realized this, did you release his forearm and swim backwards as fast as you could. You'd bit him hard and for a moment you felt a twinge of panic that you'd hurt him badly.

"I'm so, so sorry! I didn't mean to attack you!" you rushed to explain.

Red glanced at his forearm, but there seemed to be no visible mark and he shrugged. "nah, i should've known better than to sneak up on ya like that."

His permanent grin sharpened and his crimson eyelights seemed to smolder dangerously as he made eye contact with you again. "i didn't realize you were so flexible, doll..." he purred.

You felt your face flush as he trailed off and with a flick of your tail, you drew closer until you were chest to ribcage with him. "Now listen here! I was scared out of my mind and if you don't shut up, I'll do it again!"

"is that a promise?"

He chuckled when you angrily sputtered in response. "hey, ya walked into that one, sweetheart. i happen to like women who can dish it out, although i admit you're a lot different from my usual quarries."

You crossed your arms and huffed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He pursed his lips, or as much as a skeleton without lips could do so. "do ya want the truth?" he asked.

"Yes."

"i like larger women, the bigger the better. there's just somethin' about a lady who can overpower ya." He paused for a moment before adding, "it's actually kind of expected for them to do so where i come from."

You couldn't help but screw up your nose. "Okay... I won't be forgetting that any time soon..."

Red shrugged and glanced away as a crimson glow flickered over his cheekbones. "what can i say? i like what i like..." He cleared his non-existent throat and remarked, "that bein' said, i find ya really interestin'."

"You've said that so many times now. If you're not looking for a mate, what could possibly be so interesting about me?"

"do ya really want the answer, or are ya gonna get mad again?" he asked with a slight chuckle.

You rolled your eyes and huffed. "Provided you don't get smart with me..."

"well, i've noticed a few things. you're pretty slippery for one, if ya hadn't turned around so quickly i probably wouldn't have been able to hold ya in place, at least with only one hand anyways."

It took a second for you to realize what he was referring to. "Oh, you mean the mucus my body secretes. I don't have scales so it helps protect me from getting injured easily, plus it makes creating sturdy tunnels a breeze." You narrowed your eyes and smirked before adding, "It's also mildly toxic to humans, possibly some other species too..."

Red raised a bonebrow and his eyelights flicked down to his hand. "well it's a good thing i'm not a human," he remarked. He didn't seem the least bit fazed by your teasing which you were slightly disappointed by.

"So...what else do you find so interesting?" you asked.

He opened his mouth slightly and motioned to his gold tooth. "you've got a nasty bite given your size. do ya have two sets of teeth or somethin'?"

"Huh, I'm surprised you actually noticed that. I do in fact have two sets of teeth. I've got these ones in front for killing and actually chewing," you bared your sharp teeth to demonstrate before continuing. "And I have another set just a bit further back that helps hold my prey in place."

"i've seen a couple of sharks with two sets of teeth but theirs are a lot bigger."

You furrowed your eyebrows in concern. "Are you sure I didn't hurt you? I wasn't exactly trying to be gentle..."

He waved you off and chuckled. "nah, doll, you'd need a lot more jaw strength to do that. ya barely left a scratch, see?" He held up his forearm in an attempt to reassure you that he wasn't just pretending to be okay.

There were a couple of slight indentations in the surface but they didn't look too bad. You hadn't even managed to crack the bone, which was good because you would've felt even worse.

You sighed and ran your hands over your face. "I know you were teasing me earlier, but please don't sneak up on me like that again. The last thing I want is to actually hurt you or even risk hurting myself in the process."

Red nodded and ran his knuckles across your cheek in a gentle caress. "i'll give ya a bit more warnin' if i do, speckles," he said with a wink.

You blushed and flicked your tail to put some distance between you and him. His trademark smirk fell slightly when you pulled away but he didn't complain at least.

"I'm sorry...Speckles?" you asked in a small voice.

Just like that, he grinned and began to lazily swim in a circle around you. It was a bit difficult to keep your eyes on him as he was much more maneuverable in this position. As a result he managed to get a good look at your back and tail before stopping in front of you again.

"mhm, cause ya got cute little speckles all over your tail~" he murmured in that smooth drawl of his.

He drew slightly closer and his eyelights seemed to flicker in a teasing way. "i can call ya somethin' else if ya don't like it..."

You shook your head and took a few deep breaths to calm down again. "No, it's okay, I don't mind."

No sooner did you finish speaking, did your stomach decide to remind you why you'd left your burrow in the first place today. You flushed and glanced away from him in embarrassment.

"Sorry... I haven't eaten yet today and you caught me just before I was about to go hunting," you muttered.

He smiled and let himself drift backwards to give you some more space. "ah, do ya mind if i tag along then? if not, we can always continue this conversation another time?" There was a hopeful look in his eyelights and you had a hard time saying no to him.

You shrugged, "I guess not? Although, I tend to prowl through the more shallow areas of the reef where the shellfish and crustaceans like to hide..."

He seemed to get what you were hinting at and nodded. "fair enough. is there anythin' in particular ya prefer eatin'?"

"I guess I'm not really picky. It's just a lot easier to hunt them down compared to something larger."

You started to swim away and Red easily kept up. He only needed to make a few lazy flicks with his tail to match your normal swimming speed. You would be lying if you said you weren't a little jealous at how much faster he could swim compared to you.

You could feel his eyelights studying you and he didn't say anything for a few minutes. When the silence became too uncomfortable, you stopped and turned around to look at him.

"What?"

He hummed in a thoughtful way before answering. "i'm guessin' you've never been off the reef?" he asked.

"Of course I have. There's things I can't get here in the shallows and I like exploring the shipwrecks below the drop off. I just have to be a lot more cautious out there, so I don't like to do it often."

He narrowed his eye sockets as he regarded you suspiciously. "so you've never tried tuna is what you're sayin'?"

You gave him a blank look. "No...? They're too big and fast for me. Plus they're out in the really deep water..."

"are ya scared of the deep ocean?" he asked. His playful demeanor had seemingly evaporated and he'd grown oddly serious all of the sudden.

"I... Yeah, a little I guess..." you responded.

He smiled and swam closer to you again. "there's no shame in that, doll. the way i see it, you've got a pretty cushy setup here, so why should ya change it?" He seemed like he wanted to touch you for a moment, but hesitated rather than forcing anything.

You nodded slightly and he wrapped an arm around you. Pulling you up against his ribcage in a gentle hug, he lightly knocked his clavicle against your forehead. Moments later, he let go and gave you a warm smile.

"i'm not gonna make fun of ya, okay? let's get going so ya can eat something..."

>⁠`⁠)⁠～⁠～⁠～

The next few months seemed to fly by in the blink of an eye. You slowly began to look forward to Red's visits and would often wake up to him waiting for you outside your burrow. He was still flirtatious but also never failed to make you smile with a joke or two. You weren't sure why he was sticking around as you weren't interested in him like that and he seemingly wasn't trying to pursue you. It was a puzzling situation.

Still, you were starting to enjoy having a friend. While you'd been content with your life before, you had to admit that the loneliness was often unbearable at times. He didn't judge your habits either and, if anything, seemed genuinely interested in them.

You found him interesting too. He'd apparently been all over the ocean and had seen all kinds of creatures. You couldn't help but admire his wanderlust and lately you found yourself daydreaming about what that would be like. You couldn't possibly do the same though. He was tough and looked really scary, so even when aggressive sirens did challenge him, he could properly defend himself.

You felt a lot more fragile in comparison. Sure your tail had the mucus coating but your upper half was less protected. It was why you tended to hide from danger rather than confront it in the first place. You certainly had your fair share of scars from various fights you'd had been dragged into over the years.

You'd spent the whole morning making a new piece of jewelry. While you normally made more delicate pieces, you had done your best to make this one a lot more sturdy. While meticulous, you had braided several strands of fishing line together until you had a decently thick cord. It was by far the strongest thing you could use as the foundation for this bracelet. For the rest of the piece, you chose a few pieces of fish bones you'd spent time carving and some fragments of oyster shells because of the gorgeous mother of pearl sheen.

For a moment you stared at the finished bracelet in your hands. This was a silly idea. There was no way he'd be caught dead wearing something like this. You should've made it more spiky rather than shiny, at least it would suit his personality more then.

Taking a deep breath, you started to leave your burrow. Maybe he wouldn't even come by today and you could just put the gift away. But then you'd have to stare at it every morning and forever regret not at least trying to give it to him.

You shouldn't have been as surprised as you were that he was waiting outside. He didn't notice you at first because he was facing away while he lounged on the gravel sea floor. This gave you the perfect chance to admire the large fin on his back and how wide his ribs were, but you couldn't keep staring for too long.

Clearing your throat to get his attention, you asked, "Were you waiting all morning for me?"

"hm?" He turned to you and flashed a winning smile. "there ya are, speckles... i was beginnin' to wonder if ya weren't feelin' good today."

You pressed your lips together in a straight line. "Sorry, I was busy and didn't know you were out here."

Red let out a yawn and stretched his body. "nah, s'all good."

Only once you'd fully emerged from the tunnel, did you realize he'd brought a massive fish with him that had a long blue stripe along its body. You'd never seen one before and yet you somehow knew that it was a tuna, although you didn't know what subspecies exactly.

"so what keeps ya so busy for hours on end, doll?" he asked. His question brought you out of your thoughts and you blinked at him a few times before you could answer.

"Oh, I like to, uh...make things."

He got an intrigued look on his skull and his eyelights flicked over you. "i'd been meanin' to ask if ya made your whole outfit actually."

You nodded, "I did. It's a sort of hobby of mine I guess."

"sooo, what were ya makin' this morning then?" he asked and his tone took on that familiar teasing inflection again.

You bit your lower lip and looked away. "Maybe it's silly, but...I made you something..." you murmured.

Well that certainly got his attention. "wait seriously?" His voice sounded a lot louder all of the sudden and you jumped slightly when you realized how much closer he'd gotten to you.

You nodded and wordlessly held out the bracelet you'd made him.

Red just stared at it for several long seconds. His crimson eyelights had shrunk down to the smallest pinpricks of light and the expression on his skull was completely unreadable.

Your anxiety only grew worse the longer he remained silent. He hated it, didn't he? You really wouldn't have put so much effort into it if you'd known he was going to react like this.

One of his clawed hands came up and closed around the one you held the bracelet in. "doll... i didn't know ya actually liked me enough to do something like this," he finally said. His tone was far softer than you'd previously thought possible and his eyelights had returned to their usual size, although the edges of them were wobbling a little.

The relief that you felt in that moment could restore an entire army's morale but you were also a little embarrassed from how sincere his compliment had been. You hadn't expected him to be so touched over something so mundane as a bracelet.

"What are you saying? Of course I like you, Red!" you exclaimed. "You've been a good friend and I would want nothing more than to continue that friendship going forward."

He smiled and lightly brushed a loose strand of hair away from your eyes. "i brought some tuna so ya shouldn't have to go huntin' for a bit. i didn't expect to do a gift exchange today but here we are," he remarked with a chuckle.

"Oh, right! That's very generous of you, thank you!" Now that you thought about it, you were pretty hungry and that tuna smelled seriously good.

It was kind of funny watching Red struggle to tie the bracelet on with one hand, especially because he was being careful not to cut it with his sharp claws. With a chuckle, you helped him secure it to his wrist so that it wouldn't fall off.

The tuna was far richer than you had expected it to be and you couldn't help but let out a quiet hum of contentment. There was no way you could eat the whole thing at once but you were still grateful for the gift.

He was just watching you with a small smile on his face when you looked up at him again.

"What?" you asked.

He rubbed the back of his skull sheepishly. "i was just thinkin' is all..." When you tilted your head and gave him a questioning look, he sighed. "i was a monster once, ya know?"

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Seriously?!"

He nodded seriously. "maybe i'll tell ya about it at some point, but i've been wonderin' pretty much since we met if we were the same..."

"Oh... I'll be honest, I couldn't tell ya if I used to be a Human or a Monster."

"amnesia?"

You nodded.

"that's pretty normal actually. i don't remember a lot from my time on the surface but i remember enough."

You were silent for a moment as you mulled over what he'd told you. If you had lived on the surface before, that would certainly explain some things that you liked to do and a few habits you randomly had.

"Hey Red? Do you miss the surface?"

"sometimes i suppose, but i've never been happier bein' free to travel wherever i please." He smiled and lightly bumped your shoulder with his arm before adding, " 'sides, the last few months bein' around ya have been fun."

You chuckled and nodded slightly in agreement. "It's definitely been fun..."

[ethosiab]

So played anymore Hades?

Yeah! I've gotten about 5-6 chambers through asphodel now! The meg fight was kind of hard but it was good because it wasnt the kind of first boss fight where it felt like i had no chance? like it gave a good challenge, but i wasn't getting absolutely destroyed as i found with some other roguelikes

[coolnonsenseworld]

Samurai and Ninja in crappy pics because December here is under a constant cloud and I just want y'all to see them all golden and cute without learning how to take aesthetic pictures 🥴 💙❤️😆🥰

linktr.ee/Mezzy

[cassiskurocorner]

Art for @echoshunsnarcissus 's fic Skyward Symphonies. I heard you were working on the next chapter 0:) please use this as more motivation!

Alternate versions under cut!

[icewindandboringhorror]

I occasionally wish to reach out to old friends/acquaintances I haven't spoken to since high school/some other even earlier time in my life, but I have SOOO little social energy even for required tasks (like making dr phone calls or etc), I never have any leftover for extra ones, and it would be very odd to message someone I haven't spoken to in like 5 years out of the blue but then take 4 entire months to respond back lol.. My natural curiosity with nostalgia/collecting details of the past/etc. (literally if I were born a little earlier I would definitely do scrapbooking or something lol) is very strong, but, alas, not strong enough to beat out the Social Issues Demons apparently

[iniziare]

While finally writing a thing, I suddenly remembered that I never shared (I don't think) when I HC Guizhong's birthday to be: the first day of each year, January 1st. Why? Well, I was thinking of the Guili Assembly, and how it seems really rather likely that it was created from the names that she and Morax, at the time, went by (not Zhongli, or... well, maybe that was exactly what he went by actually, come to think of it; why wouldn't he?) Which, to me, is further confirmed by the translation of the area's name's from the Chinese source directly. We have the 'Plains of Returning and Departing' (歸離原), which correlate with the meanings of a symbol in each of their names, the 'Gui' (歸) from Guizhong which means 'to return', and 'li' (離) from Zhongli, which means 'to depart'.

Now, regardless of the perceived nature of these two to others, I think saying that they're intertwined in stone (history) and memory either way, to hardly be far from a stretch at all. Now, keeping the above two translations in mind, and remembering that they put Zhongli's birthday in our western calendar on December 31st, I think January 1st would be a beautiful decision for Guizhong's. He represents the end of a fruitfal year, and she represents the start, or chance, of a new. I love the symbolism more than I can put into words.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

also more odds & ends orville info & more not Not orville/phil info as well:

"In Steinkellner’s version of Summer Stock, Jane Falbury (Danielle Wade) and “Pop,” her father (Stephen Lee Anderson), are struggling to hang on to the family farm. Their farm is one of the few in the Connecticut River Valley that hasn’t been absorbed by the Wingates, whose holdings completely surround theirs.

The widow Margaret Wingate (Veanne Cox), whom son Orville (Will Roland) aptly describes as having eyes “as cold as death itself,” plans to absorb the Falbury farm by the simple expedient of having Orville marry Jane. After all the two kids had decided they were engaged in first grade!

Enter the prodigal younger sister Gloria (Arianna Rosario) who has been seduced by the lure of the Great White Way. She returns to the farm bringing along Joe Ross (Corbin Bleu in the Gene Kelly role), the director of the show that will make her a star, its composer Phil Filmore (Gilbert L. Bailey II), and the entire company. She has generously offered the company, which can’t afford rehearsal space in New York, the use of the family farm’s barn. Sister Jane reluctantly agrees to the intrusion with the proviso that the thespians will double as farm hands.

As rehearsals progress, Phil discovers that Orville, a bit of a doormat who has been raised with the understanding that he will never have to work, is a musical wunderkind. He is enlisted to work his magic on the show’s score and begins to blossom.

Widow Wingate takes umbrage with all this and vows to shut the enterprise down. Fortunately, the cold embers in her soul are stirred to renewed life by her encounter with Montgomery Leach (J. Anthony Crane), the has-been ham enlisted to give Ross’s show some cachet, so all might not be lost.

[...]

They make this Summer Stock a veritable feast of nostalgia. I was especially taken by the amusing way Steinkellner used Jackie Gleason’s theme song “Always” to further widow Wingate’s plot to get Jane and Orville hitched.

[...]

Orville, who has found personal liberation in show biz, is accorded a moment that reminded me of a similar scene in the musical version of The Producers. In a triumphant declaration of his emergence from under his mother’s thumb he exults, “I’m in the theatre! And I love it!” The audience loved it, too.

[...]

As director, Feore has elicited some wonderful performances, especially from subsidiary characters. Veanne Cox is splendid as Margaret Wingate as is J. Anthony Crane as Montgomery Leach, the faded matinee idol. Will Roland (Orville) and Gilbert L. Bailey II (Phil) both have wonderful moments and their intense professional friendship is one of the show’s highlights."

INTENSE PROFESSIONAL FRIENDSHIP you say....and also ofc everything about orville and wanting to be a musician and being in the theatre and he loves it sounds so good. i love it

[oddly-informed-raven]

Listening to Girl in Red's i wanna be your girlfriend on repeat in my room alone rn. No reason. Just for funsies.

[sceletaflores]

HALF YOUR BRAIN JUST AIN’T THERE!

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x babysitter!fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 11k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no outbreak au, pov switching, trailer park joel awooga wooga, tommy miller appearance because daddy i love him, joel is kinda sleazy and pervy, large girthy age gap (53/early 20s), and it’s very much brought up, finding joel’s porn drawer because he’s vintage, reader is called jailbait like once, reader is also a little creep lmao, just two freaks coming together praise, masturbation, fingering, brief allusions of fisting, the BAREST hint of ass play, p in v, rough sex, riding, pussy pronouns, spanking, finger sucking (told you i can’t stop), erectile dysfunction? yeah we don’t know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he’s twenty, porn with too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: i blame tommy gunn for this…and my period for rearing its ugly head and making me act like an animal. i don’t know i guess my brain is just fully rotted, but y’all’s are too so here’s a nice little gift from me to you, i’m lovingly placing this on your dash xoxo. this isn’t really based on manchild sorry for the false advertising babies, i just thought the lyric was super cute and it’s been stuck in my head so yeah here we are lmao. hope y’all love it, mwah!

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S HEADPHONES: Manchild - Sabrina Carpenter

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics! plus the delicious icon from @iamasaddie!

joel miller needs a babysitter, you’re back in town…

Gruene hasn't changed much. Not really.

You're not sure how much different it'd be after only a couple years away, but still. Something in you had expected it to feel even smaller—like the way old t-shirts shrink in the wash when you’re not paying attention.

The air felt the same when you first stepped out of your beat up Chevy, heavy and humid like a wet mouth. The pavement in front of your house still burned the bottom of your shoes, and the cicadas were buzzing in the dry grass like they never stopped.

You left for college thinking you’d never come back. And yet, here you are. Spending summer back in your hometown, a little more than half a degree under your belt, flat broke, and bored to death.

Your room’s the same, maybe just a little smaller now that you’ve lived other places, slept in other beds. All the posters are still up, faded from the sun and curling at the corners. Your mom left your old tennis trophies on your dresser, like maybe she thought you’d want to see them. You don’t, not really. You appreciate the effort anyway, at least she didn’t turn it into a yoga room or a place to keep extra boxes and Christmas decorations.

You try not to spend too much time at home, even though you technically don’t have anywhere else to go. You kill time with long drives down the streets you memorized years ago, past beat up gas stations with sun bleached lotto signs and eighteen wheelers parked in the back.

You try your hand at some half-hearted job hunting at a few different places that promise to call but never do. And you sit in the back booth of an old diner where you and your friends used to sneak fries from abandoned tables and smoke paper wrapped joints in the alley out back.

Every place you go feels like a ghost town version of what you remember. Familiar, but all hollowed out.

“You know who might be looking for help?” Your mom says one morning, standing at the stove fussing over a pan of bacon. “Joel Miller, you remember him don’t you?”

You pause, your fork stuck hovering just above the plate. “Sarah’s dad?”

“Mhm. I ran into him at the market a couple weeks ago and we got to catching up. He’s needing to pick up some extra work, and it’s just him, you know. Sarah’s starting high school in the fall but he’s still not wanting to leave her on her own. He looked stressed, poor thing.”

You hum warily, pushing your eggs around your plate to distract from the way your stomach flutters.

Joel Miller.

You haven’t heard that name in years. Not since you stopped babysitting Sarah, not since you left. It has something low and guilty stirring somewhere deep inside you.

You shouldn’t be surprised that it’s floating back into your life like cigarette smoke—all pungent and sour and impossible to ignore. In a town of less than two thousand people, you were bound to circle around some old memories sooner or later. And Joel Miller was a big one.

Mr. Miller was a few years older than your mom, a single dad that lived with his daughter in the trailer park a few miles past the city limit. You met him when you were seventeen and trying to save as much as you could for college, when your puny part time job flipping burgers and serving ice cream cones wasn’t cutting it. 

He needed someone to pick up Sarah from school and watch her until he got home from work, you needed the extra money. It seemed like a perfect fit.

But Joel was always…different. He scooped you up off the gravel and carried you into his living room to bandage up your knee when you took a bad fall outside his trailer. He never ratted you out when he caught you smoking one of his Marlboros in his backyard after you put Sarah to bed one night. He drove you home when you got too drunk at a field party and couldn’t stomach the thought of calling your mom. 

You can still remember the way his truck smelled—gasoline, sunbaked leather, sawdust. 

He didn’t say much, just kept his gaze trained on the road as you watched him through glassy eyes while Johnny Cash floated through the cab. He looked back once, slow and quiet, like he was really thinking something over. 

It’s been a long time since you thought about that night, but the reminder of it resurfaces sharp and sudden, like a thumb pressed into a bruise.

Now, your mom’s pouring more coffee into your cup and saying his name like it’s no big deal, like she didn’t just drop a live wire into your lap. Like he didn’t take up way too much room in your seventeen year old imagination.

“You should go down there and talk to him sometime,” she says, casual. “It might be a good way to make some money while you look around for something else.”

You bite back a grimace, conflicted. “Isn’t Sarah old enough to stay home alone by now?”

Your mom shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Maybe, but like I said Joel’s always been a little…anxious about leaving her on her own too many nights. She’s at that age, you know—boys, phones, lord knows what else.”

You frown, stabbing at your eggs. You only remember Sarah as the sweet little girl who’d beg to stay up and watch Disney with you, who was more interested in her Barbie dolls than any screen. You used to braid her hair while she did her times tables, let her wear some of your lip gloss when she begged.

You take a sip of coffee, the burn of it trickles down from your throat to settle somewhere deep in your chest. “You really think he’d hire me again?” 

Your mom shrugs again, plating the bacon. “I don’t see why not. Sarah always loved you, Joel too. He’s asked about you once or twice, said you were a real good girl. Very responsible and all that.”

You try not to laugh at that. 

Good girl. Responsible. Right.

You nod vaguely, standing to clear your plate into the trash even though it’s still half full. “Maybe,” you mutter. “I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, alone in your room, you find yourself scrolling through Facebook like an angsty teenager. 

You kicked your sheets off a while ago, cracked your window open to let in the cool breeze swirling outside. Crickets sing quietly in the background, only drowned out every once in a while by the sound of cars passing your street.

Joel’s profile is still public, but it’s sparsely updated. A new truck photo here, a blurry picture of Sarah’s eighth grade promotion there. She looks the same, maybe a little older. Her hair’s longer, but still curly as ever.

There’s no recent pictures of Joel anywhere. Not posted by him or any of his friends. You can’t tell if the feeling that blooms inside of you is disappointment or something else entirely.

You’re about to exit the app when finally, a tagged post catches your eye.

A post by an account with the name Henry B. attached to it. It’s just a grainy photo of someone’s backyard littered with wood pallets and stray tools, Joel standing in the middle of it all with a few other people you don’t recognize.

His account is tagged in the caption underneath. Big thanks to my buddy Joel Miller for the extra set of hands tonight. Saved our ass! It’s dated June 13, 2023.

You pause, your thumb hovering over the screen. So he’s still handy, you think distantly, chewing on your bottom lip.

You remember that much. There were always new projects cluttering the yard in front of his trailer. A crib for the expecting couple a few doors down, a rocking chair with ornate vines and flowers carved into the armrests, a soccer goal for Sarah to practice with when she started getting serious about it in the fifth grade.

You zoom in on the picture, just a little.

The angle’s weird and it’s overexposed as shit. Joel’s face is half shadowed by an old Longhorns baseball cap, but even still—there’s that jaw. That mouth. That same broad width of his shoulders you used to trace with your eyes when he’d lean on the doorframe after he got home from work. 

It’s still an older picture, and you can’t help but wonder how much he’s changed since.

You breathe through your nose, one long uninterrupted breath before you close the app and toss your phone face down on the mattress.

Joel Miller was handsome when you were in high school and stupid and still biting your nails. 

He was a late forty-something, tired around the eyes. Always in pair of ratty, stained jeans and those soft, worn down flannels with the sleeves rolled up. Sarah’s dad. The hot one, according to the girls at school. The divorced one, according to the snooty moms at the PTA. He was tall and strong, thick arms with dark hair dusted along veiny muscle. Big hands that were calloused and rough to the touch when he slipped you a couple folded twenties at the end of every night. 

You haven’t seen him since the summer after you graduated, but sometimes you still think about the way he used to look at you.

Like he shouldn’t.

Like he knew he shouldn’t, and did it anyway. 

You can still feel it. That heat, that weight. The way his eyes always lingered a little too long when you bent down to grab your homework off the coffee table. The way his voice got low and syrupy when he asked what you were doing that weekend.

You were young then, but now?

Now you’re not sure who you are, not entirely—but you know you’re not that same girl. You’ve lived. You’ve done things he couldn’t even guess at.

You’ve grown up. And you wonder if Joel would notice too.

You don’t plan on going. Not really.

The next day, your mom leaves a note taped to the fridge that says she’s out running errands and won’t be back until later. You stare at it for a while, then glance at the clock.

It’s barely noon.

You have nothing to do. No plans. No job. So you get into your boiling hot car, roll the windows down, and drive.

You’re not sure what makes you do it. 

Maybe it’s the antsy feeling that’s been worming around under your skin since you got here. Maybe it’s the way Joel’s name has been bouncing off all the corners of your mind like a moth against glass ever since your mom said it.

Either way, you find yourself veering onto a familiar exit off the highway, tires crunching under gravel until it turns to dirt when you pull into the same trailer park on the edge of town. The same one you spent most nights back in high school.

You sit in your car for a little longer than necessary, keys still in the ignition, engine ticking quietly as it cools.

The place hasn’t changed much either. Same sloped roof, same white paneling, same wind chimes clinking together on the porch. There’s a pair of muddy work boots by the steps, and your stomach knots.

You didn’t bother calling ahead. You don’t even know if he has the same number. You’re regretting that now.

You should leave. You really should. But you’re already pulling the car door open and stepping into the dry afternoon heat. The air’s thick again, the sun sitting high and mean in the sky. Your shirt sticks to the sweaty skin along your spine as you walk through the gate and up the short gravel path.

You hesitate at the foot of the stairs, clenching and unclenching your fists a couple times like that’ll magically relive all your nerves. You wonder, and almost hope, if Sarah will be the one to open the door. If she’ll even remember you.

Then, the screen door cracks open before you can knock.

Joel’s standing there. He looks the same as the last time you saw him.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he mutters, opening the door wider. He’s in jeans, barefoot, nothing but a tank top clinging to his chest, a dark patch blooming at the collar where it’s damp with sweat. “Look at you.” 

No, not the same.

Older. Broader, somehow. More worn in, like a favorite jacket that’s been well loved. His hair’s longer than you remember, messier. His beard is thicker too, dusted with more gray, and there’s a little more weight around his middle. But his eyes are just the same—dark, steady, and sharp in a way that makes you feel instantly, achingly seventeen again.

He looks you over once. Not quick. Real slow. Real deliberate. A single drag of his eyes from your flip flops to the shorts you maybe shouldn’t have worn. His gaze sticks when it reaches your chest, lingers there a beat too long before flicking back up to your mouth. And then, finally, your eyes.

You shift your weight, offering a small smile. “Hey, Mr. Miller.”

His eyes narrow, and there’s the ghost of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “Don’t start with that ‘Mr. Miller’ bullshit. You’re grown now.”

Your stomach tightens.

“I, uh...my mom said you might be looking for help,” you say, fighting the urge to squirm where you stand. “With Sarah, I mean.”

He leans against the doorframe, one hand gripping the wood above his head. The movement lifts his shirt just enough to show a strip of his stomach, a trail of dark hair disappearing under the waistband of his sweats. “She did, huh?”

You nod, still frozen in place at the bottom of the steps.

Joel lets the silence hang in the air, heavy and charged. Then he huffs a quiet breath through his nose—half amusement, half something else—and steps aside. “You comin’ in or what?” he asks, jerking his head impatiently, giving you another long, lazy once over. “Ain’t polite to keep an old man waitin’, kid.”

Your heart beats wildly against your ribcage, and with one last quick, steadying breath you hope Joel doesn’t notice, you climb the stairs.

Joel hadn’t expected to see you again. At the very least like this, showing up at his place in the middle of the day—standing at the bottom of his porch like a mirage in the heat, older and more grown in all the places a man like him shouldn’t be noticing. 

And sure as hell not in those shorts.

He watches you walk past him into the living room, slow and uncertain, that little sway in your hips you maybe don’t even mean to have. Or maybe you do.

Either way, it’s a goddamn sight.

Joel closes the door with a soft click, dragging a hand over his mouth like that’ll help wipe the look off his face. It doesn’t. The look of you—bare legged and smiling, sun kissed and back in his house after all this time—sticks to the inside of his skull like syrup. 

You look around the room with a small smile, eyes scanning the familiar furniture. Some of it’s new, some of it’s the same. Joel’s never been much for decorating. You pause in front of the bookshelf he built a few years back, Sarah’s old school pictures still sit in a few mismatched frames next to a couple of paperbacks.

He clears his throat, scratching at his beard so he has something to do with his hands as he walks to the kitchen. “You want somethin’ to drink? Water, iced tea? I think I got Coke in the fridge somewhere.”

“I’m good, thanks.” You follow slowly, looking younger somehow in the kitchen light. You rest your hip against the doorway, eyes watching him as he walks to the fridge. “I won’t stay long. I just figured I’d stop by real quick and see if you still needed some help.”

Joel pulls the fridge open anyway, grabbing a beer from the half empty six pack. He cracks the tab with a soft hiss and leans back against the counter. “Sarah’s mostly independent now. She don’t need a sitter like she used to, but I still get caught up workin’ late. Don’t like the idea of her bein’ here by herself too often. 'Specially not with some of the boys sniffin’ around lately.”

You laugh, soft and bright. “Well, I’ve got time,” you say, toying with a loose thread on your cutoffs. “I don’t know how much help you actually need, but my schedule’s pretty much open. I can do evenings, weekends, whatever you want.”

Joel has to bite back a grin. Whatever he wants. 

If you only knew the half of what he really wants.

Joel shifts his weight against the counter. “It wouldn’t be every night,” he says, shaking his head. “Just the evenings I pick up extra hours, or if I get called out for a job.”

You nod. “I can help. You don’t have to worry about paying me a whole lot. I’ll just be happy to keep busy.”

His mouth pulls into something that might be a smile. “I’ll pay you,” he says, almost gruff. “You’re doin’ me a favor.”

The silence that follows feels familiar. Not awkward—just full. A little tight around the edges. 

He’s always known how to talk to you, but now there’s something different to it. You’re not seventeen anymore. Not biting your lip and looking away when he catches your eye. You’re standing there calm as you please, looking straight at him, like you already know he’s thinking things he shouldn’t.

Joel watches you from across the kitchen, beer can sweating against his palm. The ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, stirring warm air that doesn’t help much with the heat climbing under his skin. You’re standing there across the way from him like nothing’s changed, like you never left. Like no time has passed at all.

Except that it has. And it shows.

“You still in school?” he asks, voice rougher than he means it to be.

You blink, head tilting to the left. “Yeah. I’m up in Chicago now, Northwestern.”

“Big shot,” Joel whistles low, nodding appreciatively. “That’s a ways away from here.”

You shake your head, smile small and bashful. “It is. It’s expensive as hell too, my scholarship’s the only reason I’m there.”

He makes a soft sound in his throat, impressed. “Smart girl.”

“I try.” You shrug, but there’s pride under it. “I’ve got one year left, usually I stay for the summer to try and make as much as I can in the city. I—I just needed a breather, I guess. Some time to figure shit out, you know?”

There’s something soft in your tone when you say it, an openness he didn’t expect, and maybe shouldn’t pry into. But part of him wants to. Always has.

“You don’t seem like the type that needs figurin’ out,” Joel says, voice a little quieter now. “Always thought you had your head on straight.”

Your smile flickers into something crooked, something secret. “That’s because you didn’t really know me.”

He chuckles, deep and rough. “No, sweetheart. I think I knew you just fine.”

Your eyes lock for a second too long after that, thick enough with heat and history to make the air feel heavier than it already is.

You look away first, your eyes flicking to the living room. “I, uh–sorry, do you mind if I use the bathroom?”

Joel gestures vaguely with his free hand. “Go ahead, you remember where it is.”

You push off the doorway with one last grateful smile and duck down the hallway, footsteps silent against the linoleum. Joel watches until you disappear around the corner, his gaze dipping low without shame.

He waits until he hears the click of the bathroom door shutting behind you to exhale a slow breath, setting his beer down on the counter harder than he has to.

Jesus Christ.

She’s not a girl anymore, he thinks to himself. And you’re not, you’re far fucking from it.

But that feeling, that ugly one churning deep down in Joel’s gut, it’s still there. It feels just as dangerous as it used to, maybe even worse now. All because of you. 

The look of your glossy lips forming around the words whatever he wants. The shape of your thighs, those damn shorts clinging to you like a second skin. The way you were looking at him, eyes all wide and shiny under his shitty kitchen light. 

Joel can’t help himself, he thinks back to a few years ago. You, curled up on his couch every night when he got home from a long build, looking so soft in the hazy glow of the TV. Barefoot and sleepy, blinking up at him in those skimpy little after school clothes you’d always throw on.

It was a vision, something to settle his aching bones.

He thinks about how he started looking forward to it, coming home to you. It was sick, he knew that much, the fucked up little game of house he played, projected onto you. An old man like him leering at you, thinking of you long after you’d left, waving sweetly from the window of your moms car.

Joel should’ve known better. Should’ve done better. But that never stopped him before, not when it came to you.

A knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts. Two quick raps, followed by a heavy creak.

“Joel?” Tommy’s voice fills the trailer before he can even move, loud in the quiet. “You home?”

Joel sighs, brows pinching together as he pushes off the counter. He didn’t even hear the damn truck pull up.

Tommy rounds the corner, sweaty and covered in dirt. He’s got a ratty bandanna hanging from his jean pocket, sleeves pulled up around his shoulders and a pair of aviators covering his eyes.

“You ever heard of callin’ before you just barge in on someone?” Joel doesn’t try to hide the annoyance in his tone, brow arched as he stares at his brother.

“Hello to you too, jackass.” Tommy just walks past him like he owns the place, opening up one of the cabinets above the sink. “You gettin’ memory loss already, old man? You said Saturday.”

“Yeah, well now ain’t a good time, Tommy.” Joel cuts his eyes to the hall, to the light bleeding out from under the bathroom door.

Tommy just snorts, still rifling through the cabinet. “Yeah right, you got a woman over or somethin’?”

Joel doesn’t answer, eyes still fixed on that thin sliver of light glowing under the bathroom door like it might give him away.

Tommy catches on, turns slow with a shit-eating grin already stretching across his face. “You do have someone here.”

Joel gives him a hard look, one that should tell him to shut the hell up—but Tommy only laughs, knowing.

“C’mon,” he drawls. “Didn’t know you were even seein’ anybody. You been holdin’ out on me?”

“It ain’t like that,” Joel mutters, too fast, too defensive.

Tommy tilts his head, chewing on that like a dog with a bone. “Huh. So she’s not yours then?”

Joel doesn’t get the chance to answer. Before he can shoot back with something mean enough to shut him up. From down the hall, the bathroom door opens with a quiet click, and then—

Then you're back, smoothing your hands down your thighs as you reappear around the corner, voice drifting back into the space.

“Jesus, that sink is still running freezing cold water? I nearly put my-oh…” You’re clearly caught off guard, your eyes catching on where Tommy stands in front of the sink. “Tommy?”

Joel watches it click in real time—your eyes lighting up with recognition, mouth parting into a surprised smile like you’ve just stumbled on an old friend. Which, in a way, you have. Tommy was around a lot back then. Backyard beers, watching football on the TV, leaning against Joel’s truck while you wrangled Sarah inside for dinner.

“Well shit,” Tommy says, slow and low, pulling his sunglasses down. “That isn’t the little babysitter, is it?”

You smile, sheepish and sweet, and Joel feels something sour twist in his gut. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.” Joel watches Tommy take a good long look at you just like the one he did, eyes wide as his gaze rakes from your head down to the bare skin of your legs and back up all over again. “No kiddin’.”

It makes the space behind Joel’s ribs burn with something hot and ugly, Tommy’s eyes on you. Shameless and obvious as all hell. He might just be the biggest hypocrite in the country for it, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” Tommy goes on, leaning in like he can’t help himself. “You home for the summer?”

“Yeah, just for the summer,” you say brightly. “I thought I’d see if Joel needed help with Sarah again.”

“Oh, I bet he does,” Tommy says, and Joel’s had about enough of this.

“We were just finishing up,” Joel cuts in, his voice sharp enough to slice through the air. “She was about to head out.”

You don’t seem to notice the tension, if you do, you ignore it with grace that makes it worse somehow.

Your eyes flick to him, and for a second, Joel thinks maybe you notice something’s off. But your smile is still easy. “Yeah, I should probably get going.”

Joel gives a short nod and steps toward you before Tommy can open his mouth again. “I’ll walk you out, honey.”

You look between the two brothers for a second longer, then nod and head back into the living room, Joel right behind you. The sound of Tommy’s boots are hot on his heels, following.

You bend down to swipe your keys off the coffee table, not by much, just enough for your shirt to ride up and your shorts to dip low. Joel nearly swallows his tongue at the sight of lace. Bright pink, thin. A pathetic little scrap of fabric clinging to either side of your hips.

Joel’s throat goes dry, heat rolling under his skin like a slow burn, thick and unrelenting. You straighten back up, smooth the hem of your shirt down, but the damage is done. He feels that familiar ache stirring low in his belly, his cock twitching with interest in his sweats.

He doesn’t look at Tommy, he doesn’t need to. The quiet crunch of a beer can bending under a tight grip is all he needs to know that he isn’t the only one taking that lace peeking out from under those damn shorts as a neon sign flashing all the wrong kinds of welcome.

Joel barely has enough wherewithal to drag his eyes up to your face when you turn back around—that sweet, oblivious smile still pulling at your lips.

“Okay.” Your fingers toy with your keys, the metal soft and jangling in your palm. “Ready.”

Joel gives you a short nod, jaw tight. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Tommy, of course, steps in the silence, voice syrupy. “Hey, don’t be a stranger, alright? Good seein’ you again, sweetheart.”

You glance over your shoulder, lips parting into a lazy little grin. “You too, Tommy.”

Joel holds the door open for you, watching the way the light hits your shoulders, the back of your thighs, the little shadow that dips right at the curve of your spine.

The cicadas are buzzing, your car parked half crooked along the curb. You walk slow, gravel crunching under your sandals. Joel stays beside you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The sun’s lower now, soft gold spilling across the lawn.

You open the car door, pausing with your hand on it. “That was…fun.”

Joel nods, biting back a frown. “Yeah, sorry about him. Tommy hasn’t got much of a filter.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s okay, I missed you guys.”

Joel’s heart kicks hard in his chest. He’s not sure what to do with that. 

“You know where to find us,” he says finally.

You nod, climbing into the car. The engine kicks up and the window rolls down.

“Thanks for the talk,” you say. “And the job, I’ll call you?”

Joel leans down a little, arms resting on the open window frame. You’re so close like this. Too close. He can smell the sweet perfume mixing with the bright tang of sweat on your skin.

“Of course,” he says, eyes flicking down to your lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

You smile. “It was nice seeing you, Joel.”

Joel watches you drive off, his reflection shrinking in your side mirror until he’s nothing but a speck in the dust your tires kick up.

He lets out another long breath, turning to walk up to steps. When he comes back inside, Tommy’s on the couch now, feet kicked up on Joel’s coffee table.

Joel shuts the door a little too hard behind him.

He lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”

“I told you,” Joel says, low and firm. “Now ain’t the time.”

Tommy’s grinning. “No shit it ain’t the time. Jesus, Joel. She’s what—twenty? Twenty one?”

“Somethin’ like that.” Joel says, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Oh, well never mind then, that makes it fine,” Tommy says, laughing. He cracks open the beer in his hand, taking a slow sip. “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind, you know that?”

Joel clenches his jaw, not bothering with an answer. His heavy silence speaks louder than any words could.

Tommy watches Joel closely, taking his silence for what it is and grinning wide enough to show off the sharp point of his canines. “She filled out real nice though, didn’t she?”

Joel shoots him a warning look, brows pinched together. “Don’t.”

Tommy holds his free hand up in surrender, but he’s still smirking. “All I’m sayin’ is—I remember when she was this pretty little thing runnin’ around here. Now—” He makes a vague gesture at his own chest. “—jailbait’s a whole lotta grown.”

Joel takes a step forward, hands clenched into fists at his side. “Watch your goddamn mouth.”

Tommy raises a brow, and the air goes real still between them for a beat. Joel knows his little brother—knows he’s testing the waters, seeing just how deep the river runs.

Joel shakes his eyes off him, walks to the kitchen and snatches his forgotten beer off the counter.

He hears Tommy chuckle again, more to himself than anything, his voice is louder so Joel can hear him. “You better watch yourself, man. That one? She’s trouble.”

Joel downs the rest of his beer in one long, bitter swallow, eyes peering out the window—locked on the road your car disappeared down. His voice, when it comes, is low and final.

“You got no idea.”

It’s almost too easy, falling back into the routine of it.

A few nights a week, just like before. Joel calls. You come over. The knock on the door doesn’t even feel necessary anymore, since Sarah already knows it’s you when she yanks it open and launches into talking before you’ve even stepped inside. 

You know where the snacks are. The remote. You know how to work the tricky thermostat and still have all the emergency contacts scrawled on a paper tacked to the fridge memorized.

It all comes back like muscle memory—like no time has passed at all. 

Sarah’s older now, a little more sarcastic. Witty and bolder in a way that surprises you sometimes, just enough edge in the way she talks to you that reminds you how much time has passed since you used to sit on the same couch and color. She’s brimming with the kind of secrets she’s aching to spill to someone she knows won’t tell her dad.

You’re still not quite a “grown-up” in her eyes, but you’re not a kid anymore either. You’re in that sweet spot—a cool older girl with her own car who lets her say things like shit and dickweed when Joel’s not around.

You’re not supposed to let her stay up this late, but you both pretend not to notice the clock. She’s curled up next to you on the couch, draped over the armrest only half watching the reruns you turned on with her chin propped on her palm.  

"Can I ask you something?” Sarah says suddenly, grinning. 

You narrow your eyes at her, mock suspicious. “You can, but I’m not promising I’ll answer.”

She laughs, kicking you gently with a socked foot. “Did you ever, like, sneak around when you were my age? Steal beer? Hook up with anyone?”

“Jesus, Sarah.” You raise your eyebrows, but she’s too amused to be embarrassed. You toss a throw pillow her way lazily. “You know your dad would kill me for answering that, right? He’d think I’m giving you ideas or something.”

“That’s not a no,” she sings, smirking.

“No comment.” You shake your head, smiling in spite of yourself. “I don’t need to give you any blackmail material to use on me later if I piss you off.”

“Please,” she huffs with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “I’d never narc on you like that. Besides, Dad still thinks I’m eight, I don’t even think he knows that I know what “hooking up” means.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you turn your attention back to the TV. “You’re his baby.” You shrug as a new episode of Daria starts. “It makes sense that he’s treating you like one.”

“Gross,” Sarah huffs again, letting her head fall back against the cushion to stare up at the ceiling. “He’s just so overprotective sometimes. I mean, I guess I get it but, come on? I’m basically in high school now, I’m not really a baby anymore.”

You glance over at her, and she isn’t. Not really. Not the gap toothed little girl who used to fall asleep on your shoulder watching Finding Nemo. She’s growing up in the kind of terrifying, beautiful way that makes your chest ache a little—already too smart for her own good.

She cracks her eyes open a bit, peering across the way at you. “Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently.”

You blink. It’s not the words that shake you—it’s the timing. The way they hit, low and close to the bone. 

Because yeah, you did notice. You still do. Especially now. Especially here.

Before you can say anything, the alarm you set on your phone blares loudly, cutting through the quiet.

“Alright!” You push her feet off your lap and stand, happy for the distraction as you clap your hands together. “That’s curfew.”

Sarah groans, but she rolls off the couch with no argument and starts down the hall. 

You busy yourself with tidying up the living room as she brushes her teeth, pointedly ignoring the growing pit in your stomach. Her words ring in your ears like church bells, her voice tolling a little too close to something you’ve pointedly ignored since you got back. Something half buried and dangerous.

Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently…

You breathe out slowly, shutting off the TV and dropping the remote onto the couch a little harder than necessary. You shouldn’t read into it. She didn’t mean anything by it. Just a kid mouthing off, reaching for connection, for understanding. 

But it rattles you more than you want to admit, especially here—especially in his house.

You swallow hard, clearing the dirty dishes off the coffee table and walking into the kitchen. You just won’t think about it anymore, it’s that easy.

You're just being ridiculous. Paranoid. That's all.

A little while later, you’re still tidying up.

The dishes are all done, washed and drying in the rack next to the sink. The living room looks better than when you got here. It’s damn near pristine. 

Sarah went to bed almost half an hour ago. You crane your head down the hallway as you fold an old blanket, her door is cracked open enough that you can see the light from her alarm clock shining in the dark. The soft sounds of waves drone quietly from her noise machine.

You smile, a warm fondness blooming in your chest.

That fuzzy feeling doesn’t last long, not when your eyes drift almost on their own, landing on Joel’s door. 

Joel’s room.

It’s cracked open too, just like Sarah’s, but there’s no light shining from inside. You keep folding the blanket, distracted. It’s not like you haven’t been in Joel’s room before, you have. Passing through it with clean loads of laundry or sneaking his phone charger from the plug near his nightstand when your phone died.

But you’d never gone in alone, and you’d never stayed long. Sarah was always hot on your heels, catching your wrist in her tiny hand to drag you back out—following you around like an overexcited puppy. Not to mention it was always in the light of day, never at a time like this. When the moon is shining high in the sky and the stars are scattered across vast velvety darkness like spilled sugar.

You drape the folded blanket along the arm of the couch, eyes still glued to the door. The cogs in your mind turn and turn, spitting out an idea that has your stomach clenching with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

You gnaw on your bottom lip anxiously, eyes cutting to the clock above the door.

11:53

Joel told he’d be a while tonight, before he left. He said they’d be short a man, that the job would drag on because of it.

That’s not an excuse, you know that.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

Your feet are moving before your brain can catch up to how bad of an idea this really is.

Your steps are silent on the linoleum, barefeet not making a sound. The wood of his door is dark and shiny, cool against your hand when you lay your palm over it. You give Sarah’s room another sideways glance, you can see the shape of her beneath the covers. Sound asleep.

The door creaks when you push it open, just barely. The sound isn’t enough to scare you off, and you step inside. The carpet is plush under you, it silences your steps even more as you walk to the nightstand and flick the light on.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you take it in. The messy, unmade state of Joel’s bed. The covers are thrown back, there’s a dip in the pillow where his head rests. The nightstand has a paperback open and laying face down, a pair of wiry reading glasses resting next to it.

The room smells like him. 

That scent that used to cling to you by accident when you were younger—clean cotton and cedar, a little motor oil and sweat, and whatever body wash he’s been using for years. It hits you all at once.

It has something stirring in your core, the familiarity of it. You look around some more, greedy eyes taking in every tiny detail you can. There’s a few paintings and framed pictures littering the walls. Pictures of Sarah, of Tommy, all kinds of different Texas landscapes. 

An old guitar rests on the wall across from you, you can see that it’s a little beat up even from where you’re standing. The glossy wood chipped and well loved.

Then your eyes land on the dresser.

It’s old, stained a light brown. You wonder distantly if he built it himself.

Your gaze catches on the top drawer, the pull handle worn with use.

Again, you know it’s wrong. That you’ve already crossed every line imaginable by just being in here, but you seem full to bursting with bad ideas tonight. 

You’re across the room with your fingers resting gently on the handle before you can even blink. Slowly, like something’s pulling you on a leash, you slide it open.

Socks. Boxers. Old, ratty belts. It’s nothing special, but heat climbs up the back of your neck all the same.

The next drawer has shirts, old band tees and fancier button downs that really should be hung up. You press your hand against one of them, feeling the starchy fabric beneath your skin.

The third drawer sticks a little, enough that you need to yank on it harder than the last two. It slides open with a dull thud. You wince, your eyes flicking to the door like Joel could be standing there, catching you rifling through his underwear like a sick little perv. 

The darkness of the hallway is all that greets you. Quiet, empty.

You take a steadying breath, but your hands don’t stop trembling as you tug it the rest of the way open.

You’re not sure exactly what you’re looking for, but then, you see it.

There, tucked toward the back under a couple old flannels, a small stack of magazines. 

Playboys. A couple Hustlers. From the look of them, they're mostly 90s, maybe early 2000s. It’s so vintage, so Joel. The covers are glossy, edges curled and worn. 

Your breath hitches. The heat between your legs is instant, sharp and impossible to ignore.

You pull one out, heart hammering, and flip it open carefully. Your eyes skim over picture after picture, some of the pages sticking together as you thumb through them. The scent of paper and dust and something faintly musky drifts up, and the centerfold you finally land on is obscene—posed, yes, but raw in a way that makes your thighs press together. 

Legs spread wide on a bearskin rug, pink mouth parted, full bush and glossy nipples.

She’s brunette, hair poofy and curled up to Jesus like they used those big old school rollers. Her eyes are the same color as yours, half lidded and covered in a sparkly blue shadow.

You glance down at the caption under her photo. 

“Turn-ons: Older men. The kind that know how to use their hands.”

A shiver rolls down your spine.

You should be laughing. Maybe grossed out. But instead—

Instead you imagine Joel, sitting in this room, flipping through these pages alone. Hand between his legs. That rough, big, calloused hand. Not fast, not frantic. No, you imagine him slow.

Measured.

Probably gritting his teeth, because he seems like the type who doesn’t let himself sound desperate even when he is. Grunting softly. Breathing hard. Coming into a tissue or his palm or maybe just letting it land on his stomach. Because there’s no one here to see. No one to touch him. Just him and the sound of paper turning.

You shut the magazine too fast. Slide it back in place, heart pounding.

Before you can push the drawer closed, your eyes catch on one of the flannels that covered Joel’s little secret.

It’s an old one—soft looking, broken in, a faded green and black. You should put it back, lay it down exactly where you found it so there’s nothing even hinting at you digging around in places you shouldn’t.

Instead, your hand closes around it, and without letting yourself think too long, you hold it up to your nose.

God. It smells like him. Like his detergent, like summer sweat and wood and something faintly smokey. Warm and safe and so damn inappropriate in every possible way.

It’s too much, it’s not enough. It’s obscene.

You can’t help yourself, you push the rest of the flannels back over the magazines, but the one in your hand gets tucked under your arm.

You don’t even try to justify it. You don’t even look back.

You don’t touch yourself right away.

You wait. You ride the buzz all the way home. Eat a popsicle standing barefoot in your kitchen, flannel in a heap on the counter like a loaded gun. You pretend to forget about it. You go about your night like normal. Shower. Brush your teeth.

Then you’re in bed and it’s just there. Laying on your mattress.

You unfold it. Run your fingers over the soft, worn fabric. You should feel guilty. You do, but that doesn’t stop you from pressing it to your nose and inhaling a deep lungful. You crawl into bed, tearing your shirt off and kicking your shorts down your legs all at once.

You lay back against your sheets, flannel still clutched in your hands. You rub it along your chest, over your peaked nipples, down your stomach. Rubbing Joel’s scent into your skin like it’s your own personal brand.

Your free hand slides down your body, down the lacy fabric of your panties. You’re already wet. You’ve been wet since the minute you opened that drawer.

You close your eyes, fingertips teasing along the wet expanse of your pussy as you let your mind go there—

To the thought of Joel finding you like this.

His flannel draped over your face. Your hand between your thighs.

Would he be mad? Would he punish you for it?

Would he take it back? Rip it out of your hands?

Or would he make you put it on—just so he could see you wear it while he ruined you?

You want to come like this. Wrapped up in something of his. Want to ruin yourself in it. You dip your fingers into your underwear and finally—finally—brush them over your clit.

The gasp you let out is sharp.

It’s not just his cologne. It’s his scent. That hot-skin smell that clings to the inside of his hats and his truck and his work boots. It’s Joel, soaked into the fabric like he’s holding you down.

You rub slow circles over your clit, hips twitching. You can’t stop picturing him. Not just his face, but the sounds he’d make. The weight of his body over yours. The way his voice would rasp against your ear if he caught you doing this.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl, so desperate you’re gettin’ off with my dirty laundry?”

You slide two fingers inside yourself and gasp, mouth falling open. You imagine his hands instead. Rough, thick, calloused. Bigger than yours. Slower. Crueler.

“Oh fuck, Joel—” you whisper without thinking, the name catching on your teeth like a sin.

You come hard, pressing the flannel to your face, thighs trembling, biting down on soft cotton as you ride it out. It rolls through you in hot waves. Shame, lust, guilt, need—all tangled up.

When it’s over, you lie there panting, the room silent except for your heartbeat in your ears. You relax your jaw, the flannel falling from between your lips, fabric soaked with your spit.

You drift off with it clutched to your chest. Still wet between your legs. Still aching. Still imagining what he’d do if he ever found out.

And you sleep better than you have in weeks.

You don’t think anything of it when you see Joel’s truck parked in front of the trailer. It’s not out of the ordinary, he’s almost always there to make sure you get in safe before he leaves.

You climb the creaky steps and knock like usual. Three little raps, your knuckles against the thin aluminum of Joel’s door, already shifting your weight to the side as you wait for Sarah to yank it open and start catching you up on all the latest gossip from her last summer soccer practice.

Only—it doesn't swing open. Not right away.

You frown, Sarah’s usually opened the door before you can even raise your fist to knock again. It’s only then that you notice how quiet it is. 

No music thumping out from her window, no light flicked on in her room. No hum of the TV playing. No voice yelling “Just a second!” from down the hall. Just the light hanging above your head buzzing faintly and the dull thud of your knuckles against the door.

You knock for a fourth time, less sure.

A few more seconds go by. One, two, three, four. 

You count all the way to ten before the door creaks open, the screen with it. Joel fills the frame, one shoulder leaning against it. The light floods out from behind him, a warm yellow glow spilling into the dark and haloing around his broad shoulders. 

He’s not dressed in work clothes, just an old grey short sleeve and a pair of jeans that ride dangerously low on his hips—a beer bottle held loosely in his left hand. He doesn’t even have shoes on.

You’re hit with a violent wash of déjà vu, your traitorous mind thinking back to the first day you saw him again. 

“Hey,” you say as casually as you can, shifting on your feet. You peer around him into the living room. Empty. “Where’s Sarah?”

Joel doesn’t move, head tilting as he watches you. “She’s stayin’ over at a friends.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” The corner of Joel’s mouth raises slightly, it’s not quite a smirk, but it’s close. “I texted. You didn’t check your phone?”

You shake your head slowly, but you can’t help the way your brows furrow. You had checked it, right before you left your house, like you awake do. No calls. No texts.

“I must’ve missed it.”

Joel gives you a lazy once over, eyes dragging down your front like a slow lick. “Huh,” he says, but it’s far away. “Guess you might as well come in anyway, wouldn’t want you to waste your time comin’ out here for nothin’.” 

He steps aside, holding the door open expectantly. 

“It’s fine, really.” You laugh, but it’s awkward. “I can just go—”

“Come inside.”

He says it low. Not a suggestion.

You hesitate for half a second, nerves suddenly scraping just beneath your skin. But you step in anyway, brushing past him into the cool dimness of the trailer, the familiar scent of cedar, beer, and Joel hitting your nose all at once. 

The door shuts behind you with a heavy click.

Joel walks past you, sets his beer down on the coffee table before his eyes find yours again. You can see his face better in the light of the living room, his eyes are hard. Dark in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. It has your stomach clenching tightly, the sour edge of alarm churning with arousal inside you.

“It’s good you’re here. We oughta talk.”

You open your mouth, then shut it. His tone is strange—off—but not angry. Amused, almost. You wring your hands behind your back anxiously. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, rough, “I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’. Just been waitin’ for the right time.”

You frown. “Ask me what?”

Joel drags the silence out. He watches you try not to squirm, mouth tilted in another half smirk. 

"You go through my shit, baby?"

Your heart trips three times over in your chest, stomach dropping down to your feet. “I—what?”

Joel huffs hard out his nose, that smug smirk spreads. It’s all teeth now, feral and amused. “Did I stutter?”

You’re shaking now, hands trembling in time with the frantic beat of your pulse. “I just thought—I didn’t think you—”

Joel clicks his tongue, cutting you off. “Yeah that’s the problem, ain’t it? You didn’t think.” He takes one slow step toward you, eyes locked on yours, heavy and dark and hot enough to burn.

“It’s real funny,” he says offhandedly, too casual—like you’re talking about this week’s forecast. “There’s only a few people who’ve been in and outta here lately. And I know Tommy ain’t the one riflin’ through my drawers, takin’ shit that doesn't belong to him. I ain’t dumb, baby.”

Your mouth opens and closes desperately, mind racing to say anything. To lie, to defend yourself, to beg for forgiveness. Nothing comes out. Your throat works around nothing, and your hands are clenched so tightly behind your back they’re going numb.

Joel just hums. A low, throaty sound that vibrates down your spine. His fingers curl under the hem of your shirt, lifting it slightly, just enough to show the little strip of skin above your shorts. “You touch yourself in it?”

The question punches the air from your lungs. You don’t need to ask him what it is.

“I—Joel—”

“Don’t try lyin’ to me.”

Your face burns. You can’t bring yourself to nod, let alone speak. You don’t have to. 

Joel laughs—dark and low, like he already knows the answer. He trails his hand along the skin of your stomach, his touch featherlight. You can’t hide the shiver that wracks through you, goosebumps pebbling along your skin.

His hand falls away, only so he can drop down onto the couch behind him. Legs wide, thighs spread, jeans tugging tight across them as he leans back like he’s settling in for a show. His voice is pure gravel. “Go on, then. Show me what you did.”

You just stand there. Eyes wide. “What?” 

Your voice shakes, quiet and small in the tension. 

Joel shakes his head, sighing like he’s dealing with a stubborn child. He hooks one finger in the waistband of your shorts, tugging. You move without thinking, stepping into the space between his spread thighs.

“See, I don’t wanna have to ask you again, baby. So, are you gonna show me?” he says slowly, his touch dipping low enough to brush over the lacy edge of your panties. “Or am I gonna have to make you?”

Your breath catches in your throat, heat flooding your body in less than a second. “Joel—”

He cocks a brow. “What’s wrong, sweet thing? You were bold enough to sneak into my room, go through my drawers, take what don’t belong to you. Don’t get shy now.”

You feel it then—that impossible to ignore, deep, slick throb between your legs. Shame and heat twisting up your insides. Your whole being pulses with heat, phantom flames lapping over your skin.

You don’t know if you’re more humiliated or turned on—your body doesn’t seem to care either way. Joel hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

There’s no way out of this. And you’re not even sure if you want one.

You bite your lip, cheeks burning as your fingers trail down your belly, under your shorts and down between your thighs. Already wet. Slick with the shame of it, slick with how bad you want him watching you.

Joel swats your hip, not hard enough to sting. Just enough to make you feel it. “No ma’am, none of that shit. Shorts off.”

You freeze, your hand still buried under the waistband, your pulse thudding in your ears like a war drum. Apparently, you don’t move fast enough, not for him, and Joel’s already leaning forward, hands on your hips as he yanks them down himself—your shorts and panties in one brutal tug.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he mutters, almost to himself, dragging the fabric down your thighs and letting it pool at your ankles.

Your breath hitches as he sits back again, arms draped lazily over the back of the couch, dark eyes fixed on the wet heat between your thighs like he’s starving.

You step out of your clothes, naked from the waist down, cheeks burning, heart beating so hard it’s making you lightheaded.

Joel tips his chin toward the floor. “Go on.”

Your stomach flips. You’re sure he can see it, the way your chest heaves, nipples pressing hard into the thin fabric of your top. Your hand drifts between your legs again, slow and shaky. Joel’s eyes follow every motion. Every tremble.

Your middle finger dips down and slides through your folds, slow. You let out a shaky breath. You brush over your clit, and twitch, hips jerking without meaning to.

“That’s it.” Joel nods, his hands clenched into fists. “See how easy it was, sugar? Feel’s good, doesn't it?”

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice threadbare. You’re rubbing yourself faster now, pressure building fast. “It feels so good, Joel.”

Joel groans at his name falling from your lips. “I bet it does. Bet you fucked your fingers into that tight little cunt while smellin’ me on the collar of that damn shirt. You nasty little thing.”

You nod, barely, lips parted as you circle your clit again, breath hitching on contact.

“I should spank your ass red for that,” he growls. “Should bend you over my lap like a fuckin’ child. You need discipline, don’t you?”

Your knees nearly give. “Joel. Please—”

He cuts you off again, gesturing lazily to where your hand disappears between your thighs. “Open her up. Let me see.”

You press two fingers between your folds, spreading them apart so he can see your glistening pussy, sticky and swollen from just a few strokes.

“Goddamn,” Joel groans, reaching down to adjust the thick shape of his cock hard under his jeans. “She’s fuckin’ drippin’. That for me, baby?”

You nod, lips slack as your thighs tremble.

“Yeah,” he drawls, stretching the word like out taffy between his teeth. “That’s real pretty.”

You moan at that. Loud and desperate. Your touch dip that much lower to push one finger inside. Then another, like you just can’t help yourself. You’re so wet there’s no resistance, your pussy welcoming them in like it’s done this a hundred times thinking of him. Slick drips down your thighs, shining under the light of the lamp.

Joel licks his lips slowly, deliberately. “Look at that.” He leans forward, pupils wide and dark as an oil spill. “Just a little rub like that, a little stretch and you’re already makin’ a mess.”

You whimper, hips rocking against your hand. “Joel, I—”

“Give yourself another finger. Show me how you take it”

You grind down onto your own fingers, mouth slack with soft moans that breathe to life before you can muffle them. You press in a third finger. The stretch burns, but you don’t stop. You’re panting now, skin dewy, hips jerking forward to meet your hand. Joel watches like a man starved.

He grins, smug and handsome and infuriating. “Yeah, three feels nice don’t it, honey?” He reaches out, his hand sliding up your thigh in one slow motion, lazy and unhurried through the slick. “Bet you could take my whole fuckin’ fist if you wanted it real bad.”

A pathetic little whine fills the air, more of a mewl than anything. It takes you a second to realize you’re the one making the noise, so desperate and gone from the tiniest amount of touch. It makes your walls clamp down harder around your fingers.

Joel sees. Joel knows.

And it’s all he needs to finally break.

“Come here,” he growls suddenly, jerking his head impatiently.

You scramble over, straddling him, bare thighs spread over his denim clad ones. Joel undoes his belt with one hand, the clink of the metal making your pulse trip. He pulls himself out of his soaked boxers, hard and straining, the rosy head drooling precome onto his shirt when it slaps up to rest against his stomach.

Your mouth falls open at the sight of it, flushed and big. Bigger than you’ve ever seen, outside of guilty late night porn searches. 

Joel chuckles darkly, taking himself in his hand. He strokes himself slowly, twisting his wrist over the head. “You think you can take all this?” he taunts meanly, dragging the tip through your folds, wetting himself with your slick. “You’re just a baby, sweetheart. You think you can handle this dick?”

You moan as he rubs himself over your sensitive clit, warm and wet. Your hips twitch down, desperate for more. Your pussy clenches around nothing, overwhelmingly empty.

He slaps your ass, hard. He kneads the tender skin in his rough hand after, dragging out the sting. “How old am I? Tell me, honey. Say it.”

You gasp, eyes screwing shut in embarrassment. “Fifty–ah! Fifty three,” you breathe, not looking Joel in the eye as you say it.

You can’t, not with the humiliation coursing through your veins like pure kerosine. It’s white hot, burning so bright, but it’s still not enough to stop your pussy from dripping sticky all over his cock like a broken faucet.

“Damn right,” he growls. “Old enough to be your fuckin’ daddy.”

Joel thrusts into you in one brutal push.

You scream. Your nails dig into his shoulders hard enough that you feel the thin material of his shirt straining under it. The stretch feels like it’s tearing you in two, like your fingers didn’t do anything to prepare you for his cock carving a place for itself inside you.

Joel kisses you, sucks the noise right off your tongue. He tastes like beer, like sweat and salt and something that’s only him. You moan into his mouth, your fingers threading into the soft hair curling at the nape of his neck.

He pulls back, a string of spit connecting your lips until it bends and breaks under the weight of gravity. “Come on, darlin’.” He slaps your ass again—once, twice—and you squeal, the burn sharp and perfect. “You wanted to fuck me so bad you couldn’t keep those thievin’ hands to yourself, huh? Well now’s your chance. Fuck me, give it to me good.”

You don’t ease into it, too worked to even think about starting slow.

You bounce on his lap like you’re possessed, thighs slapping, slick drenching his jeans. Joel groans with every roll of your hips, low and drawn out. He lets his head fall back against the couch, the tan column of his throat on display.

“Been waitin’ for this,” he pants. “Since the day you showed back up. Actin’ all grown. Look at you now. Cryin’ on my cock.”

You’re drooling. Dizzy. Brain turned to static as you ride him, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll bruise.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he growls, raising his head to watch you. “This pussy wasn’t made for boys your age. Needs a man to stretch it out. To ruin it.”

You whine, your pussy tightening around the throbbing length of his cock. Joel notices, of course he does.

His hands grip your ass, urging your hips up and down faster. “You like that, sweet thing? You like lettin’ an old man fuck you raw like this?”

“Yes,” you whine, tears burning at your water line. “I love it, want you to come inside me so bad Joel, fuck-”

“I know, baby.” Joel kisses your cheek, softly. Too soft, too tender. “You ain’t ever gonna want some college boy after this. You’re gonna be thinkin’ about how Mr. Miller fucked you open better than they could.”

Your moan is muffled by his fingers pushing between your slack lips, filling your mouth. You whine at the taste of yourself coating his skin, sucking obediently as he presses them down on your tongue.

“Gonna make you mine,” he pants. “Mine. No more sneakin’ around, no more stealin’ my shit—you want something, you ask for it like a big girl, and I’ll fuckin’ give it to you.”

You shake your head, babbling around his fingers. “Yes—yes, only you. I’m yours—”

You can feel your orgasm building deep in your belly, the coil of pleasure tightening and tightening until it threatens to snap.

Joel rips his fingers from your mouth with a dark growl, reaching back down to grip your ass again. He spreads you open, the cool air making you gasp. One finger, wet with your own spit, rubs over your rim. 

He doesn’t push in—just teases, circling, pressing, tugging—enough to make you clench and cry out as he starts pounding up into you. His hips lifting off the couch and filling the room with the loud noise of skin on skin as his balls slap against your ass with every thrust. Your pussy squelching around him with dirty, wet noises would make your ears burn if you weren’t so far gone already.

“You gonna let me play with this too?” he murmurs, lips brushing against your. “You lettin’ me train this hole next?”

That’s it. It’s all you can take.

You shatter with a scream, pussy squeezing so tight it makes Joel snarl and buck wildly up into you. He grabs your ass, choking out a strained string of  “fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He curses, pulls you down hard onto his cock one last time as he spills inside you, so deep you swear you feel it behind your ribs. His head drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as he comes and comes. 

It feels endless, spurt after spurt of hot spend flooding your walls until it’s forced to leak back out along the fever hot skin of his cock, slipping down his balls to drip onto the couch.

It’s filthy.

It’s obscene.

It’s exactly what you wanted.

You both lean into each other, breathless and spent as you come down. Sweat drips down your back, rolling down your spine as your hands stay buried in his hair.

Joel strokes your thigh lazily, still inside you, watching the mess drip down where you’re spread open around him.

“You’re stayin’ the night,” he says simply.

You can’t fight the tiny, secret smile you press against the sweaty skin of his throat as you nod wordlessly, thighs still shaking violently around his hips.

You’d never make it to the door anyway.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: what's so funny to me about this is that i didn't realize how much i actually missed writing for joel until i took a little mini break to work on my other frankie and harry fics like it’s so dramatic truly, but baby we’re so back! back and hopefully pissing off the joel age gap haters!

shoutouts to baby rylea for giving me the flannel idea cause this fic might have been lost without it. it was rescued from being just another abandoned wip and instead turned into a literal monster which was never supposed to happen but uh that's chill i guess…two fics over 10k words in one month? that’s literally unheard of over here. ALSO my first venture into ass play to spite @ebodebo and @yuenity sooo that’s fun. i love them both really LMAO

once again it's four a.m because i just can't function like a normal person. thank you to femme bot by charli xcx, pink red bull, and ofc my geeky bar for letting me power through and finish this mess. okay i'm done now sorry for talking so much, i just love yapping to you guys :(( thank you so much for reading, love you!

[pearwolf]

actually now that im making ear prosthetics im like tempted to pick up the femstarion cosplay again simply because ive never worked with silicone before and i'm about to have like a gallon of it + ear casts at my disposal and i am giddy with creation