#so it's all jumbled and vague

[chungledown-bimothy]

wait hang on what was lestat's goal in going to the "trial"? he has to have known that its purpose was to kill them. was it just so he could be there to hurt louis a bunch before saving him? there certainly are other ways to do that, ways that don't sacrifice claudia.

especially if he was then just gonna let armand take credit for the rescue.

i know he had issues with claudia, even before she instigated and did most of the work for their attempted murder, but his face as she burned... i don't know if i buy that he actually wanted her to die.

there's gotta be something i'm missing/not remembering. idk maybe he is actually just that terrible, which i'm not discounting. just unsure if there's another piece that's slipping my mind.

[mechahero]

@hopefromadoomedtimeline asked- 📖 Send "📖" for a page from my character's diary (no longer accepting!)

November 15th, 2024 (12:10 PM)

Sometimes I think about you. I wonder if you're okay. You probably are though. Mom and Dad always seemed to like you more. Maybe that was because you're louder. But still. Sometimes I wonder what happened to you when I was gone. Did they start treating you the same way they used to treat me? Do you finally understand me now? Or did things stay the same and the only thing that changed was how much better things got for you? If I know our mom and dad, then yeah, it probably did. I don't know.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm a bad person for leaving you there. I could have gotten you out of there and I just... didn't. I don't know if things would have been better with you here. I'm sorry.

I still kind of miss you sometimes. Isn't that kind of funny? I hope you're alright, Ebony. Despite all the shit you gave me. I wish I knew why. Maybe someday? I don't know anymore.

[griseldabanks]

Comfyvember 2

Story: The Four (original) Prompts: Favourite song — Holding hands — Walking and talking

Note: The first syllable of "Myrian/Myriath" is meant to be pronounced MEER, not MIRE.

The bed was soft, the blankets warm, the darkness eased by silver bands of moonlight that stretched across the floor through the wide open windows that let in the soothing rush and sigh of waves rolling onto the beach. And yet Timor could not sleep.

The boy sat on the low bench by the window nearest his bed, hugging his knees to his chest as he gazed out over the sea. The moon was only half-full, yet it limned the crests of the gentle waves as they curled over and tumbled back down into the black depths.

For once, Timor wasn't afraid of the darkness or his unfamiliar surroundings. His heart was too heavy for fear. Too numb.

Perhaps that's the answer I've been seeking, he thought with a sigh of bone-deep weariness. The key to courage is to be so wounded you can feel nothing more.

“That is the sigh of a man twice your age,” a voice said softly behind him.

Timor's heart didn't so much leap as give a feeble lurch of surprise. It helped that he instantly recognized Farawin's voice. He didn't look up as the Myrian crossed the room on softly slippered feet. “C-Can't sleep,” Timor mumbled, still staring out into the dark night.

“I thought as much.” Farawin stopped at his side, folding long-fingered hands that almost seemed to glow in the moonlight. “That is why I sought you out.”

“Even if you t-tuck me in, I won't b-be able t-to sleep.”

“I am not here to play nursemaid, my friend. But as long as we are both awake...will you walk with me?”

Timor looked up at him. Farawin's pale skin was luminous in the moonlight, the silvery scale-like patches of skin on his cheeks and neck shimmering in a way they didn't in full daylight. His long, golden hair had been washed and pulled back in an elaborate web of braids such as Timor hadn't seen since the first day they'd met. But unlike that day (so long ago it seemed), there was nothing but compassion and understanding in those sea-green eyes.

Farawin held out a hand. With another weary sigh, Timor took it and let his friend help him to his feet.

It wasn't until they'd passed quietly through the corridors of the Myrian palace and stepped out onto the main street that Timor realized Farawin had never let go of his hand. He didn't mind, though. It felt good to have something to hold onto.

There were few people out at this time of night, so for most of their midnight stroll, there was no one to stare at the elegant Myrian prince walking hand-in-hand with a scrawny, dark-haired human boy who walked with slumped shoulders and nibbled at the finely embroidered sleeve of the tunic he'd been given.

After a few minutes, Timor realized the white cobblestones of the main street of Myriath were fading away into a simple stone-lined path. “Where are we g-going?”

“To the Ash-Phanash.” Farawin pointed along the path they followed, which led to a round building on the edge of the cliff Timor had seen out his window. The dome shone white in the moonlight.

“What is it?”

“I think you would call it a temple,” Farawin said. “It is where we sing praises to the Great Eagle, and where we hold meetings and rituals. When the moon is full, singers pass in and out in shifts, so that the building is filled with unceasing song both night and day.” He looked down at Timor with a little smile. “But tonight, we shall have the Ash-Phanash all to ourselves.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence. The Ash-Phanash had no doors blocking the entryway, so they simply walked in through an archway made of marble or some other white stone. After passing through a dark passageway where Timor clung even tighter to Farawin's hand, they emerged in an enormous round room.

Far above their heads, the dome they'd seen before stretched like the sky above them. Seats rose in tiers all around them, carved from the same white stone and covered with small round cushions for people to sit on. There were no torches or candles to light the enormous room, but somehow it didn't seem dark and gloomy. There were windows all around, letting in the moonlight as well as the fresh sea breeze.

Farawin led the way to the highest tier of seats, and they settled down on matching red cushions near a window that looked back over Myriath in the distance. Timor was glad to get off his feet; he hadn't realized how far they'd walked. Not to mention that he was still recovering from their flight to the island.

Peace seemed to permeate the very walls of the Ash-Phanash. Timor closed his eyes, listening to the distant echoes of the surf crashing against the cliff far below. Something in his chest loosened. He opened his eyes again and looked up at Farawin. “D-Do you have any songs for-for...for when you've...l-lost somebody?”

The sorrow that had been swimming deep in Farawin's eyes now bobbed to the surface. “Yes,” he murmured. “Would you like to hear one?”

Timor nodded.

Instead of bursting into song then and there, Farawin got to his feet and walked back down to the center of the amphitheater, motioning for Timor to remain seated. When he finally got to the small dais they'd passed on their way up, Farawin turned to face Timor again. He looked very small and far away.

Putting a hand over his heart, Farawin opened his mouth, and a melody as pure and clear as moonlight poured from his lips, as distinctly as if Farawin still stood beside him. Timor couldn't understand the words, if words they even were, but he sat there and let them wash over him like the waves on the beach.

In fact, there was something to the music that was reminiscent of the ebb and flow of the tide, of the wind rustling the trees, of water lapping against a boat, of the swelling and diminishing of the moon.

Time rolled on. The sea was ever-changing, yet ever the same. Timor closed his eyes again, and felt something like peace fill his chest where before had only been pain.

[skibasyndrome]

So one thing I've always loved about uni/studying/learning new things is when you have different subjects or different tiny dots of knowledge and slowly, as you learn more and more, those tiny splashes of knowledge are becoming less isolated, and you realize that it's all connected and - at least with my subjects being in the humanities - you sort of “unlock” this new perspective on a certain aspect of the human condition. And like, that's fun enough and - if I'm being honest - probably my favorite thing about studying already as it is, BUT NOW, now that I've finally gotten back into writing as a hobby this is just ANOTHER dimension for me to expand that knowledge into and to use that knowledge for. And I am absolutely living for it. So happy to be back on my bullshit and so happy to be at a place in my life where these two passions of mine fit so seamlessly together and one passion benefits from the other and vice versa

[sleepy-vix]

throwback to when my teacher asked me what i would write about if i wrote a book and i told her it'd be a psychological coming of age with representations of ethnic issues and mental illness and she just looked at me blankly

[wainawtmai]

tags: 18+, toji x fem!reader, oral, semi-public, likely inaccurate representation of the divorce process (my bad), creampies, overstimulation, squirting, toxic themes

It shouldn’t be this difficult to get a divorce. Your relationship had become too strained, too toxic, it had to end.

But what didn’t soon-to-be ex-husband!toji make annoying and tedious??

Your first meeting after filing ends with you sprawled over the table, your legs on his shoulders, stilettos dangling from your toes in time with each thrust Toji made into you, the entire table rattling, paperwork scattered across the floor.

“FFuck, I hate you,” you mewled, but your words sound barely believable, all shaky and jumbled as you stifle your moans.

Toji gave you that annoying little smirk in response, the one you’d found endearing the first few months of your relationship before he became the most insufferable piece of shit you’d ever met.

“You sure?” He hums, punctuating his words with a particularly hard thrust that you can’t help moaning from, “‘don’t believe it when you’re dripping so much down here.” He brings a beefy hand to your pussy, lightly slapping at your clit and chuckling at your little whimper. “‘Feel how easily you take me?”

…After that you sped up your move out, no interactions meant no tension and an easier, less stressful divorce. Right?

Wrong. Your second meeting was with the attorney, a pretty brunette clad in a ridiculously unprofessional outfit. For fuck’s sake, her tits were practically out in the pathetic excuse for a blazer she had on.

And Toji spent the whole session flirting with her, accepting her light touches to his arm and biceps as she giggled and squirmed. Tossing her winks and smirks like you weren’t sitting right in front of him. Were you wrapping up a marriage or setting up a fucking date??

You didn’t overreact. Why would you? He could flirt with anyone he wanted, you were in the middle of getting divorced it didn’t matter, you didn’t care…

“Should I call her back?” You taunt, bouncing on Toji’s cock with a hand around his throat, “Make her see you all stupid from being inside me?”

“F-fuck you.” Toji groans, glaring up at you despite the way he trembled from overstimulation. His cock was practically numb as it slid in and out of your already cum-filled heat. He could barely move, barely breath, but he still mustered that smirk, “you’re so fucking pathetic—”

“Oh, shut the hell up, Toji.” You demand, grip around his throat tightening in tandem with your pussy, thighs slapping roughly against his. He let out a little growling whimper and you smiled, “You know you can’t fucking get off without me.”

Your third meeting starts fine, the two of you are listening to your consultant chat about shared expenses and whatever other legal crap you needed to worry about—

Then you feel Toji’s big hand on your thigh, and you already know what’s coming as he subtly shoots you that infuriatingly attractive grin.

You glare at him, but shift up your skirt nonetheless, letting your legs fall slightly open. More than enough room for him to slip his hand past the fabric of your skirt and underwear and rub his fingers against your already moistening pussy.

You suck in a shaky breath as his thick fingers fill you up, thumb toying at your clit. The consultant asks you a question and you manage a response, a tight lipped smile on your face as you white knuckle the arm of your chair through the pleasure.

He turns his attention to Toji and of course he gives a vague response, you take advantage of it nonetheless, sucking in deep breaths and grinding slightly on his fingers.

“I‘m fine with that” Toji hums, he turns and looks at you with a sadistic sort of glint in his eye, “but what do you think, hon?”

You can barely even glare at him. You were already close, the fucker knew your body, what places to press to drive you insane. Your thighs felt damp, Toji’s fingers thrusting in and out of you without a shred of remorse. His eyes were daring you to speak, demanding you.

“I think t-that makes sense.” You manage, your vision growing foggy. Your legs are trembling, and you’re convinced Toji was sent to earth to torture you. You allow your eyes to slide shut, hoping you can get away with your vagueness as you slowly rock onto his fingers.

But Toji slides a piece of paperwork in front of you, “Which part?”

Fuck you fuck you fuck you, “U-Um, I…” Fuck, you barely stifle a moan, you spare a glance at the consultant who seems none the wiser, well that’s a relief. You glance down at the paper in front of you, none of the legal bullshit making any sense, at least not now when you were gushing on Toji’s fingers and trying to stop your eyes from rolling into your skull. “I t-think—” Toji’s fingers slide along your sweet spot and you can’t hold back your whimper at the feeling. The consultant’s eyes widen in surprise.

“I-I’m sorry, I’m not feeling very well,” You try, your voice practically slurred. It’s useless though, the guy’s already uncomfortable, face flushed and hands folded tightly in front of him.

“W-Would you excuse me for a second?” He musters before bustling out of the room.

The door barely closes before you moan again, shooting a death glare to Toji. “You’re fucking ridiculous—” You barely finish your words before you’re cumming.

“Don’t be shy, finish your sentence.” He responds, pulling your chair closer to his with a leg. His lips ghost along your ear as you tremble and moan, spilling all over his fingers. He looks down at the mess you’ve made with a satisfied grin. “Or not.”

You’re too delirious from your orgasm to feel his fingers leaving yours, or him sitting you down on the table, your thighs all shaky and sticky. But you come too when you feel his tongue along the plush of your inner thigh, lapping up your juices, “C’mon, give me another, let’s give the guy a surprise.” You have no room to protest as his lips fasten around your clit.

By the time the fourth meeting comes around you guys are fucking with no shame. The two of you don’t even show up to the fifth meeting, you made the mistake of thinking you could drive there together…Toji bullshits some excuse while you ride him in the backseat.

The sixth meeting doesn’t even happen before the two of you give up, accepting that you’re really just a pair of horny fucks that like the thrill of fucking apart. And well, who else could satisfy you as well as your husband did?

[evie-sturns]

drunk - Chris Sturniolo

summary: you show up to you, and your boyfriend chris's home drunk after a girls night out. chris has to take care of you in your interesting... state.

contains: fluff, mentions of alcohol, vague mentions of throwing up, crying, swearing.

a/n: i wanted to do a little mature chris fic because i dont see enough of that, i hope you guys like this!!

--------------└─── °∘❉∘° ───┘---------------

tonight started as just me and 6 other friends at a club, before i left the house chris made it very clear i need to be home before midnight.

right now its 1:30 of the next morning, my friend grace is glued to my side as i cackle, watching her twerk on the dancefloor. i drag her to the bar, throwing back several more shots.

i'm not sure what time it is, or where the other 4 of my friends are but all i know is i should probably be getting home..

"graceee" i laugh, pulling out my phone and attempting to call an uber, all the text is jumbled. a girl walks by me, i grab her arm lightly and hand her my phone, "call me an uber please babe" i say to the girl, she smiles before handing my phone back shortly after,

"its coming in 10 minutes!!" she calls out over her shoulder as she walks away.

i drag grace out of the club as we laugh about nothing, the uber pulls up and we pile inside.

-

i stumble up the front porch of chris and i's house, swinging open the front door as it hits the wall with a bang, i let out a small laugh as my heels click against the wooden planks.

"chrissy!!" i yell out a stupid nickname, chris walks out from the bathroom, hes shirtless only wearing sweatpants, which sit dangerously low.

"where the fuck have you been!" chris says, his voice serious as he grips my wrist firmly.

"uh.. club? obviously," i say with an attitude.

"drop your tone, come with me." he says, pulling me down the corridor into his room.

"sit" chris says, dragging me over to the bed and gently placing me down on the end of his bed. he gets down on his knees and starts to undo the straps of my heels, pulling them off my feet. "ow christopher!! 'fuckin hurts." i whine, folding my arms

"do you know what time it is?" chris asks, "like 10pm? can you read a clock?" i reply with an eye roll, my tone slurred.

he stands up off his knees as he looks down at me on the bed, i look to the side, chris grabs my chin,

"look at me." he says, making me look up at him with the hand on my chin. he stares into my eyes,

i erupt into tears, "your mad at me and im really really sorry but i-.. i" i say as mascara starts to flow down my flushed cheeks.

chris shakes his head, closing his eyes "i'm not mad at you sweetheart." he says, picking me up off the bed and placing me on my feet,

"you wanna know what i think?" chris asks softly, i nod my head.

"i think you've had a bit too much to drink tonight, you think so too?" he says, putting my arms in the air and lifting my mini-dress up over my head,

he walks me over to his closet, pulling out a pair of my small pyjama shorts and one of his shirts, which pulls onto me.

"you look pale baby, do you feel sick?" chris says, speed-walking me into his bathroom to get off his carpet.

"yeah." i sniffle, he sits down next to the toilet on the cold marble tiles, he pulls me onto his lap where i stay on my knees.

all of the achohol i've had tonight exits my mouth into the toilet bowl, "there we are." chris says, stroking my hair as he holds it behind my head.

"good girl, your okay." he sighs, "at least all the shots are out now" he says, standing up and walking me over to the sink, leaning me over the sink and filling up his hands with water as a cup.

he pours it into my mouth with a small laugh, i swish it around before spitting it back into the sink.

"feeling a little better?" he asks, picking me up by my ass and taking me towards his bed.

"im sorry." i say, letting my head fall forward into his bare shoulder, "don't apologise, you throwing up all the drinks you've had is much better than keeping it in okay?"

i nod, he lays me down in bed before pulling the covers up over me. leaning over me as my eyelids grow heavy.

"chris.." i say quietly, my speech still slightly slurred, "yeah?" he replies "i'm sorry for being mean" i say, chris laughs,

"dont worry about it precious." he smiles, leaning down and pressing a kiss to my lips,

"chris!!! i've just been sick!" i say, pulling away.

[karikarasuno]

part five | part six | part seven

you indeed did not fuck the next time you and law were together. but it does feel like death is sitting patiently and wickedly at your doorstep. the room you wake up in is dark. thank god. because any sliver of light makes your head throb and your stomach churn.

mistakes were made last night, for sure. you blame luffy for the shots. the little shit doesn't even drink, but at some point you were downing tequila in an absurdly foolish attempt to keep up with zoro and sanji. it was dumb. but luffy liked to instigate the two of them and somehow everyone was always roped into the mess. consequences be damned.

you remember inviting law out with you. he had just gotten off from work, but you caught him unlocking his front door as you stepped out to walk chopper. excitement shot through your veins at the sight of him. you could probably overdose on that man if it was possible.

"you work tomorrow?" you call out from your lawn. he looks over at you and smiles. you feel it all the way in your toes.

"no," he says, propping his arm against his now open door.

"on call?" you make sure to ask, remembering vividly the mishap from before.

"nope," he answers, his smile stretching into something devilish and you nearly faint. god, how you want this man.

"good, we're going out tonight," you say, not offering because he would be joining you even if you had to drag him out the house yourself.

"where to? if i may ask."

"drinks with my friends." you keep it vague on purpose because your crew could get a bit rowdy sometimes and you don't want to scare him off.

"seems a bit forward, don't you think?" you know he's joking. poking fun at whatever relationship this is that you two share.

"i almost met your family pants less, i think going out with my friends is okay," you laugh, tugging chopper back to your side when he tries to chase a duck.

"what time should i come over to get you?" it's thoughtful. reminiscent of a date. he would be the type to pick you up. maybe even open the car door for you. and the question while innocent in nature sends a thrill of something arousing down your spine. the bar for men really is in hell if this is what turns you on.

"i'll be ready by 7." he was ringing your doorbell by 6:58pm.

"someone's eager." after that the night shuffles through your head in disorganized memories. like a film reel, but some squares are black and others are just so fucking blurry.

you remember introducing law to your friends. everyone was friendly. nami and sanji grilled him in this weird good cop, bad cop schtick they randomly decided to do. but it was more bad cop, annoying cop if you were being honest.

you remember flirting with him in a booth a couple drinks in. the bar was dark so you two were pretty secluded, thankfully. you don't think you could handle your friends witnessing how willing you were to throw yourself at him.

but after that, there's nothing. you don't remember getting home and when you try hard enough a sharp pain shoots through your temple and you groan miserably into the pillow.

"someone's finally awake," law's voice pierces through the pleasant silence and dread washes over you like a bucket full of ice cold water. what the hell is he doing here? you lift the blanket over your head to hide how horribly you know you look. attempting to save yourself from further embarrassment.

"what're you doing in my room?" your words are jumbled together and you're surprised he even understands you.

"this is my room, silly," he responds with a chuckle you can barely hear over the instant surge of alert mortification that floods your nervous system.

"no it's not," you argue, hoping and praying this is just some prank he's pulling since you were the one who started this whole breaking and entering scheme.

"look around, sweetheart," he says, suddenly much closer than he was before. you peek out over the top of the comforter. four-poster bed, heather gray black out curtains, and law. he's standing above you with a prescription bottle in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. black ribbed tank top hugging his torso and a pair of sweats hanging low on his waist.

you decide that you now hate him. why the fuck does he always look so good? it's just unfair at this point.

"why am i in your room?" your voice is rough from sleep and your throat is sore from how dry it is. even blinking hurts.

"i tried to take you home last night, but you refused to give me your house keys," he explains and you cannot believe you got that drunk. you're never drinking tequila again. "you said it would be more fun if we had a slumber party."

"oh lord," you complain, rubbing your temples with your thumb and pointer finger.

"take this," law says, and you hear the pills in the bottle rattle around as he pours a few in his hand. you hold out your open palm, refusing to look at him out of sheer defiance. really you're trying to save face.

you sit up when he hands you the open water bottle and even that action is a struggle. you're going to kill your friends the next time you see them. not that this is totally their fault. still you needed to spread the blame in the hopes that you can yell at them if law decides he never wants to speak with you again.

you chug down half of the water in a few large gulps. you're so dehydrated it's physically painful. a few drops of water drip onto your shirt and you absentmindedly swipe at them until it hits you that the shirt you have on isn't yours.

"law?" you question, you gaze finally sliding over to him. he hums in acknowledgement. "who's shirt is this?"

"mine," he gives you a small, sympathetic smile.

"why am i wearing it?"

"funny story actually," his smile grows less sympathetic and more... tickled. you hate him. you really really do. "i had to wrestle it onto you when you decided it was a good idea to strip down to your underwear."

"i did not." mortification is an understatement. humiliation is nowhere near severe enough to describe the feeling that's now burning through you.

"mhm, you said sleepovers are more fun naked," he laughs lightly. you're glad someone finds this situation humorous. because you’re about to dig a hole in your backyard and bury yourself in it.

"don't make that face," law pinches your nose between the knuckles of his fore and middle finger. it's annoying how cute he is because your face immediately un-scrunches from the gesture. "i thought it was adorable."

"me in the nicest lingerie i own is adorable to you?" you argue, irritated that you wasted your matching set on a night that law didn't even get to take it off you.

"no, the lingerie was very sexy," he leans in towards you, his thumb pressing into your brow bone to relieve some of the pressure that was there from your raging headache. your stomach flips at his words, even more agitated at how awful you feel when you should be climbing him. "you're just an energetic drunk and its entertaining. you're also really handsy."

you lean into his massaging fingers that are now kneading at your temples. you don't even want to answer him out of pure misery.

"i wish i could remember how handsy i got," you grumble, mopey and disappointed. you hear a light chuckle from him as his fingers travel to the soft spot behind your ears. law's hands are so perfect you're forgetting how bad you feel.

"nothing too scandalous. perfectly pg-13." he starts massaging your neck and a sigh of reprieve falls from your lips. bless him and his long fingers and his strong hands. actually you don't hate him anymore. you hate yourself for ruining the perfect opportunity to roll around for hours in these very sheets with him. fuck it all to hell, starting today you're gonna be sober.

"oh!" you just now remember your dog. on top of being a lousy drunk, you're also a horrible mother. "i gotta walk chopper!"

you wiggle away from his magical fingers reluctantly, yanking the comforter back to jump out of bed. you don't make it far though. law's hand finds you bare thigh to keep you in place.

"he's in the lanai. i got him when i woke up this morning when i realized you weren't waking up any time soon." he covers you back up with the blanket, tucking you in. "i stole your keys from your purse."

"and you fed him?" on top of law being a magician, he's also a saint. you think about proposing then and there.

"and," he pushes you so that you're laying down again, "i fed him."

"i think i'm gonna marry you," you say out loud, and completely on accident. but without his hands on you the headache has returned full force and the pain doesn't give you the time to regret it.

"go back to sleep," he scoffs throwing the blanket over your head. "you'll feel better when you wake up."

****

you wake up who knows how long later to the sound of nami's voice. but that can't be right because you're at law's house. still in his bed. and still in his shirt-- that thought makes you giddy. it is nami, though, you’d recognize her voice anywhere.

“thanks for taking care of her. we definitely over did it last night,” she says, her voice carrying a slight note of apology. which is unlike her.

“it’s really no problem. once she was in bed she knocked out.” you can’t believe nami is even here. your headache is thankfully gone only to be replaced with anxiety in your chest. “and thanks for the dinner. how much was it? i’ve got some cash.”

“no no! you don’t have to do that!” nami declines and you can almost imagine her hands waving in front of her in that way she does when she gets nervous. law really does have that effect. “that’s her favorite hangover food. just the right amount of grease.”

“you’re gonna clog her arteries,” law says and you hear the crinkling of a bag and you assume he’s looking through it. he’s such a dork.

“oh with you around i’d worry less about her arteries and more about-” she catches herself. you’re ready to smack her but she’s right. your arteries are perfectly fine.

law just laughs though. and you feel guilty for eavesdropping when you should announce that you’re awake. but you’re nosy and actually very comfy nestled in all of law’s bedding. so you’re hesitant to get up.

“you know,” nami starts, pausing for a brief moment. “well…”

“what is it?” law asks. you’re nervous. your pulse is picking up the pace and you can feel it thump in your throat.

“she really likes you,” she says quickly. next time you see her you’re definitely going to slap her. not that you hid it very well. but as a best friend there’s certain rules to abide by. telling the man you’re sort of sleeping with that you have feelings for him is definitely breaking one of those rules. “at first i thought it was some rebound after kid and i was rooting for her because you’re tall and successful and hot so of course i approved.”

something’s wrong with her. she must have lost her mind.

“but you should hear the way she talks about you. it’s kinda gross if i’m being honest.”

“i’m not sure how i should take that,” law’s voice is a funky mixture of confusion and amusement.

“i’m just saying if this is some fling to you save her the heartbreak. the break up was hard and seeing her like that made me contemplate murder, but she’s much more forgiving than i am.”

the silence that follows has you clamming up. you’re terrified because you don’t want him to end things. you don’t care about the repercussions. you just love spending time with him. kissing him. teasing him. law just makes it all so easy. and you refuse to give it up.

“that’s not something you have to worry about. as much as i appreciate the threat,” he pauses when nami releases a breathy laugh, “i have no intentions of hurting her. i... really like her too."

your heart soars. it flies right out of your chest. assuming his feelings were reciprocated is one thing. but knowing it-- that's an entirely different sensation. it's tingly, bubbly, fuzzy. you almost kick your feet and squeal.

you have to contain yourself when you hear nami leave the house. you have to contain yourself further when you hear law's steps approach the bedroom. you don't want to give away the fact that you've been awake the last few minutes. and that you overheard a conversation that you probably shouldn't have. you don't regret it though. especially not when law's hand finds your shoulder and gently shakes you.

"hey, you," he whispers, leaning over so that you can feel his breath fan over your cheek. "nami was nice enough to bring over some food for you, so why don't you wake up and eat something?"

you turn around, blearily looking up at him. he's smiling softly above you. his face is relaxed, his eyes are fond. and unfortunately while your heart flies, you feel yourself beginning to fall for him. it's overwhelming.

you reach out to him, your fingers fisting in his tank top and you pull him towards you harshly. he isn't expecting it. so he falls on top of you with an umph of surprise.

"you need to eat," he says as he tries to escape your grip, but it's fruitless. you won't let go. you wrap yourself around him until he lying beside you. and he's laughing at your clinginess. you feel his laugh rumble against your body and you nuzzle your face into his neck. refusing to release him even when he tries to force space between you.

"come on," he urges with a hand on your waist, rubbing gentle circles into your side. "you've been lazying in my bed all day. i'm sure you're hungry."

"just five more minutes," you plead. "stay with me like this for five more minutes, please."

his whole body finally relaxes next to you. both of his arms, strong and thick and secure, cradle you to him. he kisses the top of your head. the world fades into nothingness because in that moment law becomes everything to you.

"ok," he agrees, "but i'm only giving you five."

part eight

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

The need to create is killing me, so here's something I wrote on my phone during my lunch break

Ford muttered as he worked, holding a piece of chalk firmly in his hand as he wrote out a string of numbers and symbols on the chalk board. He'd been at it for what felt like hours, writing and erasing and rewriting as he realized the numbers didn't make sense and the answer kept changing and-

Between one blink and the next the board was clear of everything. His chalk hit it where he'd been about to write.... something, and he stared with growing horror as he realized he'd have to redo it all. The horror turned to confusion as a shaky S started to appear, as if drawn by an invisible hand. It was followed by another, then another, until the whole board was filled with S's.

With a sigh he dropped the chalk, letting it disappear as he looked up at the smiling axolotl peering down at him from over the edge of the chalk board.

"Stanley," he said, glaring at his brother, "we talked about this."

"Did we?" Stan asked, swimming down through the air to twist around him. "What did we say?"

"That there are better ways to make yourself known then giving me a heart attack."

"Hmmm. OK." Stan swam until he was in front of Ford, then stuck out his tongue and tilted his head, "Hey! It's me!"

He did a flip, then swam around Ford again, not a care in the world. It would have infuriated Ford, if he didn't already know Stan couldn't help it. While Ford was now very much aware of his dreaming state and himself, they'd found that Stan seemed to forget everything about himself when he did this, only vaguely aware that he was dreaming at all.

"Hello Stanley," Ford said, bringing up his hands to cup the axolotl and hold him closer, "Did you want something?"

"Oh yeah! I did!"

Between one blink and the next Ford found himself sitting in a fishing boat, wearing fishing gear and a hat, pole already in his hands. Above was a pinkish orangish sky, full of puffy blue clouds, and a pitch black sea of distant twinkling stars below. Across from him was Stan, now the same size as him and wearing a vest and bucket hat with a line of S's sewn in, holding a similar pole and tail wiggling happily.

Fiddleford was also here, wearing a black bucket hat with a jumbled rubiks cube sewn on. He looked very confused.

"Let's go fishing," Stan said, reeling in his line, "it's been ages since I've been fishing."

"I'll see of we can rent out a boat when the weather gets warmer." Ford promised, pulling his hat down to see what Stan had given him. A sun looked back, wearing sunglasses. Not scientifically accurate but it was a dream, so he put it back on without fuss.

"Whats happening." Fiddleford said, looking around in terror. Ford frowned, then squinted at him. He thought that perhaps Stan had pulled his image from Fords subconscious, but maybe not.

"We're fishing," Stan said unhelpfully, reeling his line in all the way to reveal an asteroid on the end. Stan pulled it loose and dropped it into a bucket in the middle of the boat, then cast his line again, whistling happily.

"Stanley, is this the real Fiddleford?" Ford asked, setting his pole down and leaning forwards, "because if so, then-"

"Of course I'm real!" Fiddleford interrupted, looking offended, "this is my dream, why wouldn't I be!"

"Because this is my dream. Or at least it was." Ford frowned at Fiddleford as his friend opened and closed his mouth, then turned to Stan, who had caught an icy comet and dropped it into the bucket, "Stanley, who's dream is this?"

"Hmm? Uh," Stan tilted his head, making the frills on each side flop charmingly, then shrugged "its a dream. Hey do you know how to do color puzzles? I tried to do this one, but it just hurt my head."

Stan gestured to Fiddleford, then recast his line, kicking his little feet and going back to humming, as unhelpful as ever.

"There you go," Ford said, turning back to Fiddleford, "it's a dream. Possibly Stanley's, that he's pulled us into. To go fishing."

"I like fishing, nice and relaxing."

"It can be," Ford frowned at the endless night sea, leaning over and frowing at the lack of reflection, "although I'm far to intrigued to be relaxed. I wasn't aware you could visit others like this. Have you been visiting Fiddleford the last week? Is that why I haven't seen you?"

"What?" Fiddleford asked, still looking confused and slightly outraged, "what's going on."

[evilwetbread]

so i've got a LOT of thoughts about ENA: Dream BBQ, and I mean a lot. Most of them right now pertain to ENA and her two sides, cause I've noticed a lot of interesting things about them. :) wordwall incoming

SPOILERS FOR DREAM BBQ OF COURSE!!!

Starting with Salesperson, I thought it was an intriguing detail how a lot of the characters she interacts with comment on her weird way of saying things. A lot of these comments suggest that ENA is just spouting word salad with no real meaning, some even going as far as to suggest that ENA can’t actually comprehend her own objectives. Salesperson (imo) DOES seem to have a lack of true direction, and an inability to fully comprehend reality- she has a vague way of describing her objectives, frequently uses idioms that make zero sense, and has a general lack of visible emotion beyond advertising and polite/transactional small talk. She takes jobs and missions without questioning their merit. It’s like she has never experienced the world any other way. Meanie, on the other hand, seems to be the opposite. While she really does live up to her name, a lot of her anger seems to root from genuine stress. She’s far more aware.

There were several points in the game where she looked to me like she was at the very end of her rope- and a lot of the moments where things got weird or unnerving seemed to involve her (the weird cuts/flashbacks?? to the Bullet Rain from the trailer during her interaction with that shop machine, the whole post-death segment where we play as a hungover human version of ena who seems to be meanie-dominant, and i mean I can't go w/o mentioning the whole Purge Event). She says things so bluntly not because she's a "meanie" archetype, but because she is genuinely frustrated with both her own job, and how this world seems to mock her constantly. She acts, and reacts, far more lucidly than her counterpart. (Not entirely lucid of course, but she hates all the bullshitting that the entities around her tend to do and tolerates it far less) My assumption about this version of ENA and her two parts before the game released was always that they would function a lot like the original ENA did, with two over exaggerated emotions constantly butting heads. But this dynamic really took me by surprise!! It's like Meanie is ENA's raw thoughts and feelings, and Salesperson is this filtering agent that jumbles things up and mellows her out. Salesperson reminds me a lot of how our own brains process things in dreams most of the time, where we accept utterly ridiculous things as par-for-the-course(we did see a lot of this with Happy ENA in s1 too) and I think there's a LOT more to ENA than meets the eye in that regard. There's a lot more emphasis on Meanie’s feelings and emotional instability than there ever is on Salesperson's. She knows more than she lets on.

It's also really interesting to me that no one ever takes mercy or pity on her- even allegedly all-powerful entities like Theodora(the Lonely Door's Genie) treat her like she's the bottom of the barrel. Is being ENA just a curse? An entity made to labor perpetually, and bear the burden of other people’s mistakes, unable to permanently die and unable to actually succeed without sacrificing herself over and over in the process? Are the two emotional states a buffer to prevent her from truly understanding the reality of her situation???

I have a lot of questions, and something tells me that once the full story is concluded, very few of them will be answered lol. Wouldn’t have it any other way though. This game was worth the wait

[writella]

The Confession

Synopsis: Confessions shared with the wrong person gone so sinfully right.

Details: rick grimes x reader, afab!reader, smut—masturbation, unprotected sex, riding, both rick and reader being desperate in the dark. I made the exact reason for the confession and occasion very vague. 18+, wc: 2.6k. Proof read, but there might be some errors.

A/N: Not sure how much I like this one, but I had this idea back in early October and I wanted to finish it and give you guys something after a whole month.

I miss you, I’m sorry. Hope you’re all well!! With love from writella. ♡

Your voice is solemn and heavy as you sigh before starting, “I don’t do this very often,” you say, “I hope this is okay.” Your eyes lowering shamefully as you stop. It’s only the first sentence and you’re finding it hard to continue. It’s almost as if there are needles piercing into your throat. “I just feel so embarrassed,” you admit.

Then you pause.

No response from him comes after.

Only silence fills the dark and hallow space of the wooden confession box. Only your thoughts, every creak you made on the built-in bench, and the light wind that rustled from the cracked door were heard.

You wait a second longer.

Hoping.

But still, nothing.

Part of you was suspecting that Gabriel would have been more inviting, telling you it’s okay; and doing so with his kind and gentle voice, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t doing anything it seemed. You only saw the silhouette of his face when you walked inside— the outline of a nose and mouth, really. He seemed to be sitting as far from the small barred window as he could, but you didn’t dare look again. You didn’t even turn on the light fixture in the corner. Your fear was all too big, and his unwavering quietness made it worse.

Maybe you had come at the wrong time, maybe you interrupted him. You almost wanted to ask. But maybe confessions happened in complete silence… you didn’t know anymore, but at this point, you were hoping so. You had already wasted five minutes and managed only one sentence. Perhaps he heard the fear in your voice and was just trying to be a good listener… yes, maybe, you pretend as you urged yourself to start again:

You breathe in sharply, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” The words come out in an uneasy, hushed whisper. “It happens a lot and I know it’s wrong. And you’re probably going to look at me differently after this, but I have to tell someone so I can stop.”

Your eyes screw shut, the next phrase coming out jumbled and continuous as you try to explain yourself quickly: “I’ve journaled about it and told myself it’s wrong but it’s not helping.” You start to weep, almost laughing at yourself, “I feel so stupid.”

You sigh and you almost think you hear him do so too, but you keep going.

“I’ve been thinking about someone,” you finally say. “For a long time. And I know it’s bad, I know it, but I do it anyway. It's all I think about.”

Another pause.

You catch your breath.

You wait.

But nothing.

So, you start again.

“I think I love him sometimes.” And if you couldn’t get any more timid, your cheeks flush, and your voice grows quieter, “I like his hair, and his eyes, those button-downs he always wears…” you smile at yourself, these were silly things, “Even his beard.”

And then you hear him shuffle, and a light sound is emitted.

It startles you, but silence ensues again thereafter. Maybe you imagined it.

“I like his kindness too. People would usually say strong or giving, but that’s what I like to tell him— that he’s kind. I think he’s kinder than other people give him credit for. He’s just protective. Everyone, and especially himself, we put a lot of pressure on him to make the hard decisions, but, really…” and there it is, “that's not the only way I think about him. There are things–” your throat tightens again– “ things that I think about. And things that I do.” Your eyes screw tight as you force yourself to say it, “I touch myself.”

Another bout of silence comes before the question.

One you’d never suspect.

“Can you describe it?” The voice asks, dark and curious.

The cool spring air of the night turns cold, but it adds no relief to the summer heat that burns in your heart as it begins to beat painfully. The texture in his voice, the inflection at the end that lined the sentence as a request, it rings through one ear and out the other and back again in a cycle.

You knew who it was.

“What?” You shriek so lightly as if playing dumb would help you now. He knew who you were talking about, you made it so desperately obvious.

“Can you,” he repeats steadily, “describe it?”

“I… shouldn’t.”

“What other better time could there be?” You can’t tell if he truly means it. His voice remains firm and lets out no hints of his true intentions, but despite doubt, you start anyway. He’s right after all, you’re in here because there hasn’t been a better time.

“I- I start by touching up my thighs, trailing up slowly… I always get so nervous… I never do it fast because I know I shouldn’t do it while thinking about you- about him,” you correct yourself, squeezing your thighs together, your hands gripping the bench tightly.

“But you do it anyway.”

“I do,” you reply meekly.

“You can’t help yourself, can you?”

“I can't.”

“What happens when you finally reach all the way up?”

“Gotta touch myself.”

He puts his hands on his knees, making sure his voice stays leveled. “Where do you start?”

“Rubbing my clit.”

“Do it.”

And then you do. You truly can’t help it. Your fingers slide down your hips to the front of your heat, chilly fingers pressing up against your lips over your underwear.

He hears the little sigh as you finally allow your finger to reach your clit in between.

“How does it feel?”

“My fingers are cold right now, so,” a quick breathy laugh leaves you, “ good, really good.” You rub your fingers in slow circles, but your hand and hips jerk, forcing you to speed up, but you try, try to not seem so pathetic to yourself as if there was any attempt at going back now.

His voice’s a slight strain as he asks, “And what do you think about?” He starts to rub his thighs, feeling his cock stir to the side of his jeans, making the material feel tighter than it truly was. His fingers trail closer, knuckles brushing against his erection. He’s pretending like he can stop himself too. “What does he do in your head, sweetheart?”

“He watches,” you say as your movements speed up again. You really can’t help it now, his voice edges you on. Your hand goes under the band of your underwear, fingers collecting wetness below to bring up to your clit, “He’s standing at the edge of the bed,” you tell him, “he’s unbuttoning his shirt, and then he starts taking off his belt… He’s smiling.”

If only you knew that hearing how bad you wanted him was making him do the same thing on the other side.

You’re panting now, one foot comes up to the bench as you slide yourself over to press your back into the corner of the wall, your head tilting back as well, using the assistance to grind into your hand. “He thinks I’m pretty.”

“That's cause are.” He’s lowered his pants now and takes his cock out from under his boxers. Your words make his mouth gape and his eyes close as he begins to stroke himself. “You really are.”

His smile fades as he bites down on his lip lightly. You’re so needy for him and so desperate to admit it. It makes him feel powerful. Almost God-like, despite you both starring as the other’s tempter. So sweet and sinful the sounds you’re making are. How could he not give in? How could he not make you wet for him even at church and stroke his cock as it happens? You’re making it so easy with every whine and little moan you try to withhold. He could hear you getting restless, but he wants to make you want it more, “Keep goin’,” he tells you. “What’s happening now?”

“I put two fingers in,” you whine, “not big enough. Never enough.”

You let your two fingers stay inside you as you press your palm down on your pussy, rubbing your clit with the underside of your hand. You stop for a moment to take off your pants and underwear entirely, discarding it on the floor before you return to your spot. You put one leg up on the bench as you continue to finger yourself.

“I want him so bad.”

“How bad, sweetheart? What would you let him do?”

“Anything, Rick.” You say it louder than you intend, you’re losing yourself. “Anything for him.”

“Anything?”

“Everything.”

After that only nonsense comes out, simple sounds of desire and pleads. It was becoming too much to talk.

Rick felt the same. His hand on his shaft made quick and short movements, his lips parted and pink, more red on the bottom than the top from when bit his lip again at the words anything and everything for him. He repeated it in his mind, listening to your sweet little whines in the present. His head tilts so far back that it bangs on the wooden wall and he hisses.

It reminds him to compose himself.

Even after you let out another moan of his name, and he swears he could almost hear just how wet you are now, the squish of your fingers going in and out, louder and louder.

He swallows hard and takes a breath before he says, “What if I say I want you in here right now?”

That’s when your movements completely stop. You can hear the wind swirling again. You were speechless.

He turns to the netted window. You two can’t see each other but you know he’s looking. “C’mere.” He says slowly. “Now.”

And after that, your body takes control. Swift and instantaneous you move from your door to his, shutting it hard. You don’t even take a moment to look at him, it was too dark anyway, and that’s not what mattered. You’ve already dreamed of his curls, and the pierce of his blue eyes. You knew what he looked like. It’s time to know how he felt.

Rick takes off his shoes and fully lowers and discards his pants. Before he could even consider his shirt, you’re on top of him. You’re kissing his face, your lips and tongue missing his lips by just a little, but it doesn’t matter.

You begin to rock, your wet pussy making the length of his cock and thigh slick before it's even inside of you. You couldn’t help yourself and it makes him laugh, all cocky and proud. Something that you’d cross your arms to, even quip back at in any other situation but right now, it’s so fucking hot.

His hands latch onto your hips, his legs slide back to hit the wall. He raises your frame and you grab him. Your sticky fingers lace around his dick and then you both lower yourself down onto him.

You try to bottom out fast, but his nails dig into you, slowing you down. Your face reaches back with a pout and a whine as he says, “Wait,” even after he’s inside of you.

Your pussy quakes around him. You’re both trying to hold it together, but he’s faring much better than you.

His hand holds your jaw, thumbs caressing your cheeks and a tear falls from your eye, all the sensations becoming too much.

His eyes trail the sight as it rolls down and he tells you, “You’re right. I do think you’re beautiful.”

And he kisses you. Tongue slipping past your lips just as quickly as they depart, going to whisper in your ear: “Go on now,” he smiles, “show me everything.”

You begin to rock against him instantly. Initiating the kiss this time, your tongue slips into his mouth but his goes on top of yours. He grabs the back of your neck, deepening it, and you continue to take charge below as you ride him.

You squeeze around his cock tightly with every movement forward and you hear a strangled groan come out of him as his dick twitches at the sensation.

It makes you moan so loudly, you could wake somebody up.

But it doesn't matter.

You could even come right now just from feeling him inside you for the first time.

And it doesn’t matter.

“I've wanted you for so long, Rick!” You tell him.

He’s all that matters.

“You’ve got me.” He tells you breathlessly, kissing down your neck with his hand tugging on your hair. “You always could’ve.”

Now you know you’re all that matters too.

Your head tilts to the side, eyes closed, and mouth open for each pretty sigh and slight hiss that come out as he bites and kisses.

His hands lower to the hem of your shirt and he pulls it off. You start to undo the buttons on his too.

It’s fast and rushed and messy, but now your chests can meet. You press into him. Your hips are rocking hard. Your clit meets his pelvic bone making you whine and moan again. “Really good,” you say.

Rick’s hands slide to grab your ass, helping you go faster until they rise to your hips again. His thumbs press into the crevice of your hips and legs and he starts to bounce you on him.

You grip onto his arms, assisting him in his efforts. Your eyes are still closed, you’re smiling— already in a state of bliss, yet relishing in the fact that he was pushing you further and further into the dream-like feeling that was to come: your orgasm was close, and the string of airy moans made it evident to you both.

The way his hands move to caress your waist, trail up your back, roll over your arms, and back down again feels like gliding on ice. You felt him everywhere.

“Come on,” he tells you.

“I'm trying, I want to.”

“I know,” he affirms. He takes hold of your upper arms, letting his hands slide down to yours that tightly gripped his biceps and placed them on his shoulders.

You bounce yourself down on him harder, switching it up to rock on him and give your clit attention, then repeat it again.

Once you’re back to bouncing Rick takes one hand on your hip, helping you go faster while the other rubs your clit as vigorously as he can.

Your mouth is open wide, pants and squirms, and pleads coming out wildly. You almost feel like you’re making the whole box jump along with you as you bounce, and bounce, and bounce, and then… there it is: you shout his name and he speaks back to you, you both come together and ride out your high.

A glow emits as you smile, your head crashing into his as you catch your breath.

Then a noise erupts.

The church door closes.

Steps become louder and louder until they reach the open confession box door.

Rick puts his finger to your lips, silently quieting you both. Your eyes are owl wide knowing what the person in the next section would find in there. You almost squirm but Rick slots his finger into your mouth to stop it. “Quiet,” he mouths as the person next to you drops the wet garments they just touched, almost running out of the place as fast as they could.

You lower your face to his shoulder. Embarrassed, you sigh, “What are we gonna do now?”

Rick is unfazed: “Well,” he starts, picking you up by the hips, securing your legs as you wrap them around him, “we could do this one more time.”

He locks the church door and then walks you down the aisle and onto the podium, placing you gently on the ground. He’s standing above you. Just like it all your daydreams.

It was his turn now.

[isagispuzzle]

you fall in love with yukimiya like the first snow: slowly, softly, silently.

you don't remember exactly when you started to like him. it must have been the way he would say good morning to you with a smile everyday without fail, or the way he would patiently wait for you to pack up after school to walk to the subway station together, or the little things he would give you after receiving them from his modelling gigs; at some point, yukimiya had melted the walls surrounding your heart and burrowed deep within it.

you rehearse for weeks and wait till the last day before the winter vacation to confess to him. since he doesn't have soccer training, you can ask him to take the long route home, and at the quiet bridge that no one ever passes by, you can tell him how you feel. what's more, if he turns you down, you can spend the two weeks away from him to recover from the embarrassment. it's a perfect plan.

except, yukimiya doesn't wait for you after school that day. he isn't even in the classroom when you're done packing, so you ask around and find out that another girl had asked him to go somewhere else with her. she must be confessing to him, you hear your classmates giggle.

you spot yukimiya and the girl in the courtyard on your way out of school. yukimiya says something, and the girl forces her lips into a tight smile. then, before you could look away, yukimiya glances at you. his eyes lock on you as if he knew you were there, and he smiles. he bows slightly to the girl and jogs towards you with light footsteps.

he falls into step with you, as he always does, and apologises for making you wait. you study his smile, carefree and innocent as if he hadn't just broken a girl's heart, and you second guess your plan. perhaps two weeks wouldn't be enough to get over the rejection.

your plan further falls apart when yukimiya asks to take the shortcut to the subway station, because he's meeting some friends for soccer and dinner. yukimiya tells you all about the most recent gig he had as you walk, but barely anything registers in your jumbled brain.

the first snowflake falls when you pass by the convenience store, so you and yukimiya stop to savour the moment. everyone around you slows down to admire the first snow of the year. just as unpredictably as the arrival of the first snow, your feelings spill from your lips.

everything falls so silent that you almost think you can hear the snow absorb the sounds of the world. you're vaguely aware of the glance a passerby gives you when he overhears your confession, but what you're focusing on is yukimiya. his eyes are wide, but not shocked. you recognise his expression and think, oh, he's been waiting for this.

like a plum blossom, a smile blooms across yukimiya's face. he takes your hand, freezing from both the weather and your nerves, and puts it into his pocket. his touch kindles the fireplace in your chest, and his gentle words envelop you like a warm blanket.

[carmenized-onions]

Doing Too Much. | House Call

logline; Appliances can reach their breaking point, when you push them too far. Same goes for people.

[!!!] series history, this is the sixth; First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth

[New Thing!!] Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin' added to.

portion; 4.8k

possible allergies; eatin' meat, besides that, we're pretty good actually. did somebody say calm before the storm....?

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader (no pronouns, but girl is said a couple times, i believe.)

After this chapter, I'm entering my era of couch hopping as I move to a new city n start a new job. I'm really excited for the chapter after this one, so hopefully I actually get time to write it-- But that's just my lil warning if you're left rereading for like two weeks </3 But I'll def be stalking my activity/inbox so please do yap to me

Monday morning. The next morning after everything. Well, closer to noon than morning, at this point. You’re supposed to have, what, a work ethic this week? After the most insane weekend of your life? No. You’re lazing around and doing fuck all. No matter who calls. Well… Not completely no matter, but like, most people.

When you check your phone, you’ve gotten a text at 6:43 A.M. Unknown number. Ah. Carmen. You put him in as Carmy, and put his nickname as ‘Mister New York’. Listen, old nicknames Mikey ingrained in your brain die hard.

It’s a simple text, deeply un-romantic.

‘Connections Puzzle #342’

Then, four lines of four perfect categories. Flawless. Purple first, even. The hardest category. And then,

‘Morning’

Stupid. Incredibly stupid, to be enamoured, by this. You reply,

‘Good morning!’

‘Connections Puzzle #342’

And then a failed jumble of coloured squares, you get one out of four categories. What the fuck is 'dogleg' and since when has it meant taking a sharp turn? You follow that up with,

‘Fuck you.’

Aside from Carmen, you’ve actually gotten texts from a couple people. Your boss at Eden’s asking if you’re alright. What the fuck did Cicero say? Oh well. You tell him you’ve ‘been better, been worse. Will be okay by next week.’ Perfectly vague, and you still get wired your cheque and tip out. Alright, maybe Uncle J does deserve your free labour.

Speaking of, the next text on your itinerary is from Uncle J, just info for the winter nuptials of Vinnie and Mira. Oh yeah. Three-hundred guests, you remember that part. You also remember him saying it’d be an ‘easy gig’… He did not mention you’d be the only bartender. This is going to be a nightmare. Oh well. You text back that despite it being an open bar you get to put out a tip jar. He just reacts to it, ‘haha’. That sounds like a yes to you.

And then, adorably, a selfie from Syd, wearing the collar and pins you’ve gifted her, under a green sweater. Cutie. You hype her up accordingly.

Besides some texting though, Monday is relatively unbusy. No calls. No emergencies. No businesses knocking down your door for your services. You’re thankful for a break, letting the inertia set in, finally being able to relax after fix after fix after—

Tuesday comes, you get sent another perfect round of New York Time’s Connections around half past six in the morning, along with a good morning text. And again, you fuck it up. You send him your Wordle results this time, as an act of rebellion. You then ask,

‘How’s reworking the menu going?’

‘Hard to say’

‘Ask me tomorrow’

God he’s an awful texter. Horrifically dry. You know you’re down bad beyond a belief when you find that endearing. You spend Tuesday drowning and pruning your plants after depriving them for so long.

Plus working on your art piece for Carmy. You’re pulling out old film photos, a canvas, and a load of bleach—It’s like high school art class all over again— Surprise surprise, the handyman who loves to up-cycle is a mixed media artist. Who could’ve guessed?

While trimming a photo, an exterior of The Beef, a picture frame on your wall falls down behind you, you tut, turning your head to it, chastising the air. “Mikey! It’s a copy, relax! I’ve still got the original print…”

There’s every chance you’re insane— No, you’re definitely insane. But you’re allowed to be, your best friend died, you’re allowed to talk to the air as if he’s still around. Sometimes the timing of doors swinging open for you and things falling down are just too uncanny to not be a ghost.

Wednesday arrives, and again, just after 6:40, Connections results. And the Wordle, this time; plus a ‘Good Morning’. It looks like this is simply just your thing, now. Every morning, the second both of you get up, you send each other puzzles and wish a good morning. You don’t mind that. It’s nice to have a ‘thing’, with someone. With Carmen.

Part way through the day, around two o’clock, you get another text. Two, actually. From Carmen, in quick succession.

‘Are you busy?’

‘Don’t worry if you’re busy. Can call Fak’

You’re quick to reply, frankly deeply offended.

‘Are you fucking firing me????’

‘I’m gonna get ready. Text me details’

While getting dressed, you watch three dots bubble, bubble, bubble… He’s taking forever, just don’t look at it, you’ll get anxious for no reason. No jumpsuit today, you’ve got to switch it up every now and again. Navy cargo pants with the perfect number of pockets and zippers, and an orange Chicago’s Kindest shirt, tucked in. Hm. Looking in the mirror, hickey is still there. Lighter, but there. Foundation? No. You’ll sweat it off and that’ll just bring up more questions. If Syd asks you’ll just tell her you fell down the stairs… On your neck. She's not the type to confront anything remotely sexual anyways.

Speaking of Syd, before Carmen can text you back, she calls you, which is fair— Don’t leave a Carmen to communicate. You stick your phone in the crux of your neck and answer while you pack your utility belt. This feels nearly nostalgic. “What’s fucked?”

Carmen is in the background; you can hear the tail end of a sentence, grumbling. “—Don’t call—”

“My life.” She responds without missing a beat. “And also, Carmy’s stove and oven.”

“Oh.” You squint. “What the fuck happened?”

“Overuse? I actually don’t fucking know, it just stopped working. We plugged it in and out— He even reset his apartment’s breakers. I dunno what’s wrong with it. It’s probably got something to do with him putting his fuckin’ jeans in there.”

“…He what?”

You can hear him in the background, again, clearer this time, grimacing, “What are you doing to me?”

Syd does not mind him at all, continuing, “I know! He’s fucking weird!”

“He’s extremely weird.” You like him a lot. “I’ll be over soon, were you guys like, mid-cooking?”

“Yessir.”

“Christ, alright… I think I have a dual burner hot plate laying around somewhere, you want me to bring it—”

They both speak clearly this time, together, “Please.”

You’ve got a pile of things to give to them anyways, and maybe you miss Carmy’s face. Just a little.

Instead of just buzzing you in, Carmy comes down for you. When he sees you through the door window, carrying a cardboard box, he almost breaks into a full run. He’s somehow opening the door, grabbing the box from your hands, and chastising you all at the same time. “You should’ve left it in the car, I would’ve—”

You step in through the entryway and kiss his cheek, cutting him short. You can’t help yourself, it’s the first time you’ve seen him since and you feel like a giddy teen. The teenage girl in your head is no longer just in your head, she’s fully manning the station. “You’re very sweet. But it’s also not heavy.”

When he continues to be frozen, the regret starts to mount, “Is—Sorry, is that okay to do—?”

“It’s very okay to do.” He manages to reply, with haste. Nodding to himself. “It’s good.” He nods again, then marches off, expecting you to follow to the elevator. You do.

“What floor?”

“Eighth.” He sniffs; you press the button. He stands next to you, looking you up and down. He astutely observes. “Orange.”

“Yeah.” You smirk, looking back at him, “Turns out, businesses can have two colours in their designs.”

What’s a little roasting of fellow small businesses between two not just friends?

“Oh yeah?” Coy, smirking. Oh no. You’ve gotta get the teen off the controls. He tilts his vision to stare at your jacket. Ah. You opted to wear your Carhartt instead of his jean jacket.

“Didn’t wanna give Syd more questions.” She already guessed you’re a sugar baby, you don’t want to wrap Carmen in on that too. Especially since ideally in a month or two he’ll be your boss. Hm. The Bear is going to need an HR.

He hums, nodding. “We’re not telling Syd?”

“What’s there to tell?” You grin, crossing your arms. “You suddenly have free time, Bear?”

He takes a beat, thinking, then just takes a deep frustrated yet amused exhale. “I’m gonna fuckin’…” He can’t think of a threat. “…Get you.”

You snort, “You’re gonna get me?”

“Fuck you—!” “You’re gonna fuckin’ get me, Bear?”

“I—” He tries to hold a straight face, it doesn’t work. “Yeah, I am.”

“Can’t wait.” You nod, grinning, turning back to the doors. “You told me to ask how menu’s going tomorrow.”

“I did.”

“It’s tomorrow.” The door dings, opening on the eighth floor; you step out together. He switches his grip to hold the box in one arm. Alright Biceps, we don’t need to brag here...

“It’s… We’re getting there.” He grimaces. “Syd’s recipes are always… Almost perfect.”

“Ah.” You nod, you know your friend well enough to know where this is going. “And she fucks up one thing hard?”

“Mhm.”

“And when you tell her it’s okay and give her a hand she just feels worse?”

He nods. A touch surprised you’re right on the dot so quickly. “Everything ends up perfect, but I think she’s finding the edits…”

“Demoralizing.” You walk down the hall together, he nods. “I know what she needs, I’ll find an in.”

“You always do.” He hums, you walk just a touch ahead of him, unknowingly walking past his door. He pulls you back by the back of your jacket, making you stumble back into him. This seems to be this villain’s intention; as when you turn around, he’s quick to grab your chin and kiss you.

“It’s very good.” He emphasizes, again, before opening his door and acting like everything’s totally normal and fine. Since when did he turn the tables and make you the desperate one? Son of a bitch.

Ah. Actually, subtract any attraction you had in this moment— He lives like this? Books on the floor, by the window. Jeans on the dinner table, because they were in the oven. The kitchen actually looks alright— You’re almost certain that’s purely for utilitarian purposes while they’re working on the menu. This motherfucker better have a bed frame or him asking you to sleep over would be downright offensive. God, he’s wonderful. God, you’re an idiot.

You find Syd at the table, moping, head in hands. Carmen sets the box down, sitting beside her. You pat the top of her head. She silently moves one of her hands to go over yours. You nod. The silent exchange of girls who know.

“Yeah?”

She nods, grumbling. “Yeah.”

Carmen has no fucking idea what’s happening and he’s never been more intrigued by a near wordless social interaction in his entire life. What? You’re not even making eye-contact. What the fuck is happening?

You fish through the box with your free hand, grabbing a pot. You place it in front of Syd. “Look.”

She peeks through her fingers. A tiny but flourishing nursery pot of basil sits before her. You speak. “You’re gonna hyper-fixate on this basil I’m gifting you, and then you’re gonna crack back into it with the dual burner until I’m done fixing the oven.”

She nods, putting her hands in her lap, “Yes, Chef.”

You pull out a second nursery pot, setting it down for Carmen. “For you.”

“What for?”

“Basil grows like a motherfucker and it’s getting unhinged. I need to start pawning off to people that’ll make good use of it. A-K-A, chefs.” You look at Syd, pointedly, “Talented chefs.”

You hand off the heating pad— Wrapped in brown paper with a card tied to it, to Carmen. “For Nat.” You add, when he looks confused, “Can’t imagine I’ll see her sooner than you will.”

He looks even more confused, when you hand him a spray bottle full of reddish water. It’s one of the good spray bottles, too. Continuous. Carmen wouldn’t know the difference, but you do. “Rosemary. —Water, that is.”

He squints; you clarify, gesturing to your own hair. “You mentioned, losing hair, so— Thought I’d make some, with the trimmings of rosemary I had. Got ginger and cloves in it, too.”

Why have you trapped him in hell? You’ve remembered such a specific off hand from days ago and acted on it? And he can’t express the grandiose level of affection he feels right now? Are you serious? You’re the devil. You’re absolutely the devil. He just coughs out a ‘thanks’.  

“And, the pièce de résistance,” You pull out the old ass, boxed up double burner countertop stove. “A stovetop that ideally fuckin’ works. It was my single claim to fame in my college dormitory.”

Carmen’s already opening the box. Sydney smirks, curiosity peaked. “Was that legal?”

“You a fuckin’ RA?” You grin, poking her forehead. “It was not. And that’s exactly why everyone loved me— Didn’t serve them fuckin’ hot pockets.”

The configurations of Carmen’s apartment would be great for literally any occasion besides the current one. The kitchen is narrow, and so, when you pull out the stove to check the back, there’s an estimated no fucking room left for Carm and Syd, so they sit at the dinner table with your stove top. You’d think they’d look like they’re doing a cute hot pot. No. They look like two conflicted and confused twelve-year-olds working on a science project.

So do you, honestly. Wiring is definitely more your speed than plumbing, but if you’re being honest, this is the first oven you’ve worked on without your dad, and you’re having a hard time remembering everything. There’s a lot of embarrassed Googling on your phone, when you're sure they’re not looking. They can’t know you’re even slightly incompetent!

You’re pretty sure it’s just a couple damaged wires, fried from overwork— Easy fix, if you had wire. You don’t. Slightly harder fix. But soldering is your bitch really, you’re in your bag. You look stupid, wearing chunky goggles and a respirator, but you’re in your bag, baby! What’s that one saying? Skills make you hot? That’s not a saying.

But it is true. When Carmen’s able to peer into the kitchen, quickly looking over his shoulder when Syd takes a moment to write a measurement or direction down, you look stunning.  Respirator and all. You just look correct there, in the kitchen. His kitchen. So stunning he feels guilty. Do you find it annoying? Constantly fixing errors behind him? Probably. You say it’s not a lot of work, but that can’t be true.

“How’s The Bear, ‘sides menu rework?” You ask, raising your voice in the kitchen.

“S’good.” Carmen. “I’m in hell.” Syd. Not hard to tell which statue is lying, here.

Syd stutters on, “Nat’s takin’ care of baby Michaela— Which is very good and—and cool, actually.”

“But?”

“But we’re back to handling the business side entirely ourselves, for like— The next month. Maybe two? Fuck, are we doing the wedding without her?” Sydney almost burns her sauce, Carmen’s quick to move it off the burner.

He mutters, “Don’t even start to think about it. It’s gonna be fine. We’re gonna figure it out.”

“Oh yeah, wedding— Have you gotten your menu yet?” You call from the kitchen, muffled by your respirator.

“Oh my god!” Sydney exclaims, and Carmen is wincing. She can’t tell you things are going wrong; doesn’t she know that? You’ll fix it, if things are wrong. You always fix it. Fix him. You’re gonna put him in your phone as Carmy Bad News. If you haven’t already. Start a support group with Tif.

Syd continues, “They’re so fucking particular and somehow also vague—Like, ‘we want salmon and chicken’ for main course— What kind of preparation? ‘Surprise us!’ Okay, how about roasted chicken—? ‘Mmmm, no, not that’. I’ve been told ‘non quello’ at least ten times in the last four days.”

No, you’re witty. Bad News Bear. Fuck, that’s definitely his name in your phone, isn’t it?

“Fuckin’ nightmare. Y’know, I’m the only fucking bartender? For like three hundred guests? Thank God they’re not asking for a custom cocktail or anything, I’d lose my shit.”

Sydney laughs, and she steps back into her flow easily, reducing the sauce without burning it, now. She looks more serene than she has in days. What? How are you doing that? What are you doing? Are you casting a spell?

“Can you even fucking imagine what their couples’ cocktail would be?”

You groan from the kitchen, laughing in return, “Not you too, Syd! Must you make me work!?”

“C’mon maestro, make a cocktail!”

“Bleh. Uh… They give long island iced tea energy, but it’s a wedding so— Like a boozier negroni?”

“That sounds fucking disgusting.”

“I didn’t say it’d be good, I said it’d be their couples’ cocktail.” You’re both giggling, like school girls. It’s like you said— You become teens, together.

Despite the fact that Syd is making an incredibly complex dish, and you’re fixing an oven—His oven— Ridiculing the other impossible tasks set out for the both of you… Despite all of that, you’re laughing.

Carmen is, what, nearly thirty? A restaurant owner, with a full crew, who attends Al-Anon, and is only now truly registering the power of an unsolvable burden being shared. Not fixed, shared. Talking. Laughing. God, this all comes so easy to you, doesn’t it?

You finish soldering, test each burner, and the oven— All working, thank God. You quietly cheer in the kitchen, removing your respirator and goggles. “We’re good here! Fixed!”

“C’mere!” Syd calls out to you, and so you do. Eagerly. She hands you a fork. Unprompted, she does the thing. You’d missed the OG, really.

“Beef Oxtail, pressed in a Foie Gras casing, seared. Basted in a King Oyster mushroom sauce. Pureed greens on the side.”

“I never know what the fuck you’re saying.”

She pushes the side of your face with the palm of her hand. “Put it in your mouth and chew.”

You want to make some sort of kink joke, but you respect the already struggling man in the room and take a bite. Hm. Hm. You put a finger over your mouth, swallowing. “...Now it might just be my unrefined palate.”

“That’s why we have you try it.” Carmen pipes in. Syd nods, following. “It’s important to know the baseline.”

“…It’s got like,” You hand the fork to Syd so she can try it, while you think. “A bit of a bitter aftertaste? Which might be the… goal?”

Syd spits it out the second it touches her mouth, she shouts your name, your actual name— A rarity. She’s so terrified that she forgets the Walk-In bit she’s been in on all week. “I just fuckin’ poisoned you— Oh my god?! Are you good? That was— Fuck! You swallowed that?!”

She grabs your face like a concerned mother, also maybe to check if you have superpowers, you’re not sure. All you know is there’s a golden opportunity to make another sex joke and you have to hold back. Life is so unfair.

Carmen takes a quick taste, also spitting it out. “I’ve got it, Chef, don’t sweat.” Immediately looking to the drafted recipe card to see where they went wrong.

Syd almost squeezes your cheeks like a stress ball but thinks better of it, letting go, groaning, beyond frustrated at this point. “You shouldn’t have to fix it— I should fuckin’ have it, at this point.”

Carmen's trying to ignore how much he relates to the sentiment. He's not the focus, right now.

“We make mistakes, Chef—” “Syd.” You snap your fingers, pointing to her, interrupting Carmen. “Can you help me grab something, from my car? It’s kinda big.”

Carmen’s quick to chime in, already going to untie his apron, “I can—”

“No!” You look at him pointedly, trying to communicate through look alone. He kind of gets it? “It’s… Girl stuff.”

Syd squints. “You need me to help you carry a big girl thing?”

“…Are you fuckin’ helping or are you gonna poke holes?”

“What are you actually dragging me out for?”

“Technically I do actually need your help grabbing something, it’s just not a girl thing. And it's also not from my car.”

“Oh?”

You walk out of Carmen’s building with his keys, and gesture out to every apartment buildings treasure trove— The spot everyone throws their furniture when they move out and don’t know what else to do with it.

“Bookshelf!” There is actually one pristine looking bookshelf, a cheap one, definitely just something from IKEA. But it’s better than the fucking floor. “I spotted it on my way in, we’re gonna bring it up for Carm.”

She groans, hating the concept of manual labour, but still walks with you and grabs one end anyways. “Why didn’t you make Carmen carry his own bookshelf?”

“Because you need a fuckin’ pep-talk.” You pick the other end of the bookshelf up. It’s thankfully not that heavy. You walk backwards so you can keep facing Syd.

“…I don’t—” “Yes the fuck you do.”

She kisses her teeth, you frown. “What’s up, Adamu?”

“It’s just fucking annoying— I keep, I keep fucking it up. I keep—Keep—”

“Doing too much.”

She gives you a look, ‘are you serious?’, type look. You continue. “You’re doing too much. You’re not cooking like you.”

“I can cook like Michelin—”

“I never said you couldn’t. Watch your step.” You interrupt, walking over a bump in the sidewalk. “You can do star level shit, Syd. But that’s a grade, not a type.”

She kind of reels, at that. You continue, “You cook great complex dishes, you always have, I’ve tried them. But now, you’re all caught up trying to prove some shit, to Carmen, to—to— Who gives stars? The tires guy?”

She laughs, almost dropping the bookshelf. “Yeah, I’m trying to impress the tires guy.”

“Fuck you.” You snort, stepping up the stairs. “What I’m trying to say is, you should make what you want to eat, not what you think you should eat.”

She nods, you stop on top of the stairs, both taking a second to breathe. “…Thanks.”

You nod back, hands on your knees for a second before standing back up, opening the lobby door. “I’ll always be your cheerleader, Syd.”

“More like coach.”

“Can you let me have one hot girl career, please?”

When you get back up to Carmen’s, he’s already grimacing. You and Syd are split apart by the bookshelf standing between you in the hall. “Fuck is this?”

“It was free and I’ll clean it!” You press your hands together pleading. “C’mon, you can even put your jeans in it!”

“Jeans on a bookshelf?”

You turn to Syd. “Better than the oven.”

“I think he’s doing that to dry them.”

“I think it’s ‘cause he doesn’t own a dresser.”

“It’s both.” Carmen clicks his tongue, single-handedly picking up the bookshelf and carrying inside. Alright, does he need to show off this much? Whatever. It’s definitely not making you feel any type of way at all.

You squint, watching him walk further in his apartment, and then to Syd. You speak at the same time. “He stays doing too much.”

As promised, you wipe down the bookshelf, making sure it’s free of grime and roadside pests. Syd and Carmy work together in the kitchen, with a now functioning oven. You load the shelf up with the books on the floor— Thankfully they’re piled into categories already, so you don’t have to bother him about that.

You’re tempted to clean his living room, but that would probably be rude, right? Don’t want him to take it as you saying he’s a slob. But they are taking a while… Alright, you’ll just throw out trash. You won’t fold blankets or pick up dishes or anything. Just trash! No big! He can’t be mad at you for that.

You pile together the garbage, then sneakily throw it out in the kitchen trash can as fast as you can, before he looks. He’ll think he’s just sleep cleaning, or something. “How’s it goin’ in here?’

Carmen pipes up, eyes focused on the dish as Syd plates it. “Good.” Syd holds the plate in one hand, and silently corrals you with the other to sit at the table. You do. She sets it down the plate before you, handing you a fork and knife.

You look up at her expectantly. She shakes her head. “Eat first, this time.”

She looks serious, so you nod, cutting into the dish. It’s different from the last one. Instead of oxtail, it’s pastry. Or at least, a puff pastry exterior. You’re pretty sure it’s Pillsbury, you remember Carmen buying that, the other day, on your excursion.

Inside it, you believe is the beef oxtail, there’s other things, too. Some sort of sauce, some greens— Oh well, no time to bask in the cross section because Syd looks like she’s about to explode. You take a bite. You nod, chewing.

Syd starts, “Searing the duck caused the bitter taste— So instead of- Of searing the outside, I coated it in the mushroom sauce, the greens— Not pureed, this time, for texture. Your basil, too. There’s a crumble of feta, for a subtle tang. And then wrapped it all together in puff pastry, and baked. It’s sort of like, a varied take on a beef welling—”

“You made a fucking gourmet hot pocket?” You swallow, wheezing. The second you say this, Sydney’s focused face beams, laughing, like she’s just pulled off the most perfect prank of all time.

Carmen was so intrigued and focused on Sydney’s explanation, that you watering it down to hot pocket and being right makes his entire system reboot. He cannot stop smiling, aghast. He's been helping Syd make a hot pocket for the past hour?

“I told you to make what you want and—” wheeze “—you make a fucking hot pocket?!” You double down, laughing with her, she’s trying to defend herself but she can’t stop wheezing in tandem.

“I— I can’t fuckin’ stand you!” You snort, covering your face with your arm. “I hate your ass, oh my God, Syd.”

“Did—” snort “What did you think?” She recovers, slowly but surely.

You shake your head, handing her the fork. “It’s sick, Syd, obviously, it’s fucking perfect… Chef.” You tack on at the end, almost forgetting. “I’m not gonna be able to have an actual hot pocket, ever again. You’ve ruined my life.”

She takes a bite for herself, nodding. She does a small cheer, pumping her fist. “Let’s fucking go.” She points her fork at you— Purely on muscle memory, and you both instantly remember the days of her testing out recipes and you pairing them on first taste. She’d point her fork to you like a microphone. It was a fun game between two nerds.

It’s a reflex response for you, even now. “Barolo. Savory, dry, red. A young one, though. Light body. Could also do an Amarone, if you’re not buried in money.”

She hands the fork off to Carmy to try it, then writes the pairings down, mumbling, amusement still in her voice. “How the fuck do you do that?”

“I honestly don’t know. I think I have some wires crossed.”

“Fire, Chef.” Carmen swallows his bite. “We cannot call it a hot pocket on the menu.”

“Then what’s the point!?”

Leaving Carmen’s place is objectively the most awkward experience— But also the funniest. You offer to wait for Syd and drive her home— You’ll need a second to pack anyways while they make their business plans.

When you do offer, of course, Carmen stutters short, almost asking you again to sleep over or at the very least stay late, but saves it, realizing himself.

Syd accepts the ride offer. You pack up and wait for her to be done. When she is, Carmen offers to carry your things down with you both, in which Syd accuses him of thinking you’re both weaklings— He does not have a defense case for this, he has to let you go. You can tell he wants to kiss you at the door, and you do too. Sadly, you’re equally down bad, but he can’t know that…

You say your goodbyes, Syd helps you load your tools and hotplate in the trunk of your car. Your phone vibrates. Text from Mister New York.

‘Look up I’m on the balcony. 8 floors.’

You look up, sure as shit, he’s out there, cigarette in mouth. Unlit. He waves, you wave back. He texts again, in rapid succession.

‘Thank you’

‘For helping Syd’

‘And the oven and the hot plate and the bookshelf (not necessary)’

‘nbd + I think it’s v necessary’ Does Carmen understand acronyms? You’re risking it, here.

‘and cleaning my trash’ Sonofabitch.

‘ah fuck. I don’t think you’re messy!!! I just wanted to help!!!’

‘I know. You’re you. Be safe.’

Oh goddammit, stupid dry texter, saying something so gah. You jump as Syd taps the roof of your car behind you, getting your attention. Watching from a far distance, Carmen laughs, though you don’t notice it.

“Are we going?”

“Yes! Sorry!” You hurriedly pocket your phone, waving one last time as you get in your car. Syd sits beside you in shotgun, her pot of basil sat safely in her lap. You drive off.

You’re half way down the road, when Syd pipes up again. “So y’all are fucking, correct?”

You almost brake check the guy behind you.

 “How do you fuckin’ do that!?”

the opening is dedicated to my dear friend and i who have sent our wordle results to each other everyday for the past like year and a half.

Things of note, one - people usually skip the shit up top-- I made a spotify playlist! Listen if you like, I'm not your dad.

Two, I know this is a self insert right, i know what I set myself up for-- Do you know the hell i am in as a syd x carmy girl writing scenes with both of them and it NOT being them? What have I done, to myself? The only coping mechanism I have is imagining in this universe Syd is a lesbian. And that is helping.

The hot pocket recipe-- Who fucking knows, if that would taste good? I think it would? In theory? I fucked with a dish from Daniel NYC, to make it into a bit. Would it work? ....Beef wellingtons do, I can't see why this can't???? Idk man.

Rosemary water w cloves and ginger does fucking work btw. I am part of the so stressed out i lost my hair brigade. Also basil does grow like a motherfucker.

We're seein' a little bit of that tenseness that comes with being in an 'almost relationship' both of them feel like they've got something they can fuck up now. Poor birds. They'll be okay. Probably.

I'm really excited for the next chapter, I don't wanna give shit away, but it's gonna be,,,,,, different. I haven't seen anyone try this kinda formatting on tumblr before, and I'm excited to see what you think. Between my moving and how complex the choreography of it is gonna be, it's gonna be a much longer minute between this chapter and the next, I fear. But listen, you already knew your ass was gettin' spoiled with a chapter every two days. Hehe.

As always, please come yap to me in the replies/inbox/dms/reblogs. I love to hear thoughts!! It sustains me, baby!!

Next Part

[moonstruckme]

have a bonfire - send a character + a trope (one bed, fake dating, etc.) and I’ll write a drabble

hii!! first off i wanna say congrats on 5k you deserve it so much!! can i do remus lupin and fake dating please and ty!

Thanks so much lovely!

cw: alcohol

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 969 words

“Your favorite color is green,” you say, passing Remus a glass of champagne. 

His brow twitches as he takes it from you, holding it by the stem like an adult. You adjust your grip on yours accordingly. “What?” 

“Your friend Sirius cornered me by the bar. I panicked.” 

“Ah.” Remus tucks a tongue into his cheek, just shy of the corner of his mouth, and takes a sip. “I’ve always told him I didn’t have a favorite.” 

You chew your lip, nodding. “Okay. That’s okay, we can just say you told me because you’re, like, so into me.” 

He chuckles. “So into you I divulged to you the deep, dark secret of my favorite color?” 

“Mhm. Think he’ll buy it?” 

“He might, actually.” He takes another sip of his champagne, and you remember to have a bit of yours. You could probably use it. Remus looks perfectly composed, and surprisingly dapper in his suit, done up to the top button with the collar just barely brushing a thin, pale scar circling a third of his neck. Contrastly, you’re a jumble of nerves. “Sirius likes to think I’m holding out on them, it might fit into his narrative that I’d kept it a secret all these years.” 

“And if he does figure it out, we could probably just tell him, right?” you ask, and somehow your champagne is half gone. Damned duplicitous, narrow glasses. 

Remus’ smile softens as it bubbles down your throat, and you know he can read what you’re thinking on your face. You’re a shit actress, an even worse liar. You’re going to ruin this for him. 

“We could,” he says, “but he’ll only tell James.” 

“Really?” You look at the man still standing by the bar, now chatting with a blonde you don’t know but suspect in a few minutes will have to pretend you’ve heard Remus talk about a million times. Sirius has managed to wear a leather jacket to a wedding, thrown on right after the reception in what Remus has informed you is typical fashion for him. He grins with one half of his mouth as he talks, flashing canines when he really means it. “He doesn’t strike me as a narc.” 

Remus steps closer to you as someone moves past him, lowering his voice. You can smell his cologne, woody and vaguely sweet. “He’s not. He and James tell each other everything, though.” 

“Oh. That’s sweet, actually.” 

James is the one you’re really here for. It’s his wedding, and months ago when he and his fiancee sent out invitations he’d asked if Sirius or Remus would need a plus-one. Sirius said yes immediately, and by some manner you can’t say you understand but Remus assures you is very typical of them, this evidently devolved into a bet on whether Remus could actually find a date that met his standards and that he was willing to ask to come to the wedding with him. 

As it turns out, Remus is more competitive than you would have guessed. 

According to James and Sirius, no one is ever good enough for him. You’re here to disprove that, though you don’t love that your work crush asked you out because he couldn’t find anyone he wanted to actually date. Still, Remus is your friend, and you were never going to say no to helping him. If you’d known you’d get to see him in this suit, you probably would have said yes even faster. 

“Do you want another?” Remus asks, and you look down to find your champagne glass is empty. 

“Oh my gosh, sorry.” You set the glass down on a nearby table, embarrassment a tickle over your skin. “Yeah, probably best not.” 

“Don’t be sorry.” He tilts his head at you, smiling in that gentle, kind way of his. “You’re here not on a job, love, you should have a good time.” 

“I feel like I am, a little bit.” Your laugh bubbles out of you easily, fizzy like the champagne. “I want to at least act like someone your friends believe you could be interested in.” 

“Just be yourself,” Remus reassures you. “They’ll believe it.” 

Something in your gut flitters at what that could mean. You don’t let yourself think on it. “What if I wanted to dance?” 

He smiles. “Then you should do that.” 

“But would you dance with me?” 

“I would hold your things for you.” His grin takes on a sheepish quality. “Find a chair to watch with all the other lame boyfriends.” 

You tsk. “You’re not lame, Remus.” He looks like he wants to contradict you, but he kisses his teeth instead. “I think I’d rather stay with you, if that’s alright. We can go sit in chairs amongst the lame boyfriends if you like.” 

Remus considers you for a moment. The sky has turned a deep blue around you, the string lights hung up around the space casting a warm glow that filters through his hair and makes it appear more golden than brown. “I would go dance with you if you wanted me to,” he admits. 

You blink. “Really?” 

“Well, maybe not dance so much as hold both our drinks and stand near you while you danced, but I want to stay with you, too.” Remus glances away from your eyes for a moment, a shyness you haven’t seen since you first met in his expression. “If you want to dance, I’ll go with you.” 

You take his hand on impulse, the scars and calluses of his skin alternately rough and smooth between your palms. “I don’t want to make you,” you tell him earnestly, “but I really do want to dance.” 

Remus looks to the side, his smile almost begrudging. “You’re not making me,” he says. 

You end up getting another glass of champagne after all.

[sang-i-fetge]

List of Jason Todd/Red Hood's weapons/gadgets/touys

Note: This is mostly from comics written by Winick, as I refuse to acknowledge most of n52. Feel free to add more, though!

Note2: This post was originally formatted in a different way, as I foolishly forgot about the image limit.

Blades

1— His iconic dagger!

Can cut through stone, and most of Batman's gear. It's been heavily debated what kind of knife it is; wether a kris, a parrying dagger, or a third secret thing.

2— The blades he gives Mia to defend herself!

I'm not sure what kind of blade they are, they vaguely look like wakizashis? Their size varies from panel to panel so idk😔

3— The katana for the 'duel' with Oliver!

4— And to link with the next section, the exploding katana!

Yes, it's a katana that explodes. Jason baits Oliver into holding it.

Explosives

— First of all, he blows up many many things and it's not specified what exactly he uses. So the unspecified explosives that only appear as a cool fireball panel get a bullet point.

5— The jumble of explosives in the Final Confrontation™️, we can see some dynamite, C4...

6— Bomb in a crate

7— Small bomb. Not lethal!

8— Bigger bomb. Yes lethal.

9— Continuing with this absolute icon: the bomb under the Batmobile (should I capitalize that?)

10— Small Rocket, used against Brick

11— Grenade?

12— Small, cylinder-shaped explosives. Detonated upon impact?

13— Small explosive that attaches to flat surfaces, used against Mr Freeze

14— Grenade.

15— Molotov Cocktail

16— Enough C4 to destroy a whole building, modded so it explodes if its temperature reaches one point, countering Batman's method of freezing bombs.

17— My absolute favorite, the exploding helmet!

Even if it's listed under 'explosives', it's also an important piece of technology in the Red Hood's arsenal.

Firearms

18, 19— The guns in the wall from Annual #25, there's surely more.

20— Machine guns hidden in crates!

21— Machine guns hidden in cars!

22— Rocket launcher, used against Black Mask

23— Even more hidden machine guns! This time in an electricity pole.

24— Machine gun (also hidden, but surprisingly not attached to anything)

25— Handgun👍

26— AK-47, you know the panel from where it's from

27— Submachine guns, I think 🙂

28— When out of ammo he uses his guns as blunt weapons, which I wanted to note

Tasers

29— The nazi-killing taser

30— The reason for the creation of this post! The grapple line taser! Attach it to a grapple line and it will shock whoever is connected to it. Noticed it in a reread of utrh and needed people to see it

31— Bonus: the bat-symbol taser. Iconic enough to be here.

Tech & Surveillance

32— Monitor and microphone?

33, 34— cameras :)

35— thing to see the feed of the cameras

36, 37— phones :)

38— his little tech den in #650

39, 40— computers :)

41— whatever this thing is

42— The surveillance device that looks like he taped a canon camera to his face

43— Wiretaps!

44— Bugs!

He also has his evil lair in B&R2009 bugged.

Miscellaneous

45— Does his crowbar count

46— smoke bomb!!

47— Injectable adrenaline. He just has that in his utility belt.

48— His batmobile-evade suit.

49— Is saying his belt buckle mean

50— Unspecified poison! Goodbye Egon

51— This thing that attaches to its target and launches them off

Not pictured:

The fancy wound dressing he gives onyx to patch up the shoulder wound he inflicted (I forgot to screenshot 💔)

Also, he has this whole hq-ish thing in Annual #25

(Edit: That rectangle in the gun wall kinda looks like an anti-drone gun now that I think abt it)

It has a murder board, which I think is cute.

[contamination-zone]

Acquisition

beta read by @/calamarispider

[UTMV fic] Contains: Straydog AU, platonic Fresh & Nightmare, captivity, abuse, starvation, platonic master & pet dynamic, coercion [5,000~ words]

“You’d look so cute in it,” Nightmare said, wistfully, looking at the collar, “my adorable little pet, clearly and irrefutably Mine.” The growling didn’t stop, and it lashed its tail in clear anger. Little tremors shook it, and in times like these, its emotions were so jumbled up it was hard to differentiate them from its host. He liked to think the sweet taste of fear belonged all to it though.

Fic undercut or on ao3!

His newest acquisition growled, a low reverberating noise. The noise was wordless, courtesy of the muzzle attached to its face. Both leather and wire, it was hard to imagine its face underneath- still, it was clear it sealed their mouth firmly shut.

It would be a lot more intimidating if it didn’t look half starved and seconds away from collapsing. As it was, it was almost cute. The effect was only aided by the flashy pinks and teals its lettering had.

“Come now,” Nightmare hummed, “is that anyway to treat your saviour?”

No response, with the exception of more growling. Every second he could see a kaleidoscope of colors spread across the fabric of its clothings. Bright warning reds and pinks, nearly eye-searing cyans and blues. It matched nicely with the blood still drying on the creature's claws; Murder’s, who’d been tasked with trying to get the muzzle off.

Everything about it was colorful, vibrant- the exact opposite of its attitude.

“I went through all the trouble of having my boys get you out of that… place. The least you could do is behave.”

Nightmare gestured vaguely, with one of his tentacles. It lunged at the movement, the chain around its neck that they’d repurposed nearly choking it as it hissed and spat. It would definitely bruise.

None of them could get the restraints off it, and the effort would probably take more than they’d gain with it. And, as a bonus, they could reap the benefits of it being unable to bite them. The way it growled and lunged made it pretty clear it wanted to.

It didn’t seem like he’d be getting anything out of the skeleton, at least, anything intelligible. A pity, but this was why he’d tasked Murder with going through the files they’d taken with it. 

It looked humanoid, monster like, so he hoped it was more than just a beast. Though… either way, he was determined to keep it.

It was just so… interesting. He needed to know what had led it to being held captive, what those scientists had been doing with it, and, most importantly, why its suffering felt so intense yet distant.

—

The meal he’d brought, wrapped like a gift, slammed into the ground with a whine. Squirming like they were, they instantly gained the parasite's attention. He kicked them further into its range.

It didn’t pounce right away, eyes locking onto Nightmare. He smiled. It seemed it did have some wits to it. [The flaring of its spines showed it didn’t like the expression. He almost laughed; was it afraid of his teeth?]

“That’s for you,” he said. The meal squirmed more at that, shaking and breathing hard; almost as enjoyable as the clear hunger on his captives face, “Murder found some… interesting information about you.” Namely, that it was a people eater, and one of the only things that had kept it contained were its magic sealing restraints. It made him glad they’d made a cell that already did that. 

Its eyes flicked from the offered meal to him again. Its mouth parted, tasting the air, but it still didn’t attack. 

“Shy, are you?” It didn’t seem like it would eat with him watching. Disappointing, he’d been looking forward to the show. When it was more lucid he’d convince it to let him see. He was sure it would be amenable. At least it knew he was the biggest threat in the room.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to though. The instant he turned around he heard it lunge, bones scraping and the sound of a struggle. Whipping around he only got a single moment to see it pinning its prey down before a cloud of neon gas enveloped the cell.

He raised an arm to shield his mouth and took a few steps back. The notes mentioned feeding it dust, and other more processed magical substances. No mention of this fog was ever noted, but that made sense. They didn’t ever feed it live monsters, though noted that’s what it had eaten before they’d captured it. 

He waved his tentacles, trying to clear the magic from the air. When he had visibility, he saw the creature standing in the middle of the cell. Next to it, a pile of dust, still held in its restraints. Its previous host, dead as soon as it left them. 

Claws dulled, and shorter by a foot at least, it looked like a whole different monster. Much healthier than it did beforehand though: fuller, rounded, even a bit fat. The ‘monster’ [though he didn’t know if he’d call it one.] shook itself out, little clouds of dust getting re-agitated into the air. 

He thought, yet again, it was cute. In a morbid way, like a kitten playing in snow.

It didn’t speak yet, watching him once more with a much more keen eye. A closer look showed it wasn’t at full capacity though, its true eye half-lidded and dazed.

“Not even a thanks?”

The words seemed to shock it into action, seeming to fully come back into itself. It gave another intense shake, more little pops as it settled. A lot of magic was being expended to fit it into whatever mold it was more familiar with- that meant it probably discarded most unnecessary functions, otherwise, that would be very unsustainable.

Standing a bit straighter, he could almost see the mask it was slipping on, “Sorry bro! This radical dude is just a tad… twisted around.” Its voice was filled with a false cheer, almost grating. It shifted its weight, eyes darting around, a nervous little laugh in its voice, “you know how it is.” 

“Of course.” He hummed, eyeing its still tensed form. The way it held itself didn’t change much from before; he didn’t doubt it would still bite if he got in range of its teeth.

“Help a guy out and open that door?” It asked, “I can tell you’re not one of them unradical scientists. Much better fashion sense you’re rocking.”

“You know I won’t be doing that.”

It let out a reedy laugh, and he knew it didn’t really expect him to let it go. It was just grasping at straws. He wondered how bad the last people were that it distrusted him so fully.

Maybe it could just tell he wouldn’t be kind. It wouldn’t be the first time someone assumed that, and he wouldn’t say it was wrong to.

He spoke, uncaring of it clearly lost in thought, “In other news… do you have a name?” He already knew what it called itself from the notes, but letting it choose to reveal more of itself would only endear itself further to him, no matter how faint.

“And who are you to be asking?” It asked back - only able to speak for mere moments and already searching for leverage, how quaint.

“Nightmare,” he stated simply, “your new owner.”

————

It hadn’t warmed up to him yet. Which made sense, of course; he still kept it in that cell.

“Aren’t you hungry, dear?” He asked. A question he didn’t need an answer to, he could feel the stabbing pain it felt permeating the air, like a sour-sweet miasma. Still, a reminder could never hurt.

Its tired eyes glared at him, not making a single move to take the platter of dust he’d slid into the cell. Probably didn’t want to get close enough to him to do so. Another day of silence. 

It was okay, it would break soon enough. 

He took the untouched plate as he left; there would be another day.

——

“My pet.” He greeted it, the same as he always did. Routine. “How was your sleep?”

Predictably, the creature ignored him.

——

“You know you can’t keep this up.” They both knew this could be made significantly easier for it. At its feet, a collar with his emblem attached; he wouldn’t be letting Fresh out of the cell or giving it live prey until it put it on. 

Of course, the emblem wasn’t the only thing about it that made it refuse. It was modeled after the restraints it came in with - magic canceling, and, of course “altered so they won’t come off except by my hand,” he’d told it, smile wide enough to crinkle his single eye.

It pressed further into the corner, though that gave away it was still listening. He wondered how long it would still have the energy to disobey him. A creature all the papers he’d gotten described as cunning, willing to put its survival above all else.

It was clear it not only did this out of pride, but with the assumption that it could benefit from this disobedience. An effort to make him grow bored, he was sure. Unfortunately for it, he’d had 500 years to solidify his patience. Two weeks of silent treatment, especially with the way it was so very chatty when he first got it, wouldn’t work now. He just had to wait it out - something he was very, very good at.

He pulled out some paperwork and got to work.

——

“My dear pet-” he started, like he always did.

“Fresh,” it snarled at him. A break in its armor, a bubble of lava bled from stone. It had only taken him three weeks. “Fresh,” he smiled around the word. It shuddered, but he could feel the way a layer of frustration melted from it. Petnames were fun, but it seemed his dear Fresh enjoyed its name too much to employ them so soon. That was fine, he could wait until it was ready.

——

Sometimes he talked about his day, general information. People he’d killed, universes he’d visited. [He did not mention his brother.]

“I still haven't seen anything as interesting as you, Fresh.” He dropped in, conversationally.

It was true, but he mostly said it because it had such an amusing reaction anytime he said something like that. A small bitter hint of positivity before a harsh flood of shame and anger. It made him want to coo and pinch its cheeks. 

Further than just starving for compliments, the creature clearly liked positive words before its current… situation. The perfect personality for his pet; he was sure he could shave off that instinctual shame [no matter how sweet it tasted], make it crave his words without caveat. 

It looked at him as he talked, moving back to his previous topic. He made sure to smile.

——

He didn’t slow his words as it crept closer, fingers hooking over the edge of the plate. It dragged it closer, but he narrowed his eyes at it before it could get all the way back to the corner.  

It glared at him, but didn’t move further back. Cupping a handful of dust, it was clear the provided meal was not to its taste. Still, it seemed the first bite of food reminded it of how long since its last meal, because it scarfed the rest of it down quickly.

Once finished, he grabbed the plate with his tentacle and pulled it out of its cell. Fresh scrambled back when he got close, right back into its corner.

“Enjoy your meal, Fresh?”

It just grunted, refusing to look at him. He laughed, “I’ll get something sweeter for you soon, my dear.”

“You better…” it said.

——

He set the platter on his side of the bars, meaning Fresh would need to get close to him in order to get its treat. It had been rather well behaved in the last week, finally eating the provided dust and ground up magic.

“Come now, Fresh,” he cajoled it, “don’t you want something nice and sweet?”

It growled at him, deep and low in its throat, the vibrations making its spines rattle. Petulant at not getting exactly what it wanted, still, even after all it had been through. It was acting more like a spoiled king than even he.

“When have I hurt you so far, Fresh? Do you fear the horrors of…” he laughed, “some scones?”

“You are such a- a unradical dude, dude. Acting like you don’t already know.” It muttered, words irreverent. He would train that out, later. 

For now, he just smiled. It needed to be rewarded for engaging with him, no matter how… distastefully it did. All the else could be dealt with afterwards. 

Choosing not to address its words, he continued, “The scones have more condensed magic in them than monster dust. I’m sure you’ll enjoy them.” 

It looked at him like he’d spat on its mother; clearly, the temptation was frustrating it.

Impatient and arrogant, he wondered how it survived before captivity. Nightmare was doing it a favor by taking it in- he was willing to forgive such transgression.

He let out an exaggeratedly put out sigh, closing his eyes and setting his hand on his cheek. “I suppose,” he started, “if you really do not want it, I’ll keep your diet as it was.” 

Rustling cloth, and when he opened his eyes, it had scooted closer. Its face darkened with a menagerie of colors as he looked at it, but he only beckoned it closer.

It kept low to the ground as it nearly crawled to him, ready to bolt back to the little corner it had claimed for itself. The creature acted like the animal it clearly thought itself better than.

Finally, it was face to face with him. He was sure if it reached through the bars of its cell it could touch him. It wouldn’t, he knew.

Instead, it reached for the scones.

“You get two, without a price.” 

It froze, the starving animal in it clearly protesting the lack of actions, but it’s clever little head making it want to puzzle out his words. “What price?”

“Did I not say? No price for two. I’ll tell you what more would cost after.”

It narrowed its eyes and bared its teeth, but grabbed two scones nonetheless. After a small nibble, it shoved nearly a whole scone into its mouth. Mere moments after that, it swallowed and shoved the next scone in.

“So messy,” he chided.

It laughed, then coughed, then laughed again. It stuck its tongue out, before licking at all the crumbs left over on its claws.

“At least you enjoyed them. Distasteful as your conduct is.” He huffed, though he was still pleased. This would be easier if it liked the treat.

He let one hand drift over and pick up a scone. Taking a bite, he hid any disgust; his pet would definitely enjoy this more than he. It was made specifically for it, after all. The magic was overly processed, perfect for a parasite unable to digest most magic, but disgusting for any normal monster.

He waved a hand, to get its attention, “Want another, Fresh?”

“Price?” Straight to business.

“Just come here,” he smiled.

It seemed it was too far in to back out now, already having been lured so close to him, eating the first good food it was getting in no doubt months [besides the monster he fed it days after he acquired it, but he doubted it really was lucid enough to enjoy itself], scooting a few inches closer seemed like nothing.

With a painfully telegraphed movement, he moved the scone closer to it. It was locked still, he made sure. [“No hands,” he said when it moved to grab it.] 

Slowly, because he wanted it to know it could have backed out, had the opportunity to run to its corner [no matter the fact it really couldn’t at this point], he pressed the scone to its mouth.

Fresh opened, because there really was little else it could do, and he brought his hand back as it moved to bite him. The second he moved back it did the same, in a swift motion it was tucked up against its corner again, scone choked down and eyes wide and wary. 

One extra scone was all it wanted, or perhaps it was unable to resist the temptation to finally bite him. He laughed.

It did as he asked though. “Good boy,” he praised, eye crinkling with how wide his smile was. It shook in the corner, unsure.

Progress. Soon, his pet would be perfect.

——-

“Evening, Fresh.” He greeted.

It grunted back, nervously shoved into the corner, like it was wont to do. The novelty of it speaking at all was still fresh. However… it hadn’t managed a full visit without saying Something since it broke its silence a few weeks back, so he knew he wouldn’t have to wait long for something more.

He hadn’t even opened his book when it spoke, quiet, “It’s cold in here.” 

A non sequitur, but it was easy to tell what it was getting at. He wouldn’t let it get what it wanted so easily, though; he was spoiling it enough already.

“It is, isn’t it?” He said, clearly annoying it, with the way it narrowed its eyes. “This AU has seasonal cycles, so it’ll only get colder.” He added, conversationally.

It shifted in place, scraping one of its shoes against the stone wall, a tiny temper tantrum. It didn’t look at him. 

“I can’t do anything unless you ask, my dear Fresh.”

It bared its teeth, “fine, fine. Would you, my so high and mighty owner, ” the word was spat, “do something about it?” 

“You are too generous to assume I can change the weather,” he said with a laugh, if only to feel the hot white wave of shame and anger that passed through his pet. It was so sweet he almost gagged on the taste. It shook, and he knew it wanted to lunge at him, the twitching claws it pressed to the wall itching to wrap around his throat. 

“Though I suppose…” he tapped his chin, as if unaware, uncaring, of Fresh’s reaction, “I could get you a blanket. Would you like that, Fresh?”

It took a page from his book and let a long drawn out sigh, “yes.” It said, before turning away from him completely, spiny tail wrapped around its ankles.

From experience, he knew it was done for the day. Maybe he teased it a little too much.

——-

“It smells like you…” it muttered, after a moment holding the blanket close. Its nose bridge wrinkled, and its eyes narrowed, seemingly moments away from sticking out its tongue in disgust. Adorable.

He knew it would notice. He smiled, “I only use the best for myself, Fresh. Aren’t you happy I went with the highest quality?”

Fresh grumbled, “whatever man.” Before going right back to its corner. It looked like a little burrito, wrapped up in the blanket. “You're so cute,” he told it. All its spines went up in offense, and it wrapped the blanket around itself tighter, turning its nose up at him and giving him the silent treatment once more.

None of that could hide the emotions that he could always feel welling up when he complimented it. His descriptor held true.

——-

It had been staring at his book for a good while now, the majority of his visit so far he’d wager.

“Are you bored, Fresh?”

“Real sharp of you to notice that one, dude. You're really all that and a bag of chips.” it huffed at him, like it was obvious. It was, but he wouldn’t let that tone stand.

“Manners, dear.” 

It stuck its tongue out, but when he didn’t offer anything else, it relented. “Fine. Yes, I am bored. Not much to do in here, y’know.”

“A pity, that.” He said, “You know, you could come out for a walk if you…” He trailed off, but they both looked to the collar, still inside the cell. It was in its corner, with everything else it had [not much, just shredded bits of its clothing, the restraints it came in with, and its blanket]. Pristine, even after weeks on the dirty floor - enchanted by magic not to be affected by such trifling things; he would, afterall, only give the best to his pet.

“No.” Simple, succinct; enjoyable in his subordinates, not so much in his cute little pet.

“You really are making this harder on yourself than you need to.” 

It lashed its tail, getting more annoyed with his continued prodding. It pressed further into its corner, blanket tight around its shoulder, “urgh, whatever. You know that’s not what I meant, man.” He hummed an acknowledgement, but went back to reading. Another day, then.

———

“Fresh, pet.” He called, just as he made his way into the dungeons. It looked up, though there still seemed to be a chip on its shoulder - it didn’t say hello back.

“Tsk tsk-” he chided, “I’ve got a gift for you, but I don’t know if I’ll be giving you it with that attitude.”

It rolled its eyes but finally greeted him back, “morning, ‘owner.’” 

He narrowed his eyes at the way it said ‘owner,’ but it was good enough. With a sigh, he said, “good pet.”

“What do you got?” It asked, sitting up and stretching out a little; the creature was probably sleeping before he came in.

“You said you were bored, did you not?” He started, tossing something through the bars of the cage.

It caught it, reflexes fast even after months of captivity [both by him and its previous captors]. Bringing it closer to its face, he could see the instant it figured out what it was and delight overtook its wariness.

All its spines went up in a smooth motion, and its sockets widened. He must’ve laughed, because it glanced up at him. One look at his expression and it shut down, tucking its new tamagotchi into its corner, under its blankets.

“I guess I can dig this.” It gave, as if its excitement wasn’t palpable. 

Throughout the visit, it didn’t pull out its toy, but he could tell it wanted to. It reminded him of when he first got it, too shy to eat in front of him. Cute. 

-——-

Fresh was, as always, quick to scarf down any meals presented to it, even meals made of only dust. Its expression made it clear it hated the taste, still. Finished scarfing down the presented food, it slid the plate back to him. 

“So polite,” he cooed, reaching in and taking the platter out of its cell. They both knew it was only trying to get one of the hand pies he’d come in with. But well… good behavior was to be rewarded. The sweets he’d brought were for it anyway - a bit better than the scones he’d made weeks back, but definitely not good enough for his standards.

It was already scooting closer when he started beckoning.

Hands raised up, it made a grabby motion, “can’t you just gimme them dude?” 

The words came out in almost a whine, more petulant than distressed, a mask slipped on when it felt less threatened but still wanted something. It made him glad he didn’t know it out of captivity. It was horribly annoying, he’d want it dead for that fact alone.

He didn’t deign it with an answer, just reaching through the bars with its treat and waving it in an inviting motion, “it’s going to get cold, darling.”

“It’s probably already cold…” it muttered, scooting just close enough to snatch the desert with its teeth. The movements were precise, an effort to stay as far away from him as it could, and it retreated to its corner to actually eat its prize.

-——-

“Evening, Pet.”

It didn’t blink an eye at the address, giving a mumbled “mornin’ man…” as it stayed tucked around its little blanket nest in the corner. It was fidgeting with its tamagotchi, content to ignore his presence in the room; today wasn’t one of the days it got fed, and it knew that.

It was… content. Comfortable, or as comfortable as any creature in his care could get in the circumstance.

He smiled.

-——-

“I’m going to be gone for a while.” He said, offhandedly, before he left.

It glanced up at him, narrowing its eye sockets. “Yeah?” It hummed, prying.

“Yes.” He confirmed. “You’ll be bereft of my lovely company.”

“Good riddance,” it laughed, but the sound seemed forced. Probably more stressed about the change in schedule than his departure.

“No tearful farewell? What an awful pet you make.” He sighed, mock-mournful.

It blew a raspberry at him, before a thought seemed to occur to it, “are you leaving any grub for me?”

He smiled at that, which certainly got its attention. “Why of course, I can’t have you starving, now can I?”

It relaxes a little at that, but he continued before it could get too comfortable, “I’ll leave some dust for you, dear.” He gestured to the table, next to the wall, near the entrance of the dungeon. On it, a platter of dust; something he knew his pet had been curious about the whole visit, “The door will be locked, of course, but I’ll leave enough food that you won’t be hungry at all by the time I return.”

Fresh looked at him with narrowed eye sockets, “and how am I supposed to get outta here for that?”

“You’ve always known how to get out of that cell, Fresh.” 

It snarled at him, a more aggressive sound than he’d seen from it in a while. It was fine, you had to break a few eggs to make an omelet. His pet's trust might be broken, but he was sure they’d be closer once it realized the only way forward was by doing what he wants.

“I’m not putting it on.” It spat, spines flared and stance wide- the picture of an animal cornered. It hadn’t even glanced at the collar, not a moment's consideration.

“Then I guess I’ll come back to a pile of dust for a pet,” he sighed, “a pity, for how many months I put into you.”

A reminder of investment, what would normally be leverage against him, he felt he could use to get under its skin. He’d spent so much time keeping it, feeding it, visiting it everyday… it couldn’t really believe putting on that collar would mean he’d throw away all that and start hurting it. It would be inefficient, illogical, and he’d always prided himself on making everything he did make sense- for a given definition of the word.

All that it would lose putting that little collar on was a meager amount of freedom it didn’t even have. Was that worth so much? Did that really hurt its ego, pride, so very badly?

Growling answered him. 

“You’d look so cute in it,” he said, almost wistfully, “my adorable little pet, clearly and irrefutably Mine.”

The growling didn’t stop, and it lashed its tail in clear anger. Little tremors shook it, and in times like these its emotions were so jumbled up it was hard to differentiate them from its host. He liked to think the sweet taste of fear belonged all to it though.

The visit ended like many did when he first got it. With Fresh shoved into the corner, angry and giving him the silent treatment. The collar inconspicuously between them. An air of tension filling the room…

It was poetic, he smiled, for this would surely be one of his last.

-——-

He nearly skipped down the steps towards the little single celled dungeon he kept Fresh in, the door in sight. It had been weeks since he’d seen his cute little pet, and he missed it dearly.

It could be dead, of course, stuck in its little corner and starved to death, but he highly doubted it. The darling thing was indeed arrogant as even he, but it was cunning as well. Something like that might end broken through shattered pride, but it wouldn’t end up actually letting itself die.

The door unlocked with a satisfying click, and he pushed the door open slowly. It creaked, loudly, and he knew Fresh would hear.

“Fresh,” he crooned as he looked inside, and he was instantly greeted by a delightful sight. The cell door was open, the food left out nearly gone, and his pet in its little corner, staring at him as he entered.

Best of all, however, was the collar around its neck. [Though, its widened eye-sockets and small tremors took an easy second place.]

He nearly laughed at that fact, that it was still wearing it now that the cell had opened. He’d said it couldn’t be taken off, couldn't be removed by anyone but him- and it believed him!

He’d never lied before, made sure every word out of his mouth was provable. And it all paid off. Even angry and tired and scared, it didn’t think to pull the collar off once it was on - all because of his word. Knowingly or not, it had trusted him enough to not even try. 

Months of work, all culminating in a single moment. He hadn’t seen it, but that didn’t matter, it was good enough it happened at all.

He slinked into its cell, something he hadn’t done since he’d stuck the thing in there when he’d first gotten it, and it shrunk back. He cooed some gentle honeyed words at it as he approached. His tentacles dragged along the cell floor, totally relaxed; he felt… sated, full. He wouldn’t even care if it tried to bite him for getting so close, he felt so good.

It didn’t bite him though, and he let his smile get impossibly wider still.

The creature didn’t have anywhere to go, the collar meaning its magic was locked down even further than it was by just being in the cell, so it couldn’t do anything but look up at him. It looked so, so small. 

He reached out with his hands and slid his fingers around its lower jaw, curled around its mandible bones. He could feel the faintest tremors from the touch. With an easy motion, he rubbed under its eye sockets with his thumb.

Fresh felt both warm and cold under his touch. He ran chillier than most with his unique… status, so of course it felt hotter than him. But, while Fresh certainly wasn’t his temperature, it still felt notably more chilly than the average skeleton, almost like touching a corpse, an inanimate skeleton.

“I am so glad you came to your senses, Fresh.” He could feel it tremble even more, hearing its name, “I knew you had it in you.”

It tried to look away, his grip on its jaw forcing it to still. He could almost hear a whine, but that might’ve been his wishful thinking. Without being able to hide with its gaze, it pulled its blanket further over its shoulders.

“Do you want to come upstairs and have a treat, pet?” He asked, easy as breathing, like he’d been waiting to do so this entire time, like it was the only one stopping them from having that.

It nodded, but at his tightening grip, let out a quiet answer, “yes, Nightmare.”

Hearing his name never felt so good.