#Might write more of it actually

[captain-mj]

Because of various reasons, I will not be taking asks for now. I will be continuing any series I've been doing and will still be doing some new stuff not part of a series. But I just... don't feel comfortable doing asks right now.

[redactedrem]

Headcanon where after so many arguments between the batkids and Bruce over his paranoia and complete disregard for his kids privacy, the entire family had compromised with (in the healthiest way possible) downloading life360 on their phones and that's how they all keep track of each other.

Now Bruce knew that this is mostly for his benefit and is supposed to be a healthy alternative for his unhealthy paranoia and helicopter parenting, but what he wasn't expecting was for his kids to start keeping track of him.

He's putting gas in his car and Dick calls him because apparently Dick has been watching him drive around on the app? And Bruce is currently at a gas station thats right around the corner from a Taco Bell and now Dick wants him to get food for everyone since he's already there.

He's driving home from a meeting and Steph calls him because her and Duke were shopping in the area and wants to know if he can pick them up, when he asks how she knew he was on the same street, he gets a "Oh I just like to stalk everyone on the app for funsies." as an answer.

Jason calls him and he can barely get out a hello before Jason cuts him off, "Bruce why the fuck is your phone battery on 5%, charge your damn phone" which completely stuns him because why does he know that. He clears his throat before answering. "Jason, what?"

"Everyone can see each others phone batteries on '360, now charge your phone." Is all he gets before Jason hangs up on him.

[paradox-n-bedrock]

me in big fandoms: oh cool, it's so active and there's so many people to vibe with, this is amaz-

*finds my niche angle that appeals to approximately six people*

me: okay, folks, it's you and me now

[andhumanslovedstories]

I've been running this writing experiment lately to cut out phrases like "I felt" in my fiction writing. Like I was looking at a sentence in a draft that said, "he felt as if character's eyes were pinning him in place." And then I was like, "well, does he think that or is it true? As a result of this person watching him, he's froze. It's not like a thing, it is that thing."

Oh and "almost"! I'm always going, "He felt almost relieved that it hadn't happened." Well, did he feel better that it didn't happen or didn't he? Or "somewhat", I'm always going, "she felt somewhat perturbed."

And like none of that is wrong, to be clear. I don't know if it'd improve your writing, I don't even know if it'll improve my writing, but I use this sentence structure all the time so every viewpoint is from a voice that thinks about what it thinks, hedges its statements, and offers the same ability for wry little jokes formatted in the exact same way. And I have a lot of writing like that and I think (!) that they're good, but read as a whole, I'm like, "god, they all sound the same." Like there's one melody that I write songs to, so even with different lyrics, it's almost (!) the same song. Something I've been struggling with in regards to my writing and why I've felt so blocked is how boring I found writing my usual way. I'd read something and enjoy the individual parts of it, but then I'd step back and I didn't like the whole. And I got good at this enough at seeing that I didn't like it to do it in real time as I was writing, which as you can imagine didn't improve the process of writing because now I was bored AND dejected about being bored.

There's this sentence-level structure fact that I use unconsciously. A pattern I find easy is short sentence, short sentence, short sentence, long sentence. So I write that. "He [verbed]. He [verbed]. Then he [verbed]. As he [verbed] to his [consequence], he [verbed] that [noun] was [statement of condition]." Which could work, it often does make for a nice rhythm, but it's something I reach for often because it's easier for me.

Just last sentence, I originally typed, "I find it easier for me." But if what I mean is "using this pattern is less effort than another pattern," then it's easier for me. One voice is hedging its bets and the other asserting. Either is fine! But they're different! And, again, GOD you would not believe how many words I've cut out of this paragraph as I write it. I'm so chatty. I love using twelve words when six will do. And that gives my writing a specific tone to my ear.

So if I am bored of that tone, why not try using just the six words? Why be understated? Why be afraid of stronger opinions? So right now with my fiction, I'm experimenting with cutting out as many self-reflective words as I can. Sometime you do need to draw attention to the face that this is the character's interpretation, but like you definitely don't need to do it as much as I naturally want to do it. You don't need to always go out of your way to allow the possibility that the narrative voice is wrong. During editing, I trim the weaker ones (I originally typed, "what I consider the weaker ones" Is that more accurate?). But I think them being there in the first place shifts my language which shifts my character's which shifts my plot. It's sentence structure all the way down!!

(this barely applies to my writing on here, btw. i try to do good but yknow this is a tumblr blog. i'm not trying to get a lit mag to accept it.)

Anyway blah blah (chatty!) the point is I've been trying to write in a way opposite of my interests. Something that doesn't take itself too seriously, that emphasizes EMOTION and ACTION instead of minimizing it, and that clips through scenes at a good pace. Doing this been amazingly fun. I've been having such a good time doing it. I am writing so much because I really enjoy doing it. The process of writing is so fun again.

This post is about two things. One is my new mood stabilizer and therapy day camp. The other is about the benefit of pretending to be MXTX.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Afterlife, But It's A Bar

[discontinued, feel free to add on]

It was weird. Not wrong, alarming or dangerous type of weird. Not good or comforting either.

Just plain weird.

It all started a few days ago, on Wednesday, to be exact. On a rare occasion, Jason was patrolling outside of his territory ("cover for me, I have a date" my ass, Replacement), and he spotted something out of place. A neon green, almost toxic colored sign that read "Afterlife".

Honestly, who names a place like that? But judging by the placement and design, it was a bar, and Jason could almost appreciate the irony. Maybe it had a slogan along the lines of "our drinks will send you beyond the lines of life and death" or something. But at the same time, it could be interpreted as "alcohol can and will be the death of you," which, technically, is not the best PR campaign for a bar.

Jason decided to visit the place anyway. He was curious about the implied death joke, sue him.

Of course, he didn't visit immediately. He was still on patrol, and he just heard the sound of gunshots to the west. Not to say that the place was quiet.

(Oddly quiet for a bar in Gotham, now that he thinks about it)

Anyway, the next day, he went there not as Red Hood but as Jason Todd, an ordinary civilian who decided to grab a beer in the evening. Only to not find the place.

He couldn't have just miss it - he remembered the street, he knew the building, he was absolutely fucking sure where the "Afterlife" should have been. He searched the whole block nonetheless, and then proceeded to check the whole area, but to no avail.

Damn, it seems like he can't get to the afterlife both literally and- the other literally. Yeah, he might be having too much fun with the oddly chosen name for the nonexistent bar.

It didn't exist on the maps and internet either. At this point, Jason was contemplating the idea of it being a hallucination or a dream. He even checked the recording on his helmet from Wednesday night, but the whole time he was in the area, the video was filled with interference and static.

Weird. Slightly suspicious, but Red Robin, who's been patrolling the same area for weeks before him, never reported any interferences, so it probably had something to do with his helmet and not the area in general.

On Thursday night, he purposefully went there right after patrol. And the nonexistent bar suddenly existed again! The same neon green sign, the same quiet street around it.

Seriously, what is this mysterious fuckery?

Now, if he was a Bat, he would have reported this to others and investigated, lurked around in shadows, and approached with caution. If he was a Robin, he would have still reported and then straight up marched in there and saw how it goes.

Alas, he was Red Hood, so he decided to watch for the bar guests and see just who the hell goes in and out of the place.

And there was the next weird thing.

No one was going in or out. Jason sat there for a whole hour, and not even one person entered or left the building. Despite the muffled sounds of music, voices and laughter coming from the place.

The final kicker was the fact that after some careful questioning and dropping hints, Jason found out that no one except him ever saw the "Afterlife"'s sign. No one's even heard of it, both the Batclan and the Gothamites.

The fuck?

So he did the next logical thing. He brought the smartest member of the Bats with him. Tim owed him anyway. Might as well use it now instead of later.

Friday night proved two things: one, Tim was still his favorite to work with out of all the bats and birds, not questioning anything as to why Jason is asking him to check out a bar, and two, Jason just might be going insane.

Tim couldn't see the "Afterlife" even when Jason pointed at the sign from not further than ten feet. The irony of the stipid name was not even amusing anymore.

Tim didn't ask any questions after this experiment, and Jason didn't want to admit that he is losing the grip of reality, so they ended up simply parting their ways after. Can the Pits cause brain damage? More damage than there was in the first place, that is.

Now that he thinks about it, the color of the sign is really similar to the Lazarus waters. He should have noticed it sooner, but in his defense, who would look at the bubbling pool of toxic waters and think, "Oh, that would make a dope neon sign"? Apparently, the owner of the "Afterlife".

The color might be just a coincidence.

...no, in the world he lives in, coincidences like this just don't happen. Besides, Jason doesn't believe in shit like fate or destiny.

So, here he is, on Saturday night, standing in front of the door to the Afterlife. It would have been funny if it wasn't so weird. What's even more weird is that the closer he gets to the door, the less nervous he feels, like the place is radiating some calming aura. Wait, no, scratch that, Jason is so not calling it a calming aura for God's sake. That sounds just like those homemade witches with their crystals, tarot readings, and whatnot.

He's going to call it... tranquilizer vibes. Yeah, that's better.

He takes a deep breath, getting ready to see whatever it is on the other side, pushes the door open, and walks into the bar.

...

Whatever he's been expecting to see, it's not this.

[ghost-proofbaby]

twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR TWENTY TWO

in which eddie is honest. for real, this time.

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, discussion of/allusions to smut from last chapter, angst, not edited (what's new though), upside down does not exist, minors dni

→ wc: 11.1k+

→ a/n: welp. this... yeah, this is a lot. i truly hope it's worth it. in the waiting, anticipation, and length. if it isn't... my bad. i'm sorry in advance. also, please note, pov change only applies to the memory.

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

22:00 ──────────────ㅇ─ 24:00

His regret turns to pain as you whisper, “What did you just say?”

—

HOUR TWENTY TWO – 1:00 PM

You can’t speak. It’s as if you’re frozen; every muscle, including your tongue, has gone rigid. Every racing thought escapes just beyond your reach. Every single one of the last twenty two hours pound behind your rib cage, and you think you might just faint. Right here, right now. The blood rushes your ears as your body goes ice cold, and even the railing cutting into your palm seems to drift away from you. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He doesn’t even try to deny it. He knows you heard what he said – he can’t take it back. It’s written plainly on his face that if he could, he would swallow back down those disastrous words. He’d grab that destruction four letter word right out of the air, no doubt, and set it aflame. He’d blow away the ash if he could guarantee you would have never heard it.

But he can’t. You heard him. 

I’ve loved you for so long. 

Everything is heavy. The air, your limbs, your godforsaken tongue. 

“Say something,” he suddenly begs. You’ve never seen Eddie look so desperate, eyes wet and voice cracking, “Anything.” 

You want to answer him. Your bones ache with the need – the need to reply, the need to question, the need to do anything but stare at him with what he must surely mistake for horror.

Were you horrified? Were you?

You don’t know. 

It’s why you can’t answer him. 

“I-” he starts up again, breaking down even further right before your eyes. You want to reach out, to coddle him, to tell him it’s fine. But it’s not fine. 

You don’t even get the chance to ruminate on just how not fine it is, or that heat beginning to come to a boil in the pit of your stomach, because the sound of one of the neighbors exiting out onto their own balcony interrupts the infinitely delicate moment. 

“Hey there, Eds-” You don’t know what actually interrupts the gruff man that steps out, who exudes familiarity with Eddie until he takes in the scene before him. 

Eddie, completely fucking naked. You, with only a shirt on. If it weren’t for the moment at hand and the trembling emotions coming to fruition inside of you, you’d probably find it comical. You’d probably find a way to join in the old man’s single guffaw before the two of you meet each other’s gaze and become aware of what exactly is happening.

But it’s not funny. You’re both fucking naked — physically and emotionally — and it’s not funny.

You’re mortified as both of you are scrambling across the balcony, a whirlwind of discarded clothes fisted and nearly tripping over each other to shove back into Eddie’s living room. That embarrassment now trickles down into the start of a boil, everything in you becoming red-hot from how flustered you’ve become and the way you can’t have a second to just process it all. 

When you turn to face Eddie once the sliding door has slammed shut, his cheeks are the brightest pink imaginable. 

“What the fuck,” you whisper out, trying to steady your breathing, trying to take it all in. 

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Your adrenaline is almost making you sick. 

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he catches your whisper amongst your stoic silence and seems to forget the moment that his neighbor had just shattered, voice clear as day as he pulls his curtains shut. You swear you catch the old man still staring, still laughing, and you’re just grateful that you’re not the one completely nude, “I had no idea Mr. Jenkins would come outside, usually none of those fuckers see the light of day before sundow-”

“Your neighbor just saw us naked,” you almost scream. You want to shout, want to throw everything in sight. You crave to flip that coffee table in the center of the room and throw a fit that outdoes even the most petulant of toddlers.

“I know, I-“

“If you say sorry again, I’m walking back out there,” you take a deep breath, but it does nothing to calm you’re shaking body, “And I’m throwing myself off the fucking balcony.”

Maybe you’ll be able to laugh about it in five years. A year, even. Hell, a month or as soon as next week. But you can’t right now; all you want to do is cry.

Some random man just saw you naked. Eddie apparently fucking loves you. 

It might be the sleep deprivation and it might be the fact that it feels like the Universe is laughing in your face at every turn right now. Whatever higher power exists seems to be waiting around every corner for the chance to kick you repeatedly as you stumble to this finish line. And you can’t fucking take it.

So you give in. You give in to that childish need to stomp your feet and scream until you’re blue in your lips.

“I just- Fuck!” Eddie jumps a bit at your exclamation, he’s still naked, “I can’t catch a break! I can’t catch a fucking break. First, I’m showing up here, and I’m stuck with you for twenty four hours. I’m stuck with the man I hate for a whole fucking day,” you’re full on pacing, not caring how ridiculous this scene would appear to anyone. Your hands wave erratically in the space around you, and all Eddie can do is stare, tense with wide eyes, “And I cry in front of you, have full breakdowns in front of you. I listen to you remind me over and over how much you truly despise only to now suddenly find out that, hey! I actually love you! And do I get to process that? No. Because now, some fucking old man that lives next door to you has seen my goddamn vag-“ 

Eddie’s entire demeanor collapses. “Oh, so now I’m back to being the man you hate?” 

You pause your ranting, realizing what you’ve said. 

You’re just angry. You should have thought before you spoke, before you opened your mouth and began to spew your venom, because you can see the way the words have struck Eddie. Not your intention.

“I didn’t mean that.”

“But you said that,” he flatly argues back. 

Your stomach twists.

“I’m just-“ your tongue is back to being heavy as the two of you face one another. Feet apart, worlds apart. “I’m fucking embarrassed, Eddie.” 

“You think I’m not?” he scowls, and you try to tell your racing heart it’s a good sign. But it’s not. You almost preferred his walls dividing the two of you, “Shit fucking happens. We got caught — we fucking dirty talked about getting caught! Big fucking deal! Karmic justice or whatever bullshit people spew. It doesn’t mean I’m going to- It doesn’t change-“ he’s stuttering now, matching that exasperation that had you pacing just moments before. He huffs, a hand reaching up and dragging his bangs upward, harsh at the root as he finally drops his hands in his own defeat, palms slapping his sides, “Everything changes. You said that, not me. You said everything changes, and all it takes is a little bit of fucking embarrassment to go back on your word?” 

He’s still fucking naked. You still can’t think.

“I’m not having this conversation with you naked,” you whisper, almost in disbelief as you shake your head, “I’m- Put your fucking clothes on. Please.” 

“Put my clothes on?” he scoffs, taking a step closer to you, “Put my clothes on? Do you mean the same clothes you just insisted I take off not even ten minutes ago?” 

“We were having sex!” you yell. You’re sure if the old man is no longer on his balcony, he can hear you through the walls. Hell, even if he is still outside, it’s likely he hears the screaming match beginning, “Why- Why are you turning this on me right now? You just said you fucking love me! The least of our issues right now is me telling you to get fucking dressed!” 

“Why are you lashing out at me right now?” Eddie’s voice is louder than yours, something more broken inside of it, “I-“

“Clothes,” you grit out, avoiding his eyes as you start to yank your panties on violently, “Now.” 

You can still feel him. His essence is dripping between your thighs. And you don’t find any sense of enjoyment in it, you don’t savor that quick-fading warmth nor the reminder of the pleasure he’d just brought you. It just reminds you of the words he had said all while not even looking you in the eyes. He couldn’t even face you as he had admitted it. 

One thing at a time, you try to remind yourself. One fucking thing at a time. 

Eddie’s own redressing is another sight that maybe, hopefully, one day you’ll look back on and laugh at. But right now, it can’t spark any amusement in you. Not as all your emotions slam back into you at full force.

You’re embarrassed. You’re confused. You’re angry.

“Happy?” he spits out once his boxers are on, shirt tugged back on so hard over his head that his curls frizz up.

“No,” your eyes are burning, and you feel it again. All those desperate emotions. Like a wild animal inside of you has begun to claw at your insides, making you bleed from the inside out. 

Eddie loves you — and he has, for a long time, apparently.  

Eddie’s neighbor has seen you naked. Saw your full bottom half exposed.

You’ve managed to hurt Eddie’s feelings, again.

Eddie fucking loves you and never thought to mention it. He has for a long time.

All your tempered strings snap, that wild and stricken thing inside of you finally cutting loose.

You don’t know what you’re angry at. You’re angry at him, and yet you’re not. You’re angry at the situation, and yet you’re not. You are bitter from words withheld and you are sour from every moment that paves the road that brought you two to this very moment.

You’re just angry.

“What did you mean?” the question comes out sharply enough to make his own defiant anger fade ever so slightly as he physically flinches, “I- I need to know what the Hell you meant, Eddie.” 

Anger is metallic on your tongue. It seeps from your skin, floods the air, only further dampens everything already so heavy. 

The longer he doesn’t answer you, the more smothering the entirety of the apartment becomes.

“Just tell me. Make it make sense, because right now?” you pause for a deep and shaky breath. Your eyesight is blurry now. Eyes red rimmed with tears that will surely sear your cheeks if they find the nerve to be shed, “Right now, I don’t get it. Over and over and over again, you have reminded me that you hate me. Prior to tonight, it was safe to assume that scorning my existence was one of your favorite pastimes. And I know, I get it — everything has changed. But- But-“ 

How can anything change if you weren’t honest to begin with? 

Did anything change for him? While you were discovering and tending to sore feelings that had been festering for a while but had never seen the light of day, was he only nursing an old wound? 

“But what?” his voice drops low. His entire demeanor has dropped, cowering down before you. His head dips down, his shoulders droop with prepared rejection, you watch the man before you, the man you had just let defile you and the man you had just worshiped on your goddamn knees, turn to dust.

A shaky gasp. Wobbly knees. The blood rushes through your ears again, flushing out any noise except the two of you breathing out of sync. His deep breaths, accepting and welcoming a rejection he was so sure he was receiving. Your shallow breaths, panting and rapid and trying to just get everything to slow the fuck down.

You were right. Once the tears shed, they burn a trail of Hellish fury right down the center of each cheek. “When I say everything has changed between us, what does that mean to you?” 

He’s undressing an old wound, an open slash that seems to be unable to form a scab. You’re pressing on bruises, aching parts of you that had purpled from his neglect long ago. It’s clear as day now — the difference.

You no longer care about the embarrassment of being caught.

“What do you want it to mean?” 

“Don’t do that,” the tears fall faster now. You can’t even begin to dig into this chasm of emotions. Are you angry at him? Are you disappointed by the circumstances? Do you love him? “I want an answer — I need your answer. You promised me your honesty, so give me it. Now.” 

His eyes meet yours, and your entire world seems to fold into itself, “It… doesn’t mean much. It doesn’t change much.” 

Everything has only changed for you. 

“So it means nothing, then? You have me at your disposal, you have me on my fucking knees for you, you tell me you fucking love me, and it all means nothing?” 

You’re twisting his words and you know it. But you can’t help it, can’t stop it. 

“I never said that!” his voice is no longer low and quiet. Sudden worry creases beside his eyes as his mouth goes slack in shock, “I never said it meant nothing.” 

“But it doesn’t mean much, right?” You hate your wet cheeks. You hate the way everything in you is somehow slow-breaking, yet suddenly shattering. An unnerving juxtaposition that is drowning you and sending you reeling over and over again, “It doesn’t change much, right? Because when I said that, Eddie, I meant it – everything fucking changed for me. It wasn’t- It’s not- This isn’t just some throwaway thing to me. Not even a day ago, I thought I had to hate you with everything I had. I thought I had to hate you.”

And I don’t. Not even a little bit. Even right now, when I should. 

“Is that what you think I’m saying?” his voice is low where your voice has risen, his face calm where yours has gone stormy. 

Where you’re on fire, he’s treading still waters. The opposite dilemma that has always existed, and the one you had the nerve to see as poetic. But water meeting flames is never poetic. It never ends well. You should have seen that coming from a mile away.

“What am I supposed to think?” you also quiet your tone to match his. You wonder if the neighbors really had heard a thing. You almost hope they had, that this argument is affecting someone else’s day the way it’s affecting you, “You’re standing here, and you’re telling me it doesn’t mean much, and-“

“It doesn’t change much,” he corrects, and you’re now the one flinching at the crack in his voice. “Not for me. Not when I-“

Not when I’ve loved you for so long.

He can’t even finish his own sentence.

“So what does it change?” you throw your hands out in exasperation, “If it doesn’t change much, what has it changed?” 

There it is again — his silence, your anger. 

“Is it not enough to just know it changes something?” 

If you were stupid, you’d take his tone as pleading. You’d mistake it for begging. But you can’t. For all your fury, you can’t believe that he’s actually stooped so low as to beg for you, especially after what he’s just said. Time and time again, you had repeatedly cracked yourself wide open for him, and he’d managed to rip your heart right out of your chest with such a simply yet damning statement. The most casually cruel bit of honesty he had offered you yet tonight: that nothing changes.

“We’re back to square one,” you choke out in realization, “I- Fuck. This entire time, you weren’t honest with me.” 

He opens his mouth quickly, and for a second you believe he’ll offer an explanation that can soothe over the ache. He’ll come up with an excuse that you can buy, he’ll explain himself in a way that proves you wrong, and the sweet oblivious bliss can return. 

“No,” he says instead after careful consideration, “I wasn’t honest with you.” 

Your tears are running rampant as you only nod slowly, pressing your lips together in defeat, “Awesome. Great,” you reach up, sniffling as you swipe at your nose, still silently quiet but no longer awarding him with any display of your rage, of your hurt, of anything but your acceptance, “No, really, that’s- Cool. Nothing changes. I get it.” 

I’ve loved you for so long. 

It didn’t make sense, but you don’t have it in you to dissect it any further. He had loved you the entire time, and still set out to make you bleed. His grand admission doesn’t change a single fucking thing. 

You don’t say another word as you grab your pair of jeans up into your fist, being sure to move slowly and not in the haste every nerve in your body calls for. You need to leave – you need out of this apartment, and you need to never see Eddie Munson again. It wouldn’t be a far leap from what your friends already deal with. If the friendships take blows of damage from it, so be it-

“Where are you going?” he asks, standing stiller than a statue as he watches you.

You grab your bag, “I’m leaving. The deal’s off. Or- I don’t know. Tell them the bet’s off-”

“The bet is not off-”

“It is,” you turn to him, absolutely frozen in your resolution, “It really, really is. You can even fucking lie to them if you want, I don’t care. Figure out a way to get the money but I don’t want it. I’m done.” 

“So that’s it?” he scoffs in disbelief. When you pull on your jeans, when you sling your bag back over your shoulder and begin to walk to the counter where your phone was left, he realizes that it’s really happening. He realizes you’re truly done, “No questions? I just told you I wasn’t fucking honest, and you’re just going to walk away, not even demand I tell the tru-”

“I’m tired of pulling the truth from you,” you finally move with some of the aggression you felt, hand smacking the counter beside your phone, “If you care so much, if you love me, I shouldn’t have to beg until my knees bleed for you to actually be honest with me,” you take your phone, shoving it into your back pocket before you look at him, “I can’t keep doing this. You were always right. They’re your friends. Congratulations, you got what you always said you wanted. You won’t have to deal with me anymore – consider this a farewell from your life. I’ll make sure no one invites you to my fucking funeral.” 

You assume he grabs you due to your cruel reference to his insult from the very beginning of the night, that he’s going to fight you for that bit of your oddly calm speech. But when his hands wrap around your bicep, and you face him with those silent tears still racing, what comes out of his mouth stuns you. 

“I’ll be honest,” he is pleading, he is begging, “Stay, and I’ll tell you everything. I don’t even fucking care about the bet — we can call off, everyone else can go to Hell. I don’t care about the money, I don’t care about the bet, I just-” he pauses, and you watch the desperation building taller and taller within him, “Stay and let me explain.”

You should tell him no. You should tell him to go to Hell. If you stay and hear him out, it will only end in pain for you. You should leave.

Instead, your bag begins to slip off your shoulder. 

“You have ten minutes,” you whisper as his hand finally releases its grip, “Explain.”

—

SIX MONTHS EARLIER - EDDIE’S POV

If he were smart, Eddie would’ve kept his word.

He’d told them he wasn’t showing up. He’d told them he had work (not a complete lie), and that he wouldn’t make it tonight. He just hadn’t felt like drinking anymore — not since two weeks prior, when he’d gotten black out drunk while hanging out with Nancy, throwing his own personal pity party. 

Pathetic.

It wasn’t just that killer headache that had been haunting Eddie since that night. It was much more than that; it was solid and palpable regret. He’d thrown back too many beers, mixed it with some sort of wine coolers that Nancy offered him once he started to feel the buzz. All it took was just a bit too much alcohol in his system, and suddenly, his rant that Nancy had agreed to indulge him in became so much more. One moment, he was just complaining about you. And the next, he was rambling, letting less harsh words slip between the complaints, more compliments than things he wanted you to change. One wine cooler in, and he was no longer complaining about the way everyone had been fawning over you after a full six months of friendship, but instead the way that your sad eyes and pouting lips following him around a room was cosmically unfair. 

He didn’t remember much of the rest of the night, and he was glad when Nancy had given him a pitiful look over the cups of coffee she offered. 

He’d told her. He knew he’d admitted his stupid, annoying, despicable crush on you to her. Probably whined about the way you and Harrington had clearly had something going on. Definitely spoke too much about how badly he wanted to experience your gentle hand in his calloused one, or to feel your arms wrap around his neck in greeting rather than daggers from your glare every time he entered a room. Hell, he’s sure there was a good thirty minute period amongst the fuzzy memories where he’d sat on the edge of tears as he continued to mumble about how he wasn’t good enough for you.

Nancy Wheeler, his best friend, finally knew. Six fucking months of keeping it under wraps, and Eddie Munson had finally slipped up.

And she clearly hasn’t forgotten as Eddie had prayed she would every single night as she’s the one to answer his knocks on Steve’s door, grinning with the hidden knowledge.

She’d texted him with one last plea for him to show up. Insisted everyone was here. Went so far as to make him a list, and made sure to add your name at the end. It had been phrased like an afterthought on the screen, but he knew her too well. He knew Nancy purposefully mentioned you.

“Munson! Finally! It took you long enough,” she squeals, clearly already halfway to drunk before she quiets down, “And you said you weren’t coming. Wonder what, or who, changed your mind.” 

“Fuck off.” 

It had been a bad day. Work, classes, a phone call with Wayne that had just left Eddie disheartened and terribly homesick. It was selfish, but the thought of seeing you in passing tonight, even if you did seem to dislike him just as he had intended, made it all a bit more bearable. 

Coming home. Seeing you felt like coming home, even if you’d slammed the front door on his face.

He follows Nancy down the hall, a pit growing in the bottom of his stomach, heavy as ever. He shouldn’t have even wanted to see you. The last time he had seen you, you’d been out for blood, blatantly ruining a date he’d managed to bag with Chrissy Cunningham. Chrissy, who never gave him the time of day in high school. Chrissy, who was clearly set on using him as a rebound during yet another break from Jason. Chrissy, who’s only flaw wasn't just the fact that she wasn’t you.

“Eddie, my man!” Argyle greets Eddie the moment he enters the living room. He’s lounging on the couch, Jonathan to his right and a space where Nancy clearly had occupied now empty. 

Eddie nods, still feeling the week weighing him down. No sight of you yet, “Hey, man.” 

He just wanted to see you. One glimpse, preferably before you’ve caught sight of him, and he’d be fine. He’d learned to live with those fleeting moments the last six months, he could keep it up for just a bit longer.

He’d get over you eventually. Even if it killed him.

He had to give his plan time to work. So far, he’d done well, easily offering you a cold shoulder and nothing more after that first night. It wasn’t easy — he doesn’t think anyone would find the task of being cool towards someone as radiant as you easy — but he’d done it. Brick by brick, his wall of invincibility was standing tall and strong between you two. It was safer this way, he had to remind himself. It was better to run off of brief glances of your smiles and laughter never directed at him than to risk anything more. He’d only disappoint you, or you’d magically disappoint him, and it would end in bloodshed. Someone like you, someone so good and kind and easy to gravitate towards, would leave Eddie broken beyond damage. 

You didn’t go for guys like Eddie. Steve had made that clear since day one.

Eddie takes the loveseat as Nancy returns to Jonathan’s side. He tries to make it subtle, the way he twists his head to glance around the room as he removes his jacket, eyes roaming until he finds you. In the kitchen, with Steve and Robin, tense back telling him you’d already noticed his arrival.

So much for seeing you smile.

He tries to keep up with the conversation going on. Argyle and Jonathan are having some sort of debate about aliens, nothing short of heated and passionate, and he’d normally be jumping in without hesitation. But his eyes can’t stop flickering to the kitchen and each time, he can see you downing even more alcohol. He knows you don’t like him, but did you hate him that much?

“You’re awfully quiet,” Nancy leans over to whisper as Jonathan grows in volume about another branch of a conspiracy theory.

“Just tired,” he flatly replies. He’s suddenly itching to get his hands onto some alcohol of his own. Fuck the lessons he should’ve learned a few weeks ago. Fuck his regret in confiding in Nancy.

“Was work rough?”

He hums pathetically in response, eyes glued to the kitchen still. To you.

Nancy’s eyes finally follow his focus, “Have you… I don’t know, ever tried just talking to her?”

He snaps from his daze at that, head turning quickly to Nancy, “I talk to her all the time.” 

“You do not.”

“I do too.”

“Never nicely,” she points out, narrowing her eyes, “You’re like a little boy on the playground, tugging on her pigtails until she figures it ou-“ 

“I don’t want her to figure it out,” he cuts off the assumption, eyes widening in horror at the thought, “Christ, Nance. I thought I made that clear when I ended up shitfaced on your couch.” 

Nancy softens. She can see what’s happening here, see every dampening thought that weighs Eddie down. He might not remember his drunken rambles, but she does. 

“The only thing you made clear is what a spectacular ass you’re making out of yourself,” her words hold no bite, only truth, “Who cares what Steve said that night? He was drunk.” 

“So was I,” Eddie’s eyes are back on you, palms running up his outer thighs until he curls them to fists by his hips, “I was drunk when I talked to you about her. Forget about it.” 

Surprisingly, his stubborn best friend leaves it be. Puts the pointless argument to rest.

Eddie’s feelings can’t rest, though. 

Every night, he tells himself it’ll all go away. The distance will make his heart grow harder, and he’ll eventually be able to wash himself of you one of these days. And every night, all the feelings you’ve sprouted inside of him only teem their way higher, up into his throat and choking him with every last breath before he falls asleep. He can’t forget those first few weeks, the way you seemed to think his coldness was a phase. You’d tried so desperately to seek him out at every function, sparked so many failed conversations with him that left him to burn. Every smile you’d offered him during that time, he’d taken for granted.

Even last week, when you’d interrupted his date, he’d let himself relish in the memory of your attention. Pathetic. 

Had you been jealous? Had you just been spiteful, finally giving him a taste of his own medicine? He couldn’t decide, wouldn’t let himself linger on the reasoning. But he’d remembered your touch, could still feel it scarring his skin wherever your palm of fingertips had rested as you’d scared off Chrissy. He’d even hesitated in the shower that night, pausing for a moment before washing over the shoulder you’d gripped when you’d first approached their table and embarrassed him without care. 

He deserved your spite. 

And he deserves to have to overhear the conversation you’re currently having in the kitchen. You’re going on and on about all the men you’ve had dates with, detailing out every one night stand for Steve and Robin who listen with eager ears.

It makes his stomach churn and twist sharply. Each new man you bring to your roster makes his throat burn with jealousy, plain and simple. And he knows it written all over his face when Nancy leans over and puts a hand on his knee, giving him a concerned look. 

Even the change of topic between Argyle and Jonathan on goddamn Bigfoot can’t overtake the sharp cut of your bragging. 

“I’ve never seen your eyes so green, Eddie.” 

He’s about to snipe back that his eyes are brown, and be unnecessarily cruel from his sour mood, when he realizes what she means.

“I’m not jealous,” he lies through his teeth.

“You very much are.” 

He doesn’t have it in him to bicker back and forth about this again. Not about you, and not with Nancy, “What does it matter? Like I said, me and her? Never gonna happen.”

He had said that. He remembers that, at least, from his drunken confession. He’s sure he reiterated that point several times once he’d made it past the point of coherency. 

“She’s lying,” Nancy casually whispers, pulling her hand back, “She- Us girls talk, you know? Just… she’s lying.” 

“I went on a date with Chrissy. It doesn’t matter.” 

And she has no clue how fucking hung up on her I am. She’ll never know if I have anything to do with it.

“You can keep saying that,” Nancy glances, making sure their other two friends on the couch are still too deep in conversation to listen in, “But we both know that’s not true.” 

Unsurprising. Even if Nancy hadn’t listened to him cry that night about all his miserable yearning, all his unrequited feelings born out of a mess he got himself into, she would have known. Eddie has tried to guard himself when it comes to you, but there’s some times his leashed affection can’t help but seep out. 

Whenever you stumble on sidewalks beside him, his arms and hands are the first to fly out. Whenever the group has gone out to bars altogether, he watches you like a hawk, almost daring the men surrounding you to disrespect you. Whenever your birthday came around, he’d bought that damn gift card to his favorite coffee shop, all because he saw you frequent it twice. Although, to be fair, he’d made Harrington be the messenger there. He wouldn’t have been able to look you in your eye, wouldn’t have been able to put up the bitter persona on a day that should be special to you. He didn’t want to ruin your birthday, so he’d simply sat on the sidelines. Let everyone else go out and celebrate with you. Let everyone else pour enough affection into your cup, even when he wishes his own could have been the final drops to cause it to overfill. 

He had to tread carefully. It’d be too easy — to let himself pour out all these silly feelings and meaningless attraction. One wrong move, and he’d cause his own undoing. His own destruction. It doesn’t matter if it would be by your hand; he’d only have himself to blame at the end of the day.

He’s lost in thought, still itching for a drink, when Nancy is suddenly standing over him. “We’re going out for a smoke, you in?” 

He shakes his head numbly. His mind is far away now, getting lost in all that he’s done wrong, all that he can’t have. 

He’s homesick. He’s watched the way you’ve interacted with Robin and Steve the entire night, and he’s goddamn homesick for a home that he’ll never hold the keys to. 

“You sure, man?” Argyle asks him, wiggling his brows, “I brought the good shit.” 

Numbing his mind with drugs. It’s tempting.

“I’m good,” he reaffirms, still speaking in monotone. He doesn’t have the energy to put up a brave face, too focused on his heavy chest and that miserable pit in his gut still. 

And everyone leaves. He’s sure there’s something poetic for his stormy mind to pick up on there, as he watches his friends gather without him and exit to the outside, but he’s more focused on a miniscule detail.

You’re not with them.

Meaning you’re still in the kitchen.

And God, he really should know better. He should stay planted in his seat and he should sit in his misery until they all return. Only trouble can come from not doing so. But then his body moves to its own accord, fueled by something wickedly cruel and terribly homesick as he grabs one of the bottles of beer off the coffee table. It’s Nancy’s, he’s sure of it. Her lipstick stains the opposite side of the rim he takes a swig from. The beer has long since gone lukewarm, but beggars can’t be choosers. He clears his throat as the bitter lingers on his tongue.

He should know better.

But he doesn’t. He really, really doesn’t as he enters the kitchen. You’re on your phone as he stands in the doorway, and there’s no time to hide what you’d been glancing over.

A dating app.

You spin to face him, and he imagines a world where your eyes land on him and light up. Something akin to that first night, to those first few weeks. Where you look at him with purpose, and he sees relief flood your irises rather than irritation or fear. 

No such luck. He only has himself to blame.

He can’t think of anything else to say, so like an idiot, he gestures vaguely with the bottle of beer towards your phone, “Those apps fucking suck.” 

That jealousy is still gnawing at him. Hateful, painful, reckless. 

You look down at your phone for a second, and click to exit whatever messages you’d been on. And then you look back up at him.

“You’ve used them in the past?” you question him, but he’s still stuck on all the recounts of your escapades he’d overheard tonight. Whether or not they were true didn’t matter. All he sees when he closes his eyes is you, with other men. You, looking at someone else with purpose, relieved eyes awarded to someone more worthy.

He’s lucky he can choke out a short, “Nope,” and make it not sound strangled. 

“Okay,” your attention returns to your phone screen, and Eddie’s returns to his internal battle.

He’s jealous. So goddamn jealous it’s insufferable. It’s not your fault – he chose to push you away, he chose to lash out like a child for his own sanity and his own safety. You’d ruin him; you’ve already ruined him without even trying. If he gave up on the act, on this carefully thought out plan, he’d be beyond leftover rubble of a man. He’d be gone beyond recognition, reduced to ash and smoke. A nameless, forgotten whisper of dust that people would only point to and say, see? Look at that. That’s what becomes of you when you never learn. 

He’s pined enough in his lifetime after girls like you. Girls who were too good for him. He’d done it with Chrissy, and it was still causing him nothing but trouble. 

That burden didn’t hang over Chrissy, or over you. It was all Eddie’s own fault. Neither of you could help that he wasn’t good enough; it wasn’t either of your jobs to fix him or lower your standards for him. You’d even been kind, you’d even nearly fallen into that trap. 

It was for the better. All of it was for the better this way. 

And yet the jealousy remains. The anger still thrives between his ribs, and begs for release. 

“Why are you even still on them?” he should think over his words more carefully as they begin to roll off his tongues. He knows he’s in the wrong before he even continues, “I heard you’ve been having a shit time with the guys on there – quite the opposite of what you’ve been telling Harrington tonight, might I point out.” 

Each word is sharpened so intentionally, glinting from raking against that anger inside of him. You don’t deserve their prick. Really, he should just be comforting you the way the others do – how Robin surely was, how Steve must be. 

But it’s part of the plan. So he tampers down the jealousy and he feeds into the anger, lets it consume him. Because making you hate him is easier than letting you like him. It’s easier to watch the one you can’t have sneer at you like the enemy than let them smile at you like you’re just a friend. 

“I-” you falter in your words, and he decides to straighten his back, takes a deep breath as he slips the mask on effortlessly. He hates how easy it’s become. He hates how quickly he turns everything with you into a fight, “You win some, you lose some. It’s the nature of the app.” 

Sometimes, it’s like a game. And he can pretend that your hatred, your distaste, is also all a facade. Like the both of you are two sides of the same coin. A playful banter rather than an actual argument between two people who can’t even call themselves friends. When he looks at it like that, blinded by his delusion, it makes the ache dull. Sends it away for a few fleeting seconds, convinces himself he really can carry on this way. 

“You haven’t made it sound like you’re losing at all, tonight. I nearly started a drinking game with Nance where we took a swig every time you said you managed to pull another ‘fuck ‘em and leave ‘em’. Quite the boy count you’ve got there, player,” he forces a grin as he leans on the counter, watching his words get under your skin exactly as he had intended. 

You’re cute like this. Clearly drunk, getting flustered. He revels in the way your face physically scrunches in annoyance, the way he can watch you gear up to fight fire with fire. A sick, twisted game of cat and mouse that always can entertain him in the moment and haunt him at night. 

“You’re bluffing. You couldn’t hear me from all the way over there.”

He wonders, for a second, if you’d caught him staring at any point. He wonders if you’d even care.

“We could.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“Yes, we could.”

“You’re lying.” 

You cross your arms, and he can’t help but watch the way they push your chest up. He can’t help but ponder on how much better it would all feel if this were really playful banter. 

He has to refrain from physically shaking the thought from his mind. 

It’s for the better. 

He narrows his eyes, he grips onto the anger again, that hidden jealousy. He should know better. He should stop it. The words even feel heavy on his tongue, terribly forced. Because his anger isn’t at you. 

“I’m lying? You’re the one who’s been telling Stevie nothing but lies tonight,” and oh, how ironic, for the liar to be calling out someone’s little white lies, “Why do you need to even lie about all that, anyways? It’s not like the truth would be any more pathetic than the act you’re putting up,” the words come out a bit easier when imagines the barrel of the gun pointed at himself, as if he were speaking so casually cruelly into a mirror rather than at you, “Everyone strikes ou-”

He’s clearly struck a nerve. And it aches, but he reminds himself that that’s the point. That’s his goal.

 “I’m pathetic? Just last week, you lied to the group. You were trying to avoid being where I’d be and told them you had to walk your neighbor’s dog.” 

He wasn’t trying to avoid you. He was trying to avoid Nancy after his entire drunken confession fiasco. 

“I did!” he continues to lie. Even with no one to show for, he piles up his lies high. Buries himself beneath them, beneath his pathetic act and worthless reasons. It’s probably for the best that you had assumed that he was avoiding you. 

“Your apartment has a strict no pet policy, Eddie.” 

The act cracks for a moment as he freezes. Why did you know about his apartment’s pet policy? 

“How do you know that?”

It can’t be because you care, or even get curious about him. He’s done everything in his power to cause the exact opposite, to make you be repulsed by him and to run the other way if you can help it. 

“I didn’t, but Nancy did,” He doesn’t even react to the roll of your eyes, unable to get riled up as he usually would at that. It clicks for him; it makes sense, because Nancy had stormed down his door not even a day later, “It’s all I had to hear about the entire night. How she wishes we could get along, how she hates when you lie to her. Thanks for that, by the way.” 

Eddie does feel guilty about that. He doesn’t mean for his own self-destructive behavior to leach out to his friends, or even you. His goal has always been to make it so that when he’s not around, he’s not even an afterthought to you. But selfishly, part of him preens at the idea of you being reminded of him, of you thinking of him when he’s not in the room with you. It’s a conundrum. It’s almost deadlier than his other option. 

“It’s not my fuckin’ fault you go out with my friends,” he grumbles like a damn child, almost pouting in his guilt. There’s another selfish sliver of him that’s also upset at that – upset at the fact everyone else gets to bloom with your friendship and positive attention, but not him. Once again, it’s his own doing. He really shouldn’t be angry at you about it. 

“And it’s not my fault that you don’t.” 

Times like these make him want to give it all up. He has to physically tense his body, tick his jaw and bite his tongue to avoid throwing the entire act to the side. He wants nothing more than to grab you by your shoulders and shake you, scream that sometimes it is your fault. But you don’t know it – you can’t read his mind, see past his intentions. 

You don’t know what Steve had so generously reminded him of that very first night. 

“Whatever. Why are you lying to Steve?” his voice is devoid of all emotion despite the storm brewing inside of him. He can’t even blame it on alcohol – he wishes he could, but his tolerance to beer can handle the single sip he’s taken. He crosses his arms, wrapping them around his body, trying to protect that terrible vulnerability only he’s aware of. When your position mirrors his, he wonders for a moment if you’re also feeling it. 

But you’ve been drinking. This entire conversation, every emotion, can be blamed on that. You’re luckier than Eddie. 

“I’m not lying.”

“You are. With Steve, and with me at this very moment.” 

He lets a reaction at his own irony slip through for a brief second, eyebrows furrowing as the voice inside him screams hypocrite! Hypocrite! Hypocrite!

He wishes he could pretend to be oblivious to why he can’t stop bringing Steve up, but he knows better. He can bury the jealousy alive, but it still bites all the same. 

“How the fuck do you even know how my dating life is going? We aren’t exactly friends. Did Robin tell you? Did Steve tell you?” 

We aren’t exactly friends. 

He should relish that confirmation that his plan is working, that you truly don’t see him as a friend, but it just fucking stings. He swallows hard physically, as if it can help him swallow down the truth any better, but it does nothing for him. The truth only continues to choke him up. His tongue has momentarily frozen over in his mouth as he tries to push past the painful reminder and wrap up this conversation. He feels it, that sharp burn of an unattended wound, and he realizes at the wrong moment that whether or not he keeps you at an arm's length, bloodshed will always occur. 

At least this way, he tells himself it’s protecting himself. This way, the knife isn’t pointed at his own heart. 

“You’re right. We aren’t friends,” the words are poison on his tongue. They taste of dirt and rust, like a grave that screams to be dug up but he has no shovel. He’d tossed it once he’d sealed the tomb, like a fool, “But Rob and Nance are, and Nance and me are. See where I’m going with that one?” 

At least he wasn’t lying to you for a brief moment. Nance had told him. He’d throw you that bone, at least. 

“Well-” and with your own pause, you seemingly return the favor. You’re handing him yet another opportunity on a silver platter; exposing an insecurity that he should let live and let die, but he won’t for the sake of the wall he has bled to put up between you two, “You say that as if Nancy and I aren’t friends.” 

“Are you?” 

He’ll regret that taunt for the rest of his days. Two simple words, and he’s damned himself. The conversation that follows, about Instagram and followers and social standards of friendship, doesn’t even matter to him. It’s just a routine. Constant knives, clashing swords of words, lie after lie piling up with the bile in his throat as he shoots for kills. He hands over reason after reason for you to resent him, and makes sure that each punch lands. Ignores the ache, the one billowing in his knuckles as if each subtle insult he tosses your way doesn’t bruise his innards all the same way. By the end of the back and forth, it should be enough, for both of you. He’s accomplished the same thing he always sets out to do with every conversation: he pisses you off, putting another inch in that stretch between you two. 

But then you turn your back on him. And he deserves it. God, he deserves it. But he’s still full of bad ideas tonight, the awfulness of the last few days still suffocating him, and so he makes another decision to regret. He walks up behind you.

You open your phone, and he sees it. You’re on the dating app again, and the screen flashes with the face of your latest contender. 

He knows that face. He schools his face to remain even, but he fucking knows that face. 

The bartender at his local haunt. The only other person besides Nancy who had ever seen Eddie so miserable over you. He had been drinking alone that night, and the whiskey had him pouring out his guts to the poor guy. Slurred words of the girl who had slipped between his fingers, of the one who got away, of you. 

And that same bartender had been the one to sympathize with Eddie, claiming he understood. That he knew that feeling – dating around and doing anything in your power to get the girl you truly want off your mind. He said he had one of his own. He’d told Eddie that his pain-riddled speeches helped him make up his mind, that he was going to go after the girl he really wanted, that Eddie should do the same. 

Was this bartender your ex-boyfriend? Had the two of them been discussing the exact same girl?

Bad decisions. Over, and over, and over. It all comes to a rise within Eddie – not just the anger, but the jealousy and the hurt and the goddamn envy of the man on the screen. He hates the bartender, he hates himself, he hates the world at this point.

He tells himself he should add you to that list. But he doesn’t. He can’t. 

And it all spirals out of control before he can prove that to himself. Words grow sharper, small kindles of tension between the two of you finally explode to full blown flames, and he’s suddenly saying things he doesn’t mean. Things he’ll linger on for the days and weeks, the months to come. 

“You’re so dense, you never realize that you’re not wanted, Not by those assholes, not here-” 

He’s mid-lie, one finger on the trigger of the gun he assumed was aimed at his own chest, when it finally happens. A snap within both of you. Timed perfectly with the glass that shatters against the wall beside his head. 

Eddie learns two things that night. 

One, half of his plan worked. He’s succeeded. You hated Eddie Munson’s guts, and instead of him being content in his success, he’s sick to his stomach. It doesn’t bandage the wound inside of him, doesn’t pack away cotton nor cauterize the bleeding. It only worsens it. Widens it, impossibly so. He swears shards of that broken glass fly right into his unsuspecting chest, even if Nancy doesn’t find a trace on him when she comes back inside to see the aftermath. You hate him, he’s proven his point. He has proven himself to be the worst possible version of himself, the most unlovable man he had always seen in the mirror now residing in him staunchly enough that every single one of his friends sees it. 

He’d done it. He’d diminished any chance he had ever held of being friends with you. And he thought that, without a doubt, that meant he’d diminished any disastrous chance of letting you close enough to risk the chance of any more of his feelings getting involved. He thought it would have meant that he’d done it – he’d protected himself, and in some sick twisted way you, from inevitable bloodshed. 

But blood had still been shed. Even if his friends were only cleaning up broken glass in the kitchen, he could still see the stain of red across the floor and walls from you and him. He was bleeding out for you, but he had just driven the knife in deep enough that you would never return the feeling. There was no world where you would be bleeding out for him, only because of him. 

The second revelation comes a bit later in the night.

Closer to midnight, hours after the fight, when Eddie finds himself alone as per usual. He stumbles to his usual bar, thankful for the late hours, fully prepared to get so fucking wasted he can’t remember his own name. He’d wish to not remember your face, especially when he had spewed such hateful intent your way, but he knows there’s not a single brand or amount of whiskey out there that can cleanse him of that. Your name is just another ghost to add to the lineup. You’ll haunt him until his dying day. And he deserves that. 

But then, when he walks into the bar, he sees the bartender. 

The same man who had stood you up just the night before. The same man Eddie simply couldn’t understand. He was clearly on a date, a nice girl sat at the table across from him, laughing at every word he said. Eddie remembers their conversation, although a bit hazy. 

“I think you’re onto something, man. Some girls are just… irreplaceable. I’ve got a girl like that of my own – prettiest eyes you’ll ever see, a smile that could cure cancer – and… you know what? I think we should both go for it. Give up on the girls who could never compare.” 

He wants to vomit. The bastard had even poured a round of shots on the house, had fucking cheered with Eddie before throwing back the alcohol with him in the promise of moving onto the girls who matter. 

He had said cheers to discarding you. Brushing off you. To you being one of the girls who could never compare. 

Eddie’s vision goes red, and he knows half of the blame falls on himself. He’d been the reason this asshole stood you up. He had already been the reason for your pain tonight before he’d even said a word to you. His self hatred has never burned so deeply, so viciously.

But you can’t punch yourself. And so instead, Eddie doesn’t hold back when he approaches the table and lands his right knuckles right on the bastard’s cheek bone. Even goes in for a second punch. He would have gotten in a third punch, but the bartender hits back. Not as hard as Eddie, fists fueled by self-defense rather than ravaging guilt and crippling self-hatred, but enough to get deter him until security could gather both men up.

It’s in the alleyway that he has his second revelation. At the hands of the man who had just hurt you. It was like looking in a mirror. Eddie nearly does finally vomit as he leans against the brickwall, security a few paces away, ready to file a police report. But then, the bastard still manages to somehow be better than Eddie, throwing up a hand to stop them from dialing for the cops. 

“Don’t,” is all he says, leveling a stare when Eddie’s eyes fill with tears.

“Really?” Eddie cocks an eyebrow, pushing his luck. He needs someone to punish him. He needs to be thrown in a cell for the night, to be treated as the degenerate he truly was, “I just rearranged your fucking face and-”

“Why’d you punch me?” the bartender spits out some blood, nose crooked, “You- You’re a fucking regular, dude. How’d I piss in your cheerios?” 

Eddie’s feeling vulnerable. All his actual feelings boiling and burning in the back of his throat, begging to be released. He doesn’t need a drop of whiskey this time to be honest. 

“The girl,” Eddie rasps, tears threatening to spill as he pictures your face again, “I told you about the girl. The one no one else compared to.” 

The bartender’s eyes widen, “Jesus, fuc- are you telling me that we were talking about the same fucking girl? I- Vanessa told me she wasn’t seeing anyone else, I can’t believe she fucking lie-”

“Not her,” Fuck Vanessa, Eddie thinks bitterly, almost laughing. He has no right to say his next words, but he does, and they cause a pain worse than even the most nightmarish hangovers he’s ever experienced, “My girl is the one you stood up for her.”

You weren’t his girl. You never would be his girl. 

The bartender only looks more confused, and Eddie’s anger flares a bit more at the thought of him talking to more girls beyond you. The man before him had had everything Eddie wanted: he had had you. And just like Eddie, he had fucked it all up. It was easy to misdirect his anger in the moment. 

He says your name out loud, a searing iron in his throat that makes it come out garbled and strangled. Some recognition falls upon the man’s face. 

“Oh… her.” 

Eddie doesn’t hold back, “Her? That’s all you have to fucking say? You stood her up, you fucking- Jesus Christ, go burn in Hell,” He’s being irrational. He doesn’t care, “Call the cops on me. Tell them to let me rot in a fucking cell. I deserve it – but so do you. That girl… that… her. She’s one in a fucking million, she’s a thousand times better than whatever girl you have waiting on you inside, and you couldn’t see that. You’re a goddamn dick.” 

No one makes the move for the call. The bartender just shakes his head again, being far too patient. Eddie opens his mouth, ready to scream now as he demands they punish him. Make him pay for his crimes. Not just the punches, but everything he had broken tonight.

He broke you tonight. He deserves to burn in Hell far more than the man before him. 

“I knew you were in love with her, but-”

Eddie cuts him off, “I’m not in love with her.”

He hates the look he receives. It’s the same pity that Nancy now looks at him with. That same hidden judgment, like everyone else knows something that he doesn’t. 

“You may hate to hear it,” the bartender is choosing his words very carefully as he swipes in a contrasting carelessness at the blood pouring out of one of his nostrils, “But you don’t throw punches like that for a girl you’re not in love with. So I suggest you mind your business, and if she is as valuable as you keep going on about, you tell her rather than punching the dude he just serves you fucking alcohol.” 

He doesn’t even have to close his eyes to see you anymore. The image of you is clear as day, even with his eyes open. You, broken and vulnerable and full of hatred for him. Just as he had intended. 

Success tastes metallic and bitter. Eddie finally empties what little he had in his stomach onto that concrete alleyway.

He doesn’t leave the wall. Not when the bartender goes back inside with one of the bar’s bouncers, not when the remaining bouncer eyes him and nervously steps forward, not when they return with a paper declaring him banned from the bar. 

He can’t move. All he sees is you. He hasn’t drank more than that one pitiful swig of beer at Steve’s, but he feels like his world has gone incoherent all the same. 

He fucked up. 

He crinkles that piece of paper harshly once he’s properly left alone in the alleyway, angry enough that it tears a bit from his force. It doesn’t phase him; he didn’t intend on returning anyways. He carries it with him the entire way home, regardless, rolls it between his palms until it’s gone soft with the sweat of his hands. 

It’s for the better. He fucked up, but it’s for the better. 

He tosses the wadded ball into the trash when he gets home. Goes through the numb motions of taking off his shoes, tossing his jacket on the counter rather than the hook he’d put up for it, and leaves his bike’s keys beside it. Eventually, he makes his way to the bathroom, brushing his teeth but never once glancing up in the mirror. As a matter of fact, he avoided every single reflective surface in his apartment that night. 

He still sees your face, broken and teary, as he turns off his bedroom light and lays on his mattress that night. It doesn’t matter how many times he repeats it to himself, reminds himself over and over, the mantra of it being for the better doesn’t work. It can’t break through. All because of a pathetic revelation.

Eddie learns that night that he is, in fact, in love with you. And it doesn’t matter, because you hate his fucking guts, just as he had intended. 

—

You don’t make a single move once Eddie breathlessly finishes his explanation. Not even to breathe. 

He’s been in love with you since that night at Steve’s. 

You’d known that he had punched the bartender that night. You’d known that he had been banned from his usual bar that night. But you hadn’t known the entire truth. You couldn’t have ever imagined it, ever pieced it together, until now. 

And you don’t know if that speaks more on you and how dense you’ve been this entire time, or on Eddie and how dishonest he’s been this entire time. 

“God, I’ve loved you for so long, and I’ll never be fucking worthy.”

It suddenly makes sense. At a sickening and sudden pace, it clicks into place. 

“Eddie, I-” 

“Don’t,” he stops you, looking you directly in your eyes. You nearly shrink under his attention. Your fury is gone; you just feel empty, “You… You don’t need to say it back. You don’t need to say anything – the bet’s off. I’m not being honest to stop you from leaving,” he admits, every single wall crumbling at both of your feet, “I’m just being honest because you deserve it. I should have told you that night. I should- I actually should have never done any of this. Any of it.” 

You remember the girl you once were. In a bar, surrounded by strangers and new friends, with tunnel vision for the boy in front of you. You remember that feeling of coming home, the way you ached for him to let you in and had been fooled for one night that it was possible. 

A year later, and he was letting you in, too late. 

“Why?” your voice cracks. You should just pick up your bag and go, but you can’t. Not until you stick the final stitches into the wound, seal up this hurt once and for all. For you and for Eddie. “Why would you… Why would you do that? Why would you set out to make me hate you?” 

“Because I didn’t deserve you,” he says it like a simple fact, like it doesn’t shatter you apart, “Because I knew if I didn’t create the rift and kept letting you in, I’d fall in love with you. At first, I thought I needed you to hate me to prevent it. Figured you’d be stronger than me about it. If I made you hate me, I was… Honestly, I was saving myself. I’d tell myself it was about saving you, but it wasn’t. I was being fucking selfish.”

You nod silently, swallowing down tears. Tears for what could have been, tears for what you still want so badly that it aches. 

“All because of Steve making…” you trail off, head trying to wrap around all the honesty he had just presented you with, “Making some off-handed, drunk comment.” 

It was Eddie’s turn to silently nod. To swallow hard and flutter his eyes shut so you couldn’t see the hurt lit within them. 

“You said you hated me,” you’re thinking out loud more than you’re properly speaking to him at this point, voice broken and soft, hands fighting the urge to reach out for him. Even after it all. Every reminder of what he had done for you, and now having the pitiful reason behind it all, still couldn’t break what had formed here tonight. Everything has still changed for you, “When I said everything changes, I meant the hate – I didn’t want to hate you anymore.” 

“I know,” he bites his lip, as if he’s trying to hold back any careless words. Words that might hurt you, but not for the same reasons as they used to, “That’s why… not much has changed. I never hated you. God knows I wanted to. I told myself I had to hate you, because if I didn’t hate you, I’d love you. And I couldn’t do that again – I couldn’t handle falling in love with someone I couldn’t have. I knew I wouldn’t survive loving you when you’d never love me back. It wouldn’t be fair… to either of us.” 

“But you did it anyway,” you almost laugh at the awfulness of it all, terribly irony stacking up between you, “You fell in love with me, you said it yourself. You… you loved me.”

“Love,” he corrects, eyes now wide open, “I love you. It’s not- It’s not some feeling in the past tense. You should still hate me, because I still love you.” 

He’s right, you finally realize. You should hate him for all of this. 

“And all of this counted on the first part of your plan working,” he has to take a step closer, whether it be subconscious or due to how low your voice has dropped. The physical distance erased aches. Splinters each of your bones and all of your emotions, “Which you never even asked me if it worked, even now. You just assumed.” 

He takes a deep, brave breath before he quietly asks you, “Did it work?”

You both already know the answer now, “No.”

But it changes nothing. You know that, he knows that. It’s just as he said – the point of saying it out loud no longer has anything to do with repairing what’s been damaged just tonight. You’re both being honest only because you both deserve it. You both deserve to finally close this tomb. 

You don’t know if you’ll ever be able to close it, though. Not truly. Not properly. 

“I can’t stay,” you whisper, “I still… I still need to leave.” 

Especially now. 

“I know you do,” he responds. He’s gentle, understanding. 

It doesn’t stop the tear you see break from his lower lashes. He doesn’t draw any attention to it, doesn’t so much as move to clear it from his cheek. As if he’s scared if he does, you’ll notice it if you hadn’t already.

“The bet’s still off,” you continue, unable to meet his gaze as you pick up your bag once more. 

“I know it is.” 

He doesn’t try to stop you this time. And part of you, this time, wishes he would have as you slip back out the front door of apartment 2C and let the door shut with a quiet click behind you.

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[mediumgayitalian]

“Death Breath! Hey! Wait up!”

Nico bolts. He makes it about ten feet away from his cabin door before Will and his stupid long legs catch up with him, throwing an arm over his shoulder and then immediately tripping over his own foot and sending them both sprawling.

“I hate you,” Nico groans, curling up on the grass.

It’s too early for any of this. He was just trying to get back at Cecil for covering everything he owned in aluminum foil last week — and then he was going to go right the hell back to bed.

He knew he should have fucking shadow travelled.

“Aw, c’mon. You love me.”

Nico pretends to gag. The only thing he gets is Will’s crossed arms and raised eyebrow, so he doubles down and really starts to retch. Whatever. It’s eight thirty in the morning. He fell asleep at five. Rational thinking is a distant, distant memory.

“Whenever you’re done.”

“I will be sick at the thought for the next eight weeks,” Nico informs him. For dramatic effect, he looks up at Will’s face — which he cant even see, since the sun’s in his eyes — and shudders.

“You know, you have a genuine, beautiful talent for the dramatic arts, the likes of which I have never seen. Are you sure you’re not secretly an Apollo kid?”

I better not be, ‘cause then all the staring I do at your calves would be real weird, he thinks to himself, then considers whether he can convince Kayla to give him a lobotomy. He thinks she might like the opportunity.

“Piss off,” he says instead of that, artfully schooling his face into the aristocratic mask he’s perfected from his father, squaring his shoulders and looking at Will like he’s a pebble lodged in the flesh of his heel.

Will rolls his eyes. “Get up, Sharpay Evans. You’re gonna stain your shirt worse than you already have.”

Nico sniffs haughtily. “My shirt is perfectly fine, thank you very much. I order them in black for a reason.”

He notices a giant grass stain on the side when he stands. He ignores it. Will does not.

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re the Goth King.”

“Ghost King.”

“Right, right. That helps your case.”

Nico shoves him, fighting back a grin. “Whatever, Solace. What are you bothering me for?”

“Oh, yeah!”

Nico is a deeply cheesy person. Down to the core of him, past all the sarcasm and prickliness and trauma, or whatever, he’s made of fucking mozzarella, because what business does he have comparing Will’s eyes to the morning winter sky? Huh? That’s embarrassing. It isn’t even original. If Nico caught anyone saying shit like that out loud in real life, he’s collapse into the shadows from embarrassment. He needs electroshock therapy.

“I was thinking —”

“Rare,” Nico quips, just to watch Will’s eyebrow twitch. It does. Nico smiles.

“I was thinking,” he repeats, mocking glare in Nico’s direction, “that you and me go to the city this afternoon.”

“You chased me across camp for that?”

“Oh, please, Zombie Face. I chased you maybe twenty yards.”

“I think all that time sniffing rubbing alcohol has deteriorated your brain.”

“I think I’m going to shove you in the lake.”

“Feel free to try. You will not wake up the next morning.”

“Nah.” Will shoots him a smug smile. Nico trips over air. “I can be as annoying as I want and you still won’t kill me. I have impunity.”

Nico rolls his eyes, refusing to dignify that with an answer. The less he acknowledges his own shame, the more likely it will go away on its own. Probably.

“Anyways. Guess what Cecil told me today.”

“His last will and testament?” Nico guesses, suddenly remembering his reason for being up this early.

“No, no, not that.” Will pauses. “Well, I mean, he did. I passed it on to Chiron. He has requested that when you maul him, you avoid his face, because he wants to be a sexy corpse and he can’t do that if you destroy his prettiest features.”

“Noted. Please inform him I will come for him within a window of the next fifteen hours.”

Theres a very particular face Will makes when he finds something genuinely funny. A smile a little more crooked than his regular one, teeth working at his bottom lip to hold it back, left dimple appearing in his cheek. It makes Nico want to do stupid things like press his thumb into said divot. He instead shoves his hands deeply into his pockets.

“I’ll let him know.” He clears his throat. “Anyways. You know what day it is today?”

Nico squints. “Tues…day? No, Wednesday.” He glances at Will. It’s been maybe….three days since their weekly sleepover? No, fuck, four. He thinks. “Thursday. Final answer.”

“Monday,” Will corrects, “and, gods, you need to sleep more. And a calendar. But no, that’s not my point.”

“Feel free to get to it.”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Will finally explains. He tries for exasperated, but it doesn’t work — he’s clearly excited, bouncing on the balls of his feet and waving his hands. “And The Five Seasons is doing half off for couples, so you and I need to go!”

He waves his hands, as if tying off some grand reveal. His (blue blue blue blue) eyes are squeezed nearly shut by the force of his beam, which lessons slightly with every second Nico does not respond.

“William,” he says finally. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. “William.”

Will pouts. “What?”

“Explain how this is relevant to me, William.”

“Aw, c’mon, Nico! Don’t be difficult!”

“William,” stresses Nico again. “We are not a couple. Did you hit your head again?”

“Well, duh, Neeks, it’s about the scam!” He flaps his hand in a way Nico assumes is meant to convey something. “We’re gonna — eat! Cheap! By pretending to be a couple!” Now both hands are flopping, paired with wide, imploring eyes. “Obviously!”

“Obviously,” Nico repeats, slowly. He instructs one half of his brain to keep its focus on not melting into a puddle of blushing embarrassed goo, and the other to exercise restraint and not strangle the boy in front of him. A headache begins to press behind his eyes. “Will, what the shit.”

“You of all people!” Will throws his hands up. “You love scamming people! You hate corporate holidays! You frequently throw pebbles at people who look, and I quote, too obnoxiously happy! You’re the best hater I know! You should be on board!”

He makes a compelling point. Not that Nico is going to make that easy for him.

“You seem very invested in this,” Nico points out. He manages to keep his voice tastefully judgmental, which he’s very proud of.

“Of course I am! I want cheap Five Seasons food, godsdammit!” He pauses, switching tactics. “Nico,” he says softly. He puts a gently hand on Nico’s forearm, making him freeze. He is suddenly very, very close, and wow, did his hair always frame his face in gentle waves? Has that always been a thing? “I really, really want to scam a restaurant with you.” He smiles, small and crooked and gods, Will doesn’t look dangerous very often, but holy Hades when he does — “Will you make my Valentines, and scam a restaurant with me?”

His fingers begin to trace little circles in the inside of Nico’s wrist.

“Yes,” he squeaks, voice cracking.

“Yes!” Will cheers, pulling his fist. “Yes, hell yes, Nico! We are going to scam the shit out of this restaurant! Half off for couples? How about half off for heathens! Free money, baby! Fuck yeah!”

He turns back towards Nico, smile still wide and radiant, blinking eyes pools of sparkling excitement. Nico’s knees go a little weak. “I’ll come get you at 2! Thank you, Neeks!”

He runs off back to his cabin, only tripping twice. Nico watches him go, feeling a little like he’s tripping, too, with all the swooping his stomach is doing.

“Dude,” he mumbles to himself, shaking his head. “Be normal. Christo.”

It takes him ten straight minutes to get back to his cabin, even though he’s standing at the porch.

———

The obsidian handle of the Hades’ cabin door rattles.

“Neeks!” calls a voice behind the door, “you ready to go?”

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” Nico scrambles over to the mirror and stares at himself. He turns a little to the left. He scowls. “Shit!” Tugging the shirt off, he turns back to his closet, tossing the piece of clothing to join the rest of its brethren on the floor. “Shitfuck. Fuckshit. Shit.”

“Nico!”

“Coming!”

Tapping his foot rapidly, he looks harder, as if that will magically make the right shirt pop into existence, perfectly pressed, on a hanger. “Shit.”

“What could possibly be taking so long? You’ve had two hours!”

“I care about my appearance, Mr Flip Flops and Scrubs!”

“Bleh bleh! Hurry up!”

Nico bites his lip. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t, really. Five Seasons is not actually a fancy restaurant. He and Will just like to joke that it is, because it has tablecloths. They’ve gone there dozens of times before; they stop every time they’re in the city for supply runs or visits to Olympus or to harass their summer-only friends at school. There is literally no reason for Nico to be stressing about what stupid shirt he should wear. Gods know Will is wearing cargo shorts.

“Nico!”

“I’m coming!“

Scowling, he digs through the pile of discarded clothes until he finds the first shirt he’d put on — a dark green button up that was given to him, along with a bunch of other fancy clothes he never wears, by the Aphrodite cabin. He hastily shoves their buttons through their holes, cursing when he mixes them up and has to start over, and sprints over to the mirror to inspect himself.

The shirt looks good. It’s a little tight on the arms, which he suspects was on purpose, and the colour compliments his skin nicely. The buttons are a dark, shiny brown that match his eyes. They pair nice with his simple jeans and black vans, casual enough that he doesn’t look like he’s going to Prom, or anything stupid like that, but dressy enough that it looks like he put effort in. He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to make the staticky strands sit right, but gives up pretty quickly. It’s okay if one thing is a little messy, right?

“Finally,” huffs Will as the door swings open. He glances Nico up and down, then grins. “You look great.”

Nico was right. He is indeed wearing cargo shorts, although to his credit they are his one pair without various Head Medic stains. His sweater, too, is a pretty blue, V-necked, long-sleeved, and a completely different style than his shorts. It clashes horribly. His shoes are, for some reason, bright solid pink. Nico suspects Hecate magic. His hair is braided in two French braids, his favourite way to wear it. Nico believes he is also wearing a touch of sparkly eyeshadow.

“You look dorky.”

Will grins wider. “Thank you! I wouldn’t let anyone help me choose something.”

“You should have.”

“I wanted it to be authentic, Nico. Also, got something for you.” From behind his back, he pulls out a handful of daisies, black dirt clinging to their roots, like he plucked them straight from the ground. Nico is inexplicably endeared by the image, and prays the smile on his face is less soft than he knows it is.

“You got me flowers?”

“Well, duh, Avril Lavigne. We gotta sell the scam.”

Nico brings them close to his face and inhales deeply. They smell fresh and earthy and sweet.

“That’s a stupid reason to bring someone flowers.”

“Give them back, then.”

“No. Fuck off. They’re mine.”

Will’s eyes twinkle. “Okay.” He holds out his arm. “Ready to go?”

The jump is close enough that Nico can convince him to shadow travel, and not just because he sadistically looks forward to the shade of green Will’s face will get after. As dangerous as he knows it can be, he misses it, sometimes. There’s something comforting about it, something soothing and familiar. Shadow travelling to the restaurant eases any lingering nerves.

“If you’re gonna throw up, do it somewhere I can’t hear you,” he says as they materialize in an alley.

Will’s cheeks puff out. “I’m gonna do it on your fuckin’ shoes.”

“I will leave your ass here, Solace, I swear to the gods.” Despite his grumbling, he rests a cool hand on the back of Will’s neck until he’s recovered. “Good?”

“Yeah.” He straightens, dusting off his sweater. “Let’s go.”

Nico follows him down the alley and onto the street, elbowing past the crowd of pedestrians until they approach the familiar glass doors. He rolls his eyes fondly every time Will apologizes to someone.

“You need to be meaner.”

Will sticks his tongue out and tries to trip him. Unfortunately, he only manages to throw himself off balance, nearly crashing to the floor of Nico hadn’t caught him.

“Good gods, Solace.”

“That was your fault!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The doors of the restaurant are absolutely plastered in cheesy red hearts and bows and cartoon kisses. And, as promised, a giant sign promising couples a fifty percent discount on their meals.

“My love,” says Will dramatically, holding out a hand, “shall we?”

Nico sighs, resting his hand delicately in Will’s. It sparks with electricity, like it always does. “I suppose.”

“Party pooper.”

“I’m not hearing oh, Nico, thank you so much for doing this incredibly stupid thing with me, you are my dearest friend and I owe you one. Or three, for some reason.”

Will’s mouth twitches. “Oh, Nico, thank you so much for —”

Nico shoves him, laughing. “Shut up.”

They’re seated pretty quickly, server smiling when they take notice of their clasped hands. Will orders chicken tenders, like he does every single time without fail, and water. Nico orders from the adult menu and absolutely does not make any kind of show about it.

“There is nothing babyish about chicken tendies.”

“Oh, of course not.”

“Is this about you having a credit card? That does not make you more adult than me. It makes you a nepo baby.”

“Mhm. Sure thing.”

“Nobody likes a nepo baby, Nico.”

“Look, I think your drink comes with a complimentary sippy cup.”

Teasing and joking with Will is so easy that Nico forgets the core of their mission. The pink garlands hanging from the ceiling fade into the background — he’s too busy crying with laughter when Will nearly chokes to death on a french fry, too busy flicking a forkful of food at his shoulder just to make him shriek, too busy kicking his shin under the table. He catches Nico’s foot between his the fourth time he tries it, keeping it trapped for the rest of the meal. Nico finds he doesn’t mind.

“And your bill,” says their server when they’re done, setting down a slip of paper. “Forgive me if I’m being presumptuous, but do you two qualify for today’s discount?”

Will smirks widely. “We do,” he says, with no small amount of pleasure. He shoots Nico the least subtle wink of all time. Nico rolls his eyes, cheeks going a little pink.

“Great! You guys have a wonderful Valentine’s day.”

“You, too.”

The server hurries away, turning to their other tables. Will’s smile is wide and smug.

“I knew it would work.”

“Duh. Easiest scam in the world, Solace.”

He sticks his tongue out. “And thus the best payout. You’re welcome.”

“Blah, blah. Gimme the bill.”

“Um, no way, di Angelo. I’m paying.”

He opens his wallet before Nico can stop him, mouthing as he counts the bills.

“What? No! I’m paying.”

“Are not.”

“Am too!”

“Are not.” He sets down a couple twenties. Nico snatches them right back up. “You we’re just complaining about my credit card!”

“Exactly. Thus my need to continue to pretend you don’t have one, so we can continue our friendship.”

“Solace, I swear to the gods.”

“di Angelo, I swear to the gods.”

Nico stares him down. Will stares back. He doesn’t even try to hide his lazy grin, his laughing eyes.

“You’re not paying for this by yourself,” Nico says firmly. “You don’t have a job. My father invented being rich.”

“Sure, but I made you come with me.”

“Ugh!” Nico throws his hands up, imagining how satisfying it would be to wrap his hands around that long neck (followed by his teeth and his tongue and his —). “Why are you impossible? I would’ve gone with you no matter what, stupid!”

As soon as he says it he wants to stick his head in wet cement. For a brief second, something like surprise flits across Will’s face, before he schools it back into his teasing smirk.

“Well, obviously, Death Breath. I’m excellent company.”

“You’re literally the most annoying person I know.”

“And yet here you are, hanging out with me, of your own volition.”

“…I’m paying next time.”

Will grins. “Whatever you say.”

They walk around the city for a while before heading back to camp. Will says it’s because he needs the air, Nico knows it’s because he wants him to rest a little longer before trying to shadow travel again. He tries not to let himself get all melty inside.

(Nobody willingly hangs out around the city for the ‘air’. He’s a shit liar. Nico should be offended.)

It’s nearing curfew by the time they melt back out from behind Thalia’s tree, extra shadows of early evening making the trip easier.

“Those fries are going to make a reappearance,” Will grimaces.

“Not if you don’t want me to kick you in the face.”

“You’d never.”

He would indeed never. But he would rather pass away than admit it, so.

“C’mon, dot face. It’s getting late. You have a cabin to run.”

“Oh, Nico,” Will says in a breathy falsetto, “are you walkin’ me to my cabin? How chivalrous!”

“Nevermind.”

“No no no no no I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” Nico allows himself to be tugged, weak to Will’s giggles. “Walk me to my cabin. C’mon.”

Sighing, as if he’s so put out, Nico does. Some point in between Thalia’s tree and the amphitheater, Will’s hand slides down from around his wrist to tangled in between his fingers. Coincidentally, his mouth goes dry.

As they approach the Apollo cabin, Will slows to a stop.

“Hey.” He squeezes their fingers together, smile soft in the dying light of dawn. “I had fun today. Thank you for coming with me.”

Nico swallows. One day, those words will be said in a different context, if everything goes well for Nico, and he’s not sure how the hell he’s going to handle it without bursting into flame. “Yeah, well. Anything to scam a restaurant.”

“Right.”

They walk the last few steps to the cabin, rickety porch steps creaking under their feet as they approach the open door. Will doesn’t let go.

“Hey, Nico.”

“…Yeah?”

Quick as a flash, Will leans in and presses the softest of kisses to his mouth. The noise Nico makes is practically punched out of his lungs, spine going rigid in surprise.

“You can pay for our next date, okay?”

He’s gone before Nico can respond, ducking into his cabin with a small smile and closing the door behind him. Nico stands there, like an idiot, for three solid minutes at the very least, distantly aware of the giggles coming through the open window.

His hand comes up, fingers brushing his bottom lip.

“The little fucker set me up.”

Valentine’s day scam. Please. The only scam today was the scam of Will’s sneaky asking.

Nico smiles.

“You’re a mess, Solace!” he shouts, knowing damn well Will is listening.

He’s right. “Goodnight, Nico!”

Shaking his head, Nico runs back to his cabin, entire body tingling and cheeks aching with his grin.

[iceman-soup]

cumdrunk ghost pretty please? w/ begging and dirty talk pleease?? thank you have a good day 😌

ohmygod YES okayy

amab masc!reader x bot!ghost

You've lost count of how many times you've finished inside Simon at this point, but you both know it's a lot. His legs are shaking but still clinging on to where he's wrapped them around your waist, cock leaking against his stomach as he claws at your back, craning his neck to bury his head in your shoulder whilst he sobs. You're buried deep in him, not moving and it's driving him up the wall, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks as he tries desperately to get your attention.

"Please, move, love, please," he keeps whispering, nipping and kissing at your neck but you just won't keep fucking him, instead teasing him relentlessly as he whimpers.

And you've got this stupid grin on your face as you murmur about how "big, scary Ghostie, begging and crying just for me, yeah?" He nods, mumbled begs falling from his damp lips, brown eyes gazing desperately into yours as his head falls back against the pillow again, pulling your face down to kiss him.

Whispered praise and pleas escape him, whines of "you're doin' so good, so so good, please move, please," in between him trying to shove his tongue down your throat as if he's attempting to inhale you.

"My gorgeous boy, looking so pretty right here," you murmur, finally starting to rock your hips back and forth again, making him groan loudly, back arching as he clings onto you.

"Faster, faster, sir, please." You kiss him again, biting at his lower lip to make him whine when you speed up. "Gonna cum again, please, please-" he's cut off by his own moans as his load spurts out over his abdomen, new tears of overstimulation falling as you quicken your pace.

"Didn't even touch you," you chuckle, kissing his cheek softly. "You want to stop, or are you gonna let me cum too, princess?" Simon grabs at your face, shaking hands desperately trying to pull your lips to his.

"Gonna- gonna let you- you cum," he stutters, groaning loudly when you do, then finally pulling out, kissing him again and rolling over so he can lie on top of you, face nestled into the crook of your neck. You both catch your breath for a few moments before you sit up a little, his head resting on your stomach as you look down over his sweaty body, thighs covered in the milky fluids as he mumbles nonsense, eyes closed and body relaxed, your sweet boy drifting off to sleep before you even get the chance to wipe him down or bathe him.

[fatedroses]

Two former military elites taking merc jobs perform absolutely hellish battle tactics together.

[pinazee]

Small headcanon that max actually never knew who the mascot was and would talk to zeke about his hopes and deepest fears, and richie just sort of awkwardly comforted him and nodded along hoping max never found out who he was, and in a way, zeke was actually maxs closest friend.

[antigonesghosts]

What I loved about Cinderella's Castle is it is so entirely about Ella. We know starkid can handle a show with tons and tons of characters but I found it quite refreshing for it to be so wholly her story? I think it was a lovely choice for this show and man Bryce did such a perfect job of it, she is truly such a star

[becca-e-barnes]

Sub Bucky and a breeding kink 💀 dead unlived it's one of my favourite things 😌

This is pretty high up there on my list of dream fantasies 🥵 these are two of my biggest weaknesses, don't even look at me rn

One of life's greatest joys is cuddling with the other person's head resting on your chest so you can play with their hair and rub their shoulders. I love that shit, having someone else's body weight on you is so comforting.

I imagine that's something Bucky would really enjoy too. It's so soft and sweet and tender and getting to feel cared for would really appeal to him.

But that's up until his hands work their way under your top, up over your bare skin so he's able to cup your breasts and bury his face between them while he's getting his hair played with. Life's pleasures don't get much simpler than that.

After a few moments he shifts slightly, tugging the neckline of your shirt out of the way to give himself space to kiss and nip your skin. All of a sudden he's desperate and it's beautiful to watch.

"Please." He whispers between frantic kisses, flicking his tongue over the stiff peak of your nipple before engulfing it with his warm, eager mouth.

"Please, what?" You tease, tugging on his hair just a little for emphasis.

He groans, frustrated by his own lack of coherence, pulling his mouth from your nipple. "Please let me put a baby in you."

That's not what you were expecting but fuck, he makes it sound pretty appealing.

"Bucky-" You begin but he cuts you off, giving your other nipple the same attention as he gave the first. God, that's distracting.

"You'd make. Such. A pretty. Mommy." He whispers, kissing his way down your body until he reaches the bottom seam of your top. From there, he pulls it off, letting it fall to the floor before removing the rest of your clothes.

"You'd look so pretty with a little baby bump." His huge hand rests on your bare tummy, imaging how your body would change.

"I want it, Buck." You mean it too. It doesn't sound like such a bad idea when he's taking his clothes off.

"I know you want it." He groans, rubbing the tip of his dick against your soaked core. "Y-you're so wet."

He presses his hips forward, sliding inside you and you can't explain it but you swear it feels different this time.

"Don't even think about pulling out." You cup his face in your hands, keeping his eyes on you and you almost worry he's going to fuck himself senseless into you. "I want you to make me a mommy. You're going to give me every single drop of cum and when it starts to drip out of me, you're going to fuck it back in."

His head falls onto your shoulder, sobbing a pathetic moan against your already hot skin. The pace of his thrusts matches his need, his hips slamming into yours and when he finally gives in, he cums inside you with your legs clamped around his waist, making sure he couldn't pull out even if he wanted to.

[jerrythebug]

I did a panel redraw (kinda) 😳

[lovesickeros]

☆ even the gods bleed [ pt 4 ]

{☆} characters arlecchino, furina, lyney {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, multi-chapter, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood {☆} word count 3.7k {☆} previous [ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ]

Fontaine was bathed in darkness, not even the moon daring to illuminate where the common man fears to walk. The streets were bleak and empty save for the constant, rhythmic ticking and clanking of machines marching on endlessly, dauntlessly wading where even the bravest dared not to venture. Not even the sharp click of the Gardes boots followed the occasional hisses of steam as they walked the barren streets.

It was haunting, and it'd been like that for days now. It showed little signs of stalling in the slightest, too. Every inch of Fontaine was practically crawling with Gardemeks– like a swarm of rats skittering about.

Arlecchino had secluded herself in the Hotel Bouffes d'ete for days at this point, waiting– biding her time. Her nails clicked against the wood as she tapped at the table in a stilted rhythm, the subtle click of the clock mixing into the clanking outside, weaving in and out of earshot as the patrols slipped by. She reached forward after a moment of thought, reaching for the white king.

She leaned back against the chaise, tilting her head just enough to catch a glimpse of a patrol of Gardemeks as they vanished behind the rows and rows of buildings. It wasn't enough to keep her attention for long, however, her features twisting in disinterest as she glanced back to the chessboard– and the letter neatly resting beside it. The seal was unmistakable and a sobering sight, demanding her attention– the soft hues of blue etched into the shape of a dragon stared back at her in a way that almost unsettled her.

She had already parsed through it's contents hundreds of times, but she was met with only vague, flowing script that only served to irritate her more then anything– it filled the page top to bottom yet managed to say nothing at all. Her hand reached out again, but instead of reaching for the letter she plucked the black rook from the board, setting it down with a soft click.

Arlecchino had all the time in the world to sit back and observe her prey, but all that time would be useless if she lacked the information to act.

And he was quite tight fisted about it, evidentially. None of her inquiries or attempts to decipher any potential codes in the letter left her empty handed. She could not act without even knowing the reason for his summons– it was almost worded like a personal affair rather then one would expect for a foreign diplomat. In truth, she'd expected a scalding report on her operatives, but it lacked any mention of anything of the sort.

She was no stranger to people masking hostility behind pretty words and compliments, not that it was ever unwarranted per se– the Fatui did not create connections through honesty and genuine kindness. They have strong armed more then their fair share of people into cooperation to the point distrust is all the Fatui are met with outside of Snezhnaya. Every word was meant to conceal the deceit, every action meant to conceal the price later paid.

So she had been..skeptical of the letter, to put it lightly. She doubted the Iudex of all people would offer a hand to the Fatui without a price attached– a trap, perhaps, meant to lure in the most powerful piece left on the board. Her eyes narrowed, reaching for a white rook and moving it to the right.

Or he was hiding something. Something that he simply couldn't risk getting out to anyone, not even the Divine themself. A tempting prize, whatever it was.

..A dangerous prize, too.

She'd considered burning the letter and forgetting it all together– the risk was great, and she couldn't risk getting caught up by whoever else the Iudex may have on his side of the board. But she could hardly pass up the challenge and the prize that he fought so hard to keep from prying eyes and ears. Even her agents came back empty handed each time. She lazily picked up a black rook, sliding the white pawn aside.

"Lyney," Arlecchino drawled, crossing one leg over the other and turning her gaze to the door as it slowly creaked open. The pale visage of Lyney stepped through, though his siblings were noticeably absent. The weariness that weighed down on his shoulders was apparent in the slightest furrow of his brows and the subtle creak of leather as he clenched his fists behind his back. "Father." He choked out, the title dragged out by the sharp inhale and shaky exhale.

He looked out of breath, she noted.

The silence that lingered after the small exchange was punctuated only by the click of another chess piece being moved. She sets aside the black rook, letting it sit among the dozen other pieces that had been wiped off the board. She can see the conviction glinting beneath the fog of exhaustion, but if he would utilize it was another matter all together.

He had seemed to make his choice quickly, at the very least.

"Our contacts and operatives within the Fortress of Meropide have gone silent– all we have is their final confirmed missive.." His voice is confident, but it is rigid as the words spill from his lips. He takes a sharp step forward, unfolding his arms from behind his back and opening his hands– the small, water stained and messily folded note catches her eye, plucking it from his palms with a half hearted interest. "They believe the Duke left the Fortress of Meropide..and that he may be coming to the Court of Fontaine."

Her eyes narrow dangerously, nearly crumpling the thin paper in her hands– yet just as quickly, she collects herself.

But she cannot get rid of the bitter taste on her tongue, lingering as she sets down the note and slides it to the side, her lips pursed into a thin line.

So the Iudex had shown one of his pieces..she tightly grasps a black rook, tipping over the white rook, letting it roll against the board.

If the Duke was involved, things were much more complicated then she expected– he would be a problem, she was certain. She couldn't blame the lamb for fearing the wolf, either. Whether her agents had been killed or captured by the man mattered little. He had his ways, and he was a force that could instill fear in even them.

Which meant the possibility that her operation was already compromised was far too real.

What had the Iudex so concerned he had gone through the trouble of bringing in the Duke and herself? The Fatui was one thing, but to specifically request one of it's Harbingers..

The Prophecy? The thought had her clenching her fist, but..no. If it were to rear it's head now, the Iudex could simply not afford to waste time on his contacts deciphering his nonsensical script– If the prophecy were to be the issue, there time would be limited to mere minutes in the worst of cases. Which meant it was worth biding his time in order to ensure absolute secrecy.

So if not the prophecy, then what?

Her next moves were..limited. She was already walking on eggshells considering her position and the reputations of the Fatui– especially with a Harbinger in the midst. If they caught wind of her operations, they'd weed out her operatives and be on guards for any snakes that lingered in their garden.

She reached for the chessboard again, picking up one of the white rooks from the board with a scowl. The sharp click as she sets down the white rook and sets aside the black pawn draws a shaky inhale from Lyney as she moves another black pawn, the dull click of the pieces drowning out the distant clinking of machines.

..A draw, perhaps.

The pieces were all falling into place– the players of this game were slowly being revealed. Whether she could secure her victory..she was unsure.

She wasn't even sure who her opponent was. Only that the Iudex himself was but another piece in their game.

Arlecchino reached for the board again, yet this time she hesitated. Perhaps she could still swipe the win from beneath them, if she played her cards right.

She would simply have to capture the king– or, if need be, let it end on a draw. Either way, she would not concede. She could not afford to concede. Down to the last piece, she would drag out this match until she was in a position to force their hand into the outcome she desired.

She stood slowly, picking up the king piece and observing it for only the briefest of moments before she set it down on the table, taking measured steps around the table and across the room. She was hunting a much more dangerous quarry today– it would be no simple runaway traitor this time.

"Do you remember the directive?" She inquired coldly, her hand lingering on the door for that long, tense moment. "..Yes, Father." Lyney faltered, taking a hesitant step back and bowing at the waist. "Then do not stray."

All that was left was the silence and click of the door shutting behind her as she disappeared down the hall, her boots clicking harshly against the floorboards. The rest of the agents knew better then to linger in her path as she stepped down into the lobby, adjusting the cuffs of her sleeves. She barely even acknowledged the Fatui agent standing at the ready by the heavyset doors, their gloves hands held out with her cloak held loosely in their palms. She quickly snagged it from them, tugging it over her board shoulders and clasping it around her throat.

With a quick tug, she brought the hood up over her head to conceal her sharp features, lifting her hand and placing a neatly folded note within their waiting hands. She had only one chance to make the right moves and secure her victory– no matter the cost.

Each piece had it's purpose.

Oft, that purpose was a bloody and horrible end– but for the grand goal of the Fatui built on the backs of the dead, it was an honor.

She didn't bother speaking a word as she dismissed them with a wave of her hand, pushing open the heavyset doors and stepping out into the barren, damp streets. The rhythmic clink and whir of Gardemeks was still distant– she needed to move. Her boots clicked and splashed in the rain soaked stone of the streets as she slithered between the buildings, ducking through the openings in the patrols.

It was almost too easy.

She tilted her head back, taking in the towering Palais Mermonia with a scowl, her hands clenched into fists. The final moves were being played– the king was within her reach, yet she felt no more confident then when she began.

The air carried a sense of unease, thick and heavy, filling her lungs until she felt her breath still in her chest– listening to the empty, bleak night that seemed so..quiet.

She'd done her fair share of research, had more then her fair share of her agents try to peer into the Iudex's office or the Archon's supposedly hidden chambers, but every attempt was a failure. She had to give them credit, they were quite elusive when they wished to be. Though now she only thought about it bitterly– this was all a risky gamble, in the end, and only time would tell if it paid off.

With minimal effort, she'd managed to pull herself to the flat, tiled roof, eyeing the massive tower peaking out of the center cautiously. At least here the wandering patrols down below weren't likely to notice her..she could hear them passing by the spot she'd been in only a few minutes ago, just beneath her. She pulled the hood further over her face, peering through the sheer darkness of the night for any oddities, but it was almost impossible to see in the dark.

Her boots clicked softly against the tiles as she approached the tower jutting out from the Palais, her hand gliding along the smooth stone, pressing against odd indents or crevices. If it was for the Archon's chambers, she doubted they made it very difficult– she'd only met the woman once, but she doubted the Iudex make it all that complex just from a brief glance. And it surprised her little when one of the stones sunk into the wall, gears whirring as the walls split open to reveal a stairwell straight into an inky black hall. Only the barest hint of light peaked under the door at the bottom, but it's occupants must have heard her, considering it went out not a moment later.

She cautiously stepped down into the small crevice, her breath visible in the bitter cold air– her shoulders tensed at the subtle sound of muffled footsteps behind the door, her vision flaring with a molten heat between her shoulder blades as she reached for the worn handle of the door. The heat of her vision was enough to just barely heat the metal, her vision flaring like a quickly building inferno.

Arlecchino was prepared for a fight, if it came down to it.

The door creaked as she pressed against it, shoving it open with a grunt of effort and surveying the room with narrowed eyes and a biting remark on the tip of her tongue– the lavish opulence was expected, she supposed, but the lack of the towering figure of the Iudex was not.

Yet before she could get a word in or even take in her surroundings properly, the light flickered back on and she had to squeeze her eyes shut with a hiss at the sudden brightness. She could hear the door being shoved closed behind her, the hurried footsteps retreating just as quickly as her eyes adjusted to the light.

..This was a joke, wasn't it? It had to be.

She'd expected the Iudex, perhaps even the Duke if she'd been unlucky, not the Hydro Archon. She had half the mind to test her worth as an Archon then and there, her temper flaring like an uncontrollable blaze, barely kept at bay. It took all her self control to force herself to smile politely at the woman rather then snarl.

"Miss Furina," She sneered beneath her hood, x shaped pupils locked onto the startled, trembling Archon with thinly veiled contempt. "What a..pleasant surprise. You'll have to forgive my manners, I assumed I was meeting with the Iudex." She observed her body language carefully– the way her eyes darted about like a frightened rabbit seeking escape, the slightest tremble of her lips..

Arlecchino opened her mouth to offer another scathing remark, but her jaw audibly clicked shut as her entire body seemed to lock up. Even her vision went cold against her back, a chilling feeling creeping up her spine as someone, or something, crept up behind her. Their footsteps were almost silent, the slight rustling of their clothes the only thing she could hear over her heart pounding against her ribcage.

Arlecchino had always prided herself on being on the other end of that sensation– she was the monster, and her target was the prey frozen like a deer between the hunters crosshair.

It was a chilling feeling to have the dynamic shifted on it's head.

She couldn't even swallow, her jaw clenched so hard she could hear it creak as she tried to reason with her quickly splintering mind– a futile effort, her joints locking up almost painfully. Black spots were quickly swallowing her vision from the lack of air in her lungs, the sound of shuffling behind her barely audible over the ringing in her ears.

For a moment – a moment too long to have only lasted the seconds that it did, yet so quick it gave her whiplash – she thought she would hit the floor dead before she could even glimpse her assailant.

And then it was gone. She came crashing back into reality with a startled inhale, her lungs burning and her knees nearly buckling under her. The instinct to lash out and kill whoever had done it was intense, yet she couldn't bring herself to move even a finger– it would be so easy to twist around and ignite them with searing flames, but her feet were rooted in place.

She almost didn't notice the surprisingly gentle hands unclasping her cloak, tugging it off her shoulders, if not for the sheer intensity of the presence still lingering behind her. Her mind was still fractured, struggling to right itself after the ordeal, and it had her seething.

"..Are you certain you held back enough?" Furina croaked, the normally soft lilt raspy and almost hoarse. "Not– not that I doubt your capability, most Divine!"

Arlecchino felt her nails dig harshly into her palms, heat swelling beneath her skin– Divine? Had she lost her mind? The Divine was..

The Divine was upon their throne where they belonged. She'd seen them!

"Hm. Well, maybe? Sorry, I didn't think it'd affect you too." Their voice was sickeningly soft as they stepped around her like she wasn't even there, focusing their attention on the Archon who seemed more then delighted about it. "What gave you that impression, most Divine? Aha, I..was completely unaffected, as you can see! Perfectly fine."

Furina let out a small squeak when they pinched her cheek, but the almost affectionate smile that tugged at their lips revealed the lack of malice behind the action.

"You're a bad liar, Furina. You might want to sit down..please?" They didn't take her protests for an answer, gently pushing her to sit on the bed before abruptly turning to face Arlecchino once more, a forced smile on their lips. "Oh, good, you're..uh, not dead. That's good. I thought I fried your brain. Sorry?"

..Had she hit her head on the way here? The Divine should still be on their throne, yet she couldn't shake the weight of their stare– it felt tangible. She felt like she was standing face to face with the stars– galaxies and constellations bearing down upon her.

She grit her teeth and clenched her hands until she felt the sting of her nails against her palms, grounding herself in the pain through the sheer overwhelming nature of their existence.

"You.." She croaks, reaching out with a shaky hand and grabbing them by the collar of their shirt, lifting them up until their feet left the floor– she pays no mind to the startled protests of the Archon. Arlecchino would crush her like a bug before she even got the chance to intervene and they both knew it. "You shouldn't exist– you aren't them, and yet you..you're the imposter, aren't you?" Her grip tightens yet they face her without an ounce of fear, meeting her unyielding glare with a pondering look.

Arlecchino wanted to make them bleed just to see if she could, the urge to sink her teeth into skin welling up in her chest to the point she visibly snarled, her mask of politeness long . "You're the imposter." Her expression falls for a moment before she schools it into one of apathy, setting them back down and holding them there for a moment, finally releasing them after a tense moment. "Or you were supposed to be."

Hers brows furrow– she wants to demand answers, to throttle them for damning them to being nothing more then dolls for the supposed Divine to break at their whim, but none of the words come to her.

"..Why now? The current Divine has been in power for years, yet you descend now?" Her shoulders tensed, lips pursed into a thin line– it's impossible to ignore the truth that lay before her. The Divine is a fraud and this..imposter is the true Divine. How many years had they been in power, now? How many years were they waiting? Why did they wait? Was the suffering of Teyvat not enough? Was the blood that painted the steps of their stolen throne not enough?

She'd personally been on the wrong end of the Divine's wrath– she wonders..had they watched? Had they seen the cruel hand of their imposter and turned their back on Teyvat?

"I.." They hesitated. It made her seethe, her hands clenching into fists at her sides– her vision flickered, flames swelling within it's casing just to be smothered by the presence of the Divine. But once that spark had been lit, she refused to let it go out. "I didn't know."

The answer does not satisfy her. There is an itch beneath her skin that she cannot scratch, a fire that burns in her chest so hot it scorches even herself.

"And what about now? Are you content to cower like prey in the safety of the Palais Mermonia?" She snapped, taking a step forward, her brows furrowed and her glare intense– she can see the slightest bit of worry in their eyes. She revels in it. "Will you let them use your acolytes like pawns? How many more need to be broken on the steps to your throne before you act?"

Again, her vision flares and dims– it refuses to be used against the Divine that created it.

"Have you no answer?"

The room is silent. They do not speak and neither does she.

Even the world itself seems to quiet in the face of her accusations, fury boiling to the surface so hot it incinerated all it touched.

"I will kill them myself."

Their words are quiet, but they are not soft– there is a vindictive, searing anger that explodes out like dying stars within their eyes. The sight of constellations replaced by a void that would not be . The smell of ichor grows stronger– to the point she feels almost lightheaded.

"..I am aware that I have failed in preventing this, but I had no choice in the matter. Still," They muse, their voice like the tolling of bells. A solemn melody that stills the swelling fury burning in her chest, if only for a moment. "I will rectify it– I will tear down their throne of lies and let not even the earth tarnish itself by burying their corpse among it's soil."

They pause for a moment, holding out their hand– scarred and bandaged by the weapons of the devout, yet still they take upon the burden of dirtying their hands to save those who did not save them.

"Do you trust me, Arlecchino?"

Did she?

"Will you help me?"

She exhales heavily, meeting the starry iris' of the Divine with a scowl still tugging at her lips. Arlecchino trusted no one but herself.

"..Yes."

[soapsbaby]

Friends with Benefits

Kinktober IV

Summary: How a friends with benefits relationship would go with them. Characters: Simon “Ghost” Riley, Johnny “Soap” Mactavish, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick, John Price, König, Alejandro Vargas, Rudy Vargas, Valeria Garza, all x gn!reader Rating: NSFW (mdni) Word Count: 1200ish

Ghost

In the beginning it was a lot more “benefits” than it was “friends”. He had a lot of issues to let you in any further than just sleeping with you. 

You were an outlet for frustration and he was entirely honest about that and made sure you didn't feel used or led on.

It took a while but eventually you were able to spend the night, he started calling you when he needed company and eventually he even opened up to you a little and you finally got to understand why he acts the way he does.

He’s a very attentive lover and now that he has a closer bond with you, also an incredible friend. He is always there to listen, even if he often doesn’t know what advice to give you.

Often calls you over late at night or right after returning from missions, just needing a way to blow off steam. He tends to be a little rough with you, but only with your consent.

He isn’t interested in any relationship or attachments so he is quite happy with your arrangement. 

Soap

You and Johnny had been friends for super long before you eventually got closer to him. It was just supposed to be a sleepover so you could binge some horror movies together, but at some point his hand had ended up on your thighs, then you had ended up in his lap and the moment you started kissing you both knew it was over. 

Except for having sex not much has changed between the two of you, most of your hookups still happen during movie nights or other friendship hangouts that you would have had before starting to sleep together.

It’s becoming a problem when people start asking questions since neither of you pay any attention to the movies you’re supposed to be watching. “Oh, you watched (...) on the weekend, right?? How was it?” “Uh… Good… I think.” 

You are so casual and comfortable with each other that there was never really a phase of awkwardness between you two, it just felt natural. 

He honestly doesn't care if anyone finds out, is the type to pull you into a supply closet for a quickie.

Price

You are both very happy with the arrangement, even though except for missing full commitment you are basically in a relationship. 

He will always make sure you know you are taken care of and that you know how much he appreciates you, take you out for dinner or cook for you, get you gifts. 

Compared to the others, your relationship is a little more mature and less impulsive, you had been friends for a long while, tried to date but didn’t quite work out. Still, you both had to admit you enjoyed having sex with one another, so you just decided to go back to that part. 

He’ll check in with you often to make sure you are still happy with the situation and it is understood that if either of you ever find a serious relationship you’ll have to stop.

He likes to make sure he has his time with you, whenever you have a "date" he wants to have the whole day off.

Gaz

It was supposed to be just a friends with benefits situation but failed almost immediately. You both tried so hard to keep it casual but it was a lost cause from the first time. 

Gaz used to have hookups quite often when off duty, but now that he has you, he doesn’t really want or need that anymore. He doesn’t want to admit it to himself, let alone you, but he’s kind of obsessed with you.

At this point you are spending so much time at each other’s places that you might as well move in, but both of you are afraid to suggest taking the next step because that is not what we agreed on.

He is so sweet, always taking his time with you, making sure you are the priority and that you feel well taken care of.

So good at giving oral.

König

You’re one of the few people from his past that he is still in contact with and though you don’t get to see him often, it’s a good time whenever you do.

It’s good for him to have someone from his childhood that can give him a reality check and make sure he doesn’t forget where he came from when he needs it.

He isn’t the best at communicating, which your situation requires a lot of, so you run into problems at times. You don’t see each other often, most of the time there is a lot of distance dividing you, plus the time zones, so there is a lot to be navigated.

He likes and appreciates you a lot though, so you make it work somehow.

Most of the time he is super gentle with you and will do whatever it takes to make sure you finish first, however there have been situations where he just needed to use you to get some negative emotions out of his system after a failed mission.

Alejandro 

He always said he wasn’t one for casual sex, that he was made for relationships, but he had to learn that that just isn’t fully true. Once you and him started sleeping together he had to realize how convenient it was to have someone to help him have his needs met without the responsibilities that come with actual relationships.

He’s a great lover, extremely attentive, very loving, and skillful at what he does. He’d never be selfish and only get himself off.

Rudy

You have been friends with benefits for as long as you can remember, so the communication between the two of you is great since you just know each other so well.

It started when you were joking around with him after a bad date how dating around wasn't worth it just to have mediocre sex with people you barey liked and he got competetive about it.

"Bet I could do better." (He in fact could and did do better)

You don’t sleep with each other that often, just once every few months when you both feel like it. Most of the time when you hang out, things stay strictly platonic, that is just the way things work out for you.

Valeria

She doesn’t have many friends that she can actually trust, so she was terrified to push your relationship any further than a friendship. She didn’t want to risk losing you, one of the few people who knew her before the army, before the cartel. 

Still, one thing led to another and she’d never want to go back to before. She knows you might not fully support her work in the cartel, but that you still feel nothing but loyalty for her.

She doesn’t have time for an actual relationship and also wouldn’t want to put someone in danger of getting caught up in the crossfire of cartel dealings, so you being fairly low-commitment for her is ideal.

She can be a bit of a selfish lover, but you adore pleasuring her, so it all works out in the end.

[ganondoodle]

so, inspired by the warm welcome the captain received with that rough doodle i posted, i made an updated design for Ki'ita as well (basic and with clothes)

i removed the piercings she had bc considering that they spend the majority of their time in arctic waters i think having metal directly in your skin is a bad idea, no matter how thick your blubber is; i also gave her typical white markings a green hue bc ... i liked how it looked and makes them stand out a little more

(i will not repeat what i wrote on the post about the captain but wanted to add a bit of more info about Ki'ita herself)

(i dont have ALL of their backstory done yet but) the captain and Ki'ita worked together in another organization, one in which the father of the captains child also worked at, before being betrayed and barely managing to escape, after which the both of them founded their pirate crew (possible name is the Solar Pirates bc of their solar powered boat stuff); since the captain had her daughter shortly afterwards Ki'ita managed most of the organisational matters at first, including the construction of their base on an abandoned island they had initially fled to

over the years they invented the solar powered ships that allowed them to gain control over a large part of an important trade route, leaving normal ships (mostly) alone but attacking those of hunters and similar, rescuing demons and mutants, even some humans from them, most of which also join the crew and it quickly lead to them becoming their own little community

Ki'ita does not like to spend alot of time among large groups of people, no matter how much she cares about them, and her originally being from norther lands gave her the idea to explore, and if viable, do underground missions in those norther areas to disrupt the infrastructure the hunters had built in recent years and overall keep the crew informed about things that may otherwise stay hidden; with each of their travels her time absent from the base increased but the patience of the captain is wearing thin so its likely a serious talk is underway on Ki'itas third solo mission she nearly died due to entanglement in abandoned nets made by hunters from an unknown material that she could not break, the massive scars on her tail especially come from that, only surviving bc the date they were supposed to return to the crew had passed and the captain grew to worried about her and made the entire crew rush into an emergency search, including the captain herself and her toddler, who were not suited for the cold climate just like the rest of crew, taking a huge risk that Ki'ita still feels ashamed of for causing; they stayed within the base for a whole year afterwards, not just to recover but also as a silent apology, taking time preparing herself to ensure theyd not get into a situation like that again

(before departing on their next mission the captain gifted her a sword with the blade made from the material of the net, a wooden handle, bc of the cold, and a blue wrap around it reminiscent of the captains striking blue teeth; a reminder of what had happened, a means to defend herself when their strength and teeth are not enough, and also a promise to always return again)

the oldest members of the crew know Ki'ita well and treat her like an old friend, among the newer members she has more of a .. cryptic status, the mysteriously absent vice-captain who only appears every few months or so out of thin air, throws a big party, sleeps for a few days and then vanishes again, the only hint to when they will return soon again being the captain getting noticably grumpier

(OC art, Ki'ita, she/they)