#i need to change back to my fold theme writing in purple is hard who would have thought

[somethingblu3]

getting into the neil newbon fandom is kind of funny because your like here's this cute little vampire guy I wonder what else he's been in and then you find yourself watching some obscure movie/show that no one else has heard of apart from two randos on the internet. And then you begin writing fics about his characters and rotating around them until the hyperfixation cycle continues again.

[skiller0dani]

For You | Monty De La Cruz

M A S T E R L I S T Timothy Granaderos Masterlist

smut requested requests info missed Part 1? read it here

important notice:  13 reasons why covers some really heavy stuff and their material can be extremely triggering. seeing as my writing is supposed to be for fun only I won’t be including many of the topics seen in the show. in fact, unless I say otherwise most of all my writings for this show will take place before Hannah Bakers suicide. if you or a loved one ever needs to seek professional help please call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline.

*

YAY. I changed the computer browser theme. took me fucking ages to get it all set up so those of you that are using a computer I hope you enjoy the knew layout! xx

...I will forever be angry for how badly the writers of that show treated Monty...

Catch up! Read Part 1 here! 

Your eyes fluttered open upon hearing the sound of a car door closing next to you. It took you a second to remember where you were, and seeing Monty to your left only confused you further. You blinked the sleep out of your eye, “bout time sleeping beauty.” Monty teased as he pulled onto your street. You blushed as you shifted in your seat, a sharp pain shooting between your legs. Oh yeah. “Sore?” He sounds guilty, which catches you by surprise along with the concerned look in his eyes. You muster a smile and try not to grimace too much as you sit up. “A little.” You admit as Monty’s hand turns the wheel as he pulls into your driveway. Your palms are sweating a bit as you reach down to take off your seat belt. You reach for the door and when you stand, you collapse back against the car when your legs tremble underneath you. Monty is out of the car in a second. 

“Parents home?” Before you know what’s happening Monty has swept you in his arms once again, beginning to head for your front door. 

“No.” You say simply, reaching down to unlock the front door as Monty gently kicks it open. You hold onto his shirt as he traverses up the stairs, “you gonna be alright for school tomorrow? I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He sounds genuine, and the admission from Monty has your head spinning. You direct him to your room, which you weren’t expecting him to see today. Embarrassment swells in your chest when the door opens, your bed unmade and clothes scattered along the floor. “Yeah I’ll just get a hot water bottle tonight.” You tell him as he gently lowers you to the bed. Monty’s eyes take a moment to scan over your room and even though you had him balls deep in your pussy not even an hour ago, you still feel incredibly embarrassed. 

“Who’s this?” He asks, his finger landing on a photo of your Mom. Your chest squeezes shut at the sight of her, you blink away oncoming tears before he can notice. 

“My Mom, she died last year.” Monty hums, his eyes lingering on her before moving to the next thing on your desk. You’re appreciative he didn’t make a big deal about your Mom and start awkwardly apologizing. With a cocky smile Monty lifts a white paint marker from your desk, the marker you used to write on your bra. You raise your own eyebrow in response, challenging his cockiness with your own. “You know, feel free to make any more custom bras just for me.” Monty teases, turning with a wink before you can even respond. Your pulse is hammering in your chest when Monty’s fingers trail over the handle of your desk drawer. 

“Hiding a giant 2 headed dildo in here?” There’s a teasing smile on his face and even though your cheeks are cherry red you maintain eye contact with a fierce look on your face. 

Monty yanks open the drawer to reveal your small purple vibrator. “Cute.” He comments, hitting the button and listening to the device buzz in his hand. Your blush is so deep a pulse has started to beat in your cheeks. Seeing your flushed cheeks and mussed hair has Monty fighting another hard on as he turns to face you again. Kneeling at the end of your bed Monty grasps your ankles and yanks you towards him. Your hands land on his shoulders with a gasp, “m-my Dad could be home soon.” You breathe through a shaky voice as you feel Monty’s hand ghosting up your thigh. A half cocked smile plays at Monty’s face, “guess I better make you cum quick then. I wonder if this could help?” There’s a feigned look of innocence on his face as he pulls the vibrator out. You smile as you press forward to lock your lips with his, “hurry up then lover boy.” You mumble against his lips as his fingers reach for the button of your shorts. 

Monty bites gently at the skin of your inner thighs, leaving little love bites scattered across your skin after he yanks your shorts off. You lean back on your elbows, biting your lip when Monty drags your panties down with his teeth. “You’re hot.” You blurt out as he kisses up your thighs and a smile is pressed against your legs. “I’m glad you think so. You’re hot.” Monty says with an amused chuckle. Why on Earth are you so cute? 

Your head falls back when you feel his tongue lick a long line through your folds. “Fuck Monty,” You hiss as his lips wrap around your clit, sucking it into his mouth. Monty feels pride swell in his chest as your cries and moans of pleasure echo through the room. He’s the one making you feel like this. That thought alone is intoxicating to him. Monty clicks the vibrator on and slides it inside you as he continues to lick and suck at your clit. Your hips arch off the bed as you release a strangled cry of euphoria. Monty’s free hand plants firmly on your stomach, holding your wriggling hips to the bed as you grind against his face. “Please don’t stop Monty.” You plead, your voice a needy whine as his teeth nip at your clit. Hearing you beg and plead for him has his cock hard as steel. Monty thrusts the vibrator quickly as he continues to suck at your clit and soon you feel that coil burst and you cum all over his face. 

“Fuck.” You’re breathless as Monty pulls away from you, returning the now wet vibrator back to the drawer in your desk. “I should go, but I’ll see you tomorrow okay?” Monty says and you nod weakly as he presses a long kiss to your sweaty forehead. “Wait,” you mumble, reaching for the flannel shirt he’s got on. You begin to tug at it and Monty rolls his eyes with a smile as he shrugs it off and tosses it to you. His heart grows 5 sizes bigger when he sees you throw your jacket off and replace it with his shirt, pulling it around you. You’re so tiny in it. 

It’s only 10 minutes later that your Dad gets home with your little sister. The rest of the evening is ordinary and boring. Just as it usually is. You keep Monty’s flannel on, it smells just like him. It’s surprisingly comfortable, you never want to take it off. In fact you love it so much that you sleep in it and then decide to wear it the next day. You tie the front of the shirt making it a crop top as you squeeze on a pair of skinny jeans. Your navel is revealed by the way you tied it, and your belly button piercing is on full display. Hearing 3 honks you look out your window to see Zach parked out front. Seeing as he lives down the street from you it made the most sense for him to take you to and from school. 

“Nice shirt. Isn’t that Monty’s?” Zach asks with a playful look on his face as he raises a brow. You flip him off as you adjust Monty’s red flannel so it loosely falls from your shoulders. Zach would be lying if he said he wasn’t concerned of whatever is happening with you and Monty. Monty isn’t known to have long relationships, he’s certainly investing more time into you then anyone else he’d been with in the past. “So do you know what you’re doing with Monty?” Zach asks as he begins to drive towards the school. You roll your eyes, “yeah I’m screwing him.” You say simply as you roll on some red lipstick, your eye makeup simple. Your breasts fill the shirt perfectly with the way you tied it in the front, Monty won’t be able to keep his eyes or hands off you. 

Monty: My clothes definitely look better on you. 

You bite your lip to try and hide your smile as you enter the school and simultaneously receive a text from Monty. You look up and see him standing with the rest of the baseball boys, his eyes burning right through you. You giggle to yourself when you see his hand curled tightly around the strap of his backpack. His eyes rake down your body, but they stop right at your breasts so perfectly presented for him in his shirt. “Damn Monty can I get a piece of that ass after you’re finished with her?” The same damn baseball player from yesterday says and Monty nostrils flare as frustration bubbles in his chest. “You touch her and I’ll break your fucking hand.” His voice is calm but the tone is tense. The guy freezes, swallowing thickly as Monty pushes from the wall to head in your direction. 

Feeling a hand slide into your ass pocket you smile to yourself knowing who it is without having to look. “Montgomery.” You feel his chest press to your back as he presses a kiss to your neck. He pulls away to lean against the locker, his eyes fixed on the guy from earlier. You see the tension in his shoulders when you finally look up at Monty. “What’s up with you?” You ask, watching the predatory glare in his eyes that he shoots at any guy that walks past you. “Monty stop you’re freaking people out.” You laugh nervously, watching as his arms cross. Monty’s jaw clenches and he stands up straighter, “remember how I said I’ll beat any guy that comes at you? I think I’m about to.” He says, and you turn to see the ‘meathead’ from yesterday approaching you and Monty. “Oh hey Paul.” You greet politely, subtly reaching over to grab Monty’s hand. Paul doesn’t give Monty a second glance as he turns to you, “hey Y/N, I just wanted to ask you something because seeing as you and Monty aren’t dating you’re free to do whatever you want with whomever you want.” He snaps, his eyes boring into Monty’s. 

A taunting smile spreads across Monty’s face as he stands straighter, and you can feel the tension building between the two men. “I wanted to know if you were free tonight.” Paul asked, but you figured at this point he was asking only to piss Monty off. It's working. You open your mouth to politely decline when Paul’s hands cup your cheeks and before you know it your lips are pressed firmly to his. In an instant Paul is ripped off you and thrown to the ground, “Don’t fucking touch her.” Monty spits, his fists curling as he puts himself between you and Paul. Your mouth is agape as you press your back to the lockers watching as Paul pulls himself to his feet. “She doesn’t belong to you Montgomery.” He snaps and Monty laughs sarcastically. 

“Baby who do you belong to?” Monty asks, his eyes firmly on Paul. You swallow a thick lump down your throat as you stay stood closest to Monty, “y-you Monty.” You stammer and you mean that, really you do. It’s just that this entire situation is freaking you out. Are Paul and Monty about to get in a fist fight, over you? Monty’s face is hard as he eyes Paul, who rolls his eyes with a bark of a sarcastic laugh. “Sounds like she really has a choice.” Paul snaps, and by now there is a crowd gathered around the two men. Monty licks his lips, his fists curling tighter as he releases a breath. Soon Monty swings his fist into Paul’s cheek, sending Paul to the floor. “Fuck you! She has a choice.” He snaps and when Paul straightens up and smashes his fist into Monty’s left cheek you’re scrambling between them. 

“Monty stop, please.” You plead, your hands on his stomach as you try to push him away from Paul. “It doesn’t matter what he says, I’m yours.” You promise before you press a kiss to his jaw. The simple action seems to release some tension from his shoulders. Monty throws an arm over your shoulders while flipping Paul off. When the two of you turn away from him you feel a harsh slap on your ass and just like that Monty is pushing away from you. “That’s it-” Monty’s voice is tight as he turns and throws a punch into Paul’s stomach. You gasp when Paul shoves Monty into the lockers, causing his right cheek to split open. “Stop!” You cry out, and before you can get in between them you see Zach push between Monty and Paul. 

He harshly pushes both Monty and Paul away from each other. “Monty you need to calm down, Paul you’re a fucking dick. Now knock it off you’re freaking Y/N out.” Zach snaps and Monty’s eyes lock with yours, guilt flashing in his eyes when he sees you trembling. Monty shoves through the crowd and you’re following closely behind him. “Monty.” You say weakly but he doesn’t say anything as he shoves the doors of the school open. “Please,” You beg, voice swelling with tears. When he hears the emotion in your voice Monty stops immediately, turning to pull you against his chest. You hear his heart hammering against his chest. 

“He hurt you.” You say weakly, tears falling down your cheeks as you see the trickle of blood dripping down his left cheek. “He fucking slapped your damn ass-” Monty seethes, his eyes fixed on the school but your tiny hands on his chest stops him from going back inside. “He did that to piss you off.” You say, wiping at your cheeks as you grab Monty’s hand to pull him towards his car. You push him to sit down in the driver seat, you standing between his legs with the door open. You reach for a rag in his backseat before dabbing at the blood trailing down his cheek. “Sorry.” Monty mumbles, the tension finally easing from his shoulders when he realizes you could be in there with Paul. But you followed him outside. You chose Monty. You shake your head with a smile as you lean forward to gently press your lips against his for a sweet kiss. 

“Paul’s right though, we’re not dating so I can do whatever I want.” You start, biting back your teasing smile when you see a tense expression cross onto his face. “But I won’t. I just want you.” You finish and Monty releases a breath, a small smile on his face. He leans back as you continue to clean his cut, “poor girl.” He says and you frown deeply. “Don’t say that.” You argue as you finish cleaning his cut. You and Monty sit in silence for a second before he’s reaching into his pocket, “get in.” He orders and the tone in his voice has your knees weak. You immediately move to slide into the passenger seat, buckling your seat belt with shaky hands. “W-what are we doing?” You ask as Monty takes off away from the school. His hands curl around the steering wheel tightly and his jaw is clenched shut, “I need to fuck you. Right now.” Monty snaps, sending heat to simmer in your lower belly. 

Monty slams the car in park when you arrive at what you assume is his house. Before you can even exit the car Monty’s mouth is on yours, hot and wet and so desperate. His hand tangles in your hair as his tongue slides across your bottom lip, and you moan against his mouth. His hands grasp at your hips to drag you across the middle console to settle in his lap. His lips move desperately against yours, the wet sounds of your lips sliding together sending arousal straight to your core. “Monty,” You mumble against his lips, your fingers pulling at the short hairs at the base of his neck. Monty’s hands begin to move your hips against his, grinding you down on his hardening cock. 

“Be mine.” Monty says sharply, his lips trailing down to your neck. Goosebumps spread all over your skin as soon as the words leave his lips, “like, I’d be your girlfriend?” You mumble, your fingernails digging into Monty’s shoulder as he sucks at a sweet spot under your ear. “Mhm,” Monty merely hums in response, groaning as you grind down against his cock harder. He can feel the heat from between your perfect, inviting thighs and it’s driving him crazy. “I can’t handle shit like that, especially when I know you’re not mine so you can go fuck Paul whenever the hell you want.” Monty snaps, pushing your legs around his waist as he hauls you out of the car. 

“Don’t want Paul, want you. I doubt his cock is even half as big as yours is. Fuckin fills me up so perfectly Monty,” You moan against his skin, beginning to suckle on his neck as he kicks his front door open. “So be mine baby, then you’ll get my cock whenever you want.” Monty says breathlessly as he navigates his house with you in his arms. You laugh, “don’t I already?” You tease, pressing your lips to his once more. Monty presses you against the wall, pulling his lips away from yours as he intently looks at you. “Answer.” He says, his eyes searching yours and deep down he’s afraid you’ll say no. You cup his cheeks and press one short kiss to his lips, “the answer is yes dummy.” You tease and a relieved smile overtakes his face before he’s winding his arms tightly around your waist. 

Eventually Monty kicks open his bedroom door, his lips pressed against yours. God he’ll never get used to having you pressed against him like this. Monty carefully drops you onto his grey bed sheets, his hands pressed on the bed on either side of your head. His lips move with yours as his hands move down to remove those tight little jeans of yours. He groans when he sees your bare thighs and wet little pussy covered by your pink silk panties. You slide your hands up his stomach and he swiftly yanks his shirt over his head. “Am I seriously dating you? You’re like a living sex God.” You muse aloud, causing a cocky smile to spread across your now boyfriends face. Monty pulls your shirt- or his shirt- up and over your head and he groans once he sees your bare breasts. 

“No bra today?” He asks, quirking his eyebrow up. You smile sheepishly, moaning softly when you feel his hands grasp your breasts in his large hands. 

“Was kinda hoping this would happen.” You mumble as Monty leans forward to take a nipple in his mouth. He gently bites down at your nipple causing your back to arch and for you to cry out his name. What on Earth did you do to deserve someone as perfect as Montgomery De La Cruz? “Fuck, I really like you Monty.” You breathe, combing your fingers through his hair. Monty releases your nipple with a pop, his fingers still pinching at the other. “I would hope so, you’re my girlfriend now after all.” He begins to kiss down and around your navel, your breathing and heartbeat ragged as he approaches where you need him the absolute most. “Did you ask me only so I wouldn’t fuck anyone else? I really do care about you Monty.” You say genuinely and Monty stops what he’s doing to look up at you. 

“Baby I wouldn’t care so much about you fucking other guys if I didn’t have fucking feelings for you. I care about you,” He says with a smile, before biting down on your hip causing you to whine while bucking your hips towards his face. “Do you promise?” You moan, feeling Monty press a kiss to your lips through the fabric of your panties. Monty rolls his eyes with a smile as he hooks his thumbs into your panties, “I fucking promise. Believe me yet?” He asks as he pushes 2 fingers inside you, causing you to cry out in pleasure. You nod frantically as Monty tongues your clit, his fingers pumping into you quickly. You feel that familiar coil winding quickly as you clutch the bed sheets so hard you’re afraid you’ll rip them. You feel yourself teetering on the edge and just as you’re about to cum Monty pulls away. You groan in frustration. 

“Patience babe.” Monty smiles, reaching for the buckle of his belt. You lean up on your elbows to watch Monty finish undressing and you nearly cum just from his body alone, “I have the sexiest boyfriend in existence.” You say in amazement, causing Monty to laugh. Monty reaches over into his nightstand to pull out a condom wrapper, “that has to be the 3rd time in the last 10 minutes you’ve referred to me as your boyfriend.” Monty chuckles and you shrug, subconsciously spreading your thighs wider for him when he steps between them. “I’m excited. And happy.” You say with a smile, causing Monty to blush slightly. How cute. Monty leans down over you once he’s rolled the condom on, “me too.” He whispers against your lips before sliding into you with one languid thrust. 

You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to the stretch it takes to accommodate Monty’s delicious cock. Not that you’re complaining, he hits deep inside you. Once Monty has slid all the way inside you, he groans as he just sits there and basks in the feeling. “Fuck, my girlfriend has the best, tightest pussy in existence.” Monty moans, using your words from earlier. You smile as you wind your arms around his back, your heart pounding against his chest. “Fuck baby, I need to pound you. Need to forget everything Paul did to you.” Monty grits through clenched teeth and you hold him tighter with a quick nod. 

Monty pulls his hips back before driving them hard against yours over and over again, slamming his cock into you. Monty leans up, his hands grasping your hips as he fucks into you, “fuck baby that feels so good.” You cry out, your left hand reaching out to hold Monty’s. Your breasts bounce with each smack against your hips, and Monty keeps hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. Monty holds your hips so tightly you know there will be bruises he’ll probably feel bad about later. Sweat trickles down the side of his face as he slams into you over, smacking your ass hard when he remembers how Paul slapped your ass. Your fists curl around the sheets as you cry out loudly, nearly sobbing in pleasure. Monty reaches down to thumb your clit which sends you headfirst into your orgasm. 

You expect Monty to stop or at least slow down when you cum. He doesn’t. 

He continues to slam into you at an ungodly pace, the frustration being released with each smack of his hips against yours. With each thrust Monty was pulling you back against him, making the impact of his cock hitting your sweet spot that much more intense. Your body shakes with overstimulation as you approach your second orgasm, almost screaming as Monty slams into you. As you cum for the second time on his cock Monty turns you so that you’re laying on your side. “M-Monty fuck!” You cry out, your face pressing into the sheets as you’re rocked against the bed. “One more time baby, cum around my cock one more time.” Monty nearly begs, almost as though he needs you to cum again. Tears of raw pleasure spring in your eyes and cascade down your cheeks as the pleasure is almost too much, “God Monty please make me cum again, please baby-” You begin to plead but you’re cut off when Monty reaches down to pinch your clit and as soon as he does you’re exploding all over his cock and sheets. 

The both of you stay there connecting and panting for a few minutes before Monty slides out of you and collapses onto the bed next to you after discarding the condom. Monty props his arm under his head as you crawl up the bed to nuzzle your head into his chest. Monty’s arm curls around you to pull you against him tighter, “you okay? I wasn’t too rough was I?” Monty asks, worry in his voice as he looks you over. You smile as you press a kiss to his chest, “I’m in heaven Monty.” You sigh and he relaxes again, holding you to him tighter. You lean up to grab his phone from his jeans before you’re relaxing into his arms again. You open the camera and snap a photo of you laying naked on Monty’s naked chest making sure you’re breasts are concealed by smashing them against Monty. “What’re you doing?” Monty asks, his voice thick with drowsiness. You simply press a kiss to his peck as you open Paul’s contact in Monty’s phone. 

Monty: hey Paul it’s Y/N. just wanted to say I just had the best sex I’ve ever had. oh and I saw your dick in the locker room & yours isn’t even half the size Monty's is. ;) 

You attach the photo before pressing send and Monty laughs lightly. “That’s my girl.” 

[pedros-mustache-main]

just a job

summary: working wardrobe for the new film ‘bohemian rhapsody’ is not all its cracked up to be. until it is.

word count: 2.6k+

warnings: language, ~suggestive~ themes (but who am i kidding? we’re all here for that)

a/n: i’m continuing to work on the next chapter for “even now” but this has been in my drafts for awhile, so i thought i would finish it. enjoy, loves! xoxo.

you hate your job. really, you do. despite what your younger sister believes, it’s not glamorous and it’s not well-paid. it’s simply a 9-5, clock-in & clock-out, leave-work-at-work gig to hold you over until your final semester at university ends.

at twenty-seven, you could have two degrees by now. instead you have zero—and a startlingly amount of student debt amassed thanks to your two attempts at completing a single degree. it’s been complicated, to say the very least, and you don’t like to dwell on past failures.

you consider your job a necessary evil. there’s no one to pay tuition bills except you, so when your cousin landed a position in makeup for a new film and mentioned the need for a wardrobe assistant, you applied. the work is simple, mindless even. you take measurements, offer your opinion when asked, and catalog the different costumes. you’re truly a glorified hunter-gatherer: you hunt through the rows and rows of possible options and bring back what’s needed. 

still, it’s a job, and it pays the bills. for the most part, you stomach it. there’s loads of downtime, giving you ample opportunity to study or write a term paper. your co-workers are nice enough. they live completely different lives, surrounded by the latest fashion magazines and sketchbooks full of costume ideas. your workspace—a child-sized deck in the corner of the trailer—is covered in maths books. your future in mathematics lends itself to things like tailoring and fabric measurements, but it’s not the same. there’s an obvious disconnect; you try your best to smile and fit in, anyway.

your cousin, morgan, finds you on a lonely tuesday afternoon. it’s drizzling outside, so her hair is puffy when she enters the trailer. 

“this damn weather,” she mutters. though she’s your first cousin on your mother’s side, she grew up in australia, and her accent, thick as it is, never fails to make you smile. “i swear, if gwil comes back and his wig is all frizzed out, i’m gonna pop a lid or something.”

“that bad outside?”

“humid as hell and still raining.” she sets her paper coffee cup, stained with purple lipstick around the edge, on the counter. “how’s the paper comin’?”

you glance at your work, at the empty word document on your laptop screen, and shake your head. “it’s not. i tried to start but i just...” your words drift away, incomplete but crystal clear at the same time.

“hey.” morgan crosses the narrow trailer to squeeze your shoulder. “stop doubting yourself.”

peering up through your lashes, you shrug. “i don’t know if i have what it takes to a researcher, that’s all.”

morgan scoffs. “that’s horse-shit and you know it! think about it: you like maths, for some strange reason, and you like medicine, and you want to marry those two and become the best biomedical blah-blah researcher the world has ever seen. and be smoking hot at the same time. don’t give up on yourself now, [y/n]. not when you’re so close.”

you rise from your chair and lift your arms over your head to stretch. you know she means well—hell, you’ve been through this all once before—but your fears persist. with a good-natured roll of your eyes, you close your laptop. “you’re supposed to say that. you’re family.”

“maybe, but it’s the truth.”

the trailer door bursts open, and you glance at the faded clock on the wall. post-lunch break. time for a scene change and costume switch.

your boss, richard, climbs the trailer steps, his glasses fogged over by the weather. he tosses a plastic-wrapped lunch plate on your desk before feathering your cheek with a kiss. his beard scratches your face, but you return the air-kiss, still feeling slightly ridiculous any time you imitate his standard greeting.

“sorry, lovie. you’ll have to eat later. the boys are on their way and we only have them for a few before the cameras start rolling again.” richard sheds his leather jacket and runs a hand through his rain-slick hair. “morgan, you’re taking up too much space. shoo, honey, shoo!”

“right, of course! i’ve got to go wrangle gwilym’s wig anyway.” before exiting the trailer, morgan lifts her brows in your direction. “remember what i said, okay? it really is the truth.”

shuffling to the door, richard waves his hands in a shooing motion. “yeah, yeah, we get it. you’re family and you love each other. scram—and i mean that in the nicest way possible.” once morgan disappears, he points to the back of the trailer. “i need you to find those god-awful corduroy pants. joe has to wear them today and last time i checked there was a tear up the inseam.”

you do as your told, squishing your way to the storage area. four clothes racks—one for each of the boys—take up the majority of the trailer space. aside from a bathroom the size of a postage stamp and an area for fittings, it’s a tight squeeze. that squeeze is made even tighter anytime one or more of the borhap boys makes their entrance. their personalities are distinct and their friendships are loud; it should be endearing, but it often leaves a headache grating at the back of your skull from all the noise. 

from your place jammed between joe and ben’s clothing racks, you can hear him—joe—as he makes his way to the fitting stool.

“okay, but listen to this, richard.” his voice is muffled by the mink coat your head is pressed against, but you already know the routine. he’ll start with some ridiculous anecdote then work his way to a joke or two, peppering in a smattering of questions for good measure. it’s the same nearly every day. 

joe is kind. they all are. but joe, specifically, is the most gregarious of the bunch—a bit much for your quiet tendencies. he makes you laugh on occasion, but the majority of the time, his personality is too big for the sandwich-sized trailer. you’d never tell him that, of course, so you often spend most of his fittings with a haphazard smile on your face, your mind millions of miles away.

corduroy pants retrieved, you wiggle your way to the fitting area. richard has his hands full with rami, attempting to peel a black-and-white checkered unitard off the poor man, so he gestures to joe with his foot.

“fix that inseam,” he says, his voice strained with effort.

joe has a wry smile on his face when you look at him. “look, [y/n], i normally don’t take my pants off on the first date, but i’ll make an exception for you.”

you toss the pants at his chest. an girlish blush crawls up the back of your neck, so you turn away, rooting around on your desk for your sewing kit. to further enflame your face, you cringe when you hear his jeans unzip and drop to the floor with a soft whoosh. your fingers stutter over the assortment of books, papers, and fabric materials on the table. 

what has you so nervous, you aren’t sure. joe is handsome. again, they all are. you suppose it’s the idea of having your face inches from his crotch as soon as he’s clothed. not for the first time, you wonder what you’ve gotten yourself into. a biomedical researcher would never have to deal with this.

“m’lady, i am ready.”

the plastic surrounding the sewing kit bites your palm as you hold it tight, turning to face him. “don’t be so smug. it’s not cute.”

joe frowns. he looks slightly ridiculous, like a small child, in his wig: the straight bangs, the uneven locks of hair brushing the collar of his shirt. he looks like john deacon; at least, you assume he does. you’re no expert. still, his frown coupled with the wig and the striped shirt and corduroy reminds you more of a primary school boy than rock god oozing sex appeal. it’s discombobulating. 

“you’re a hard nut to crack, [y/n].”

lowering to your knees, you nudge his legs apart with your knuckles. already, you feel a lump rise in your throat. “yeah?”

“i’m in here every day and i don’t think i’ve made you laugh once.”

“that’s not true.” you search the recesses of your mind for a memory, but can only think about how, if you move an inch to your left, your forehead will brush the fold of his pants near his most delicate parts.

(god, you need to get laid. between a flurry of dead-end jobs and university courses, you can’t remember the last time you had a good romp in the hay just to blow off some steam.)

joe doesn’t seem at all bothered by your proximity. that is, until you run the flat of your hand down the inseam of his leg. you swear you hear him hiss, but maybe it’s just your imagination. regardless, he jumps a little, and you look up with a wince.

“sorry, cold hands. i’m just looking for the tear.”

he nods, a definite flush to his cheeks.

the tear—a whopping four inches from top to bottom—is nestled near the back of joe’s left thigh. you might be able to get away with a bit of fashion tape, but richard has an eye for detail. he claims the camera can pick out every loose thread, every minor snag. 

drawing back, you pop open the sewing kit with a click. “you’ve made me laugh before,” you say. it’s a lame attempt to break the silence, but you’ve never claimed to be the best conversationalist.

“huh? oh.” he hesitates. his eyes narrow, but there’s a playful glint to his gaze. “you’re only saying that to make me feel better.”

“no, it’s the truth. there was that time with the... dinosaur story. and the other time with the baseball thing and your brother.”

he runs his pointer finger over the fingers on his opposite hand, eyes rolled toward the ceiling as he counts under his breath. “so, twice?”

you nod. “at least.” with a flourish of your needle and thread, you warn, “cold hands coming in again.”

he shifts to stand a little wider. his arms cross over his chest, straining the fabric around his biceps. “twice is good. i can live with twice. my normal goal is twenty times at minimum, but i can adjust.”

you fall silent. once you’ve located the rip, you give it a good tug, testing to see whether it will tear more before you’ve finished the job. it holds, thank goodness, so you place the needle at the base of the rip and start threading it back and forth. 

you don’t turn when richard announces, "be back, [y/n]. rami’s stuck. we need baby oil from makeup.”

at this, joe laughs. his hand slaps his opposite leg, his body heaving as he all but cackles. you jostle with the force of his amusement, and the needle stabs the exposed flesh his thigh. this time he does hiss, pulling back on instinct.

you grimace. “sorry! you moved!”

“that’s your excuse? you sure you didn’t plan to stab me?”

“why would i do that?”

“‘cause you think i’m annoying!”

“i don’t think you’re annoying—not all the time, anyway.”

“aha! so you do think i’m annoying!”

you huff. “joe, please. i’m just trying to do my job.”

perhaps it’s the weariness in your tone that drains the good-natured grin from his face. maybe it’s your confession, which you hadn’t meant to confess. whatever it is, he clears his throat and looks toward the mirrors on the wall across from him, arms snug over his chest again. you return to the tear.

the silence stretches thin with tension. you’ve wounded his pride, you know, but you aren’t sure why it’s shut him down. you’ve interacted only a handful of times, and you try to keep professional, distanced, any time you do interact with a cast member. his suddenly-cold exterior is peculiar. 

“can you turn around for me?” he does so without complaint. his ass looks good in the pants, you’ll give him that, and this vantage point gives better access to the top of the tear. a win-win, you suppose. 

“what did you mean by twenty times?” you ask. “your normal goal being twenty times?” another lame attempt at breaking the tension.

he shrugs. “it’s stupid.”

tear repaired, you stand. “no, i want to hear. please?” 

gently, you tug his arm so he faces you again. you glance over his new outfit, searching for minuscule imperfections. you can feel his eyes search your face in a similar manor, and your face grows warm under the scrutiny. 

in lieu of an proper response, he kisses you.

the sudden contact causes you to drop your sewing kit to the floor. the plastic breaks—you can hear the crunch—but you don’t care. it’s been a long time since anyone kissed you and a longer time since anyone kissed you properly. his lips are soft and skilled, slow against your own. you rest your hands on his forearms, let him kiss you until he pulls back.

your skin feels like it’s on fire, and your chest is tight with anxiety. you swallow hard, eyes darting back and forth between his.

“i don’t like it when girls i like think i’m annoying.” his voice is thick, but his words remind you of a schoolboy’s again. it’s endearing; you smile.

“i’m quiet, that’s all.”

“i’m not.”

“i know.”

“usually i can tell if a girl is interested by how many times she laughs when i talk. twenty times and over, i’ve got a solid in. you’ve never given me an in.”

“i suppose twice is a little below the mark.”

he leans forward, as if to kiss you again, and your eyes flutter shut, but his nose merely brushes yours. “go out with me... to dinner. let me make you laugh again.”

you know you should say no. if not for the sake of professionalism, for the simple sake of proving your sister wrong. she’d told you at the start that you would meet someone and it would be dreamy and romantic and totally Hollywood. you’d promised her you wouldn’t.

but joe is cute. and even though he’s loud and chaotic, there’s something about him. he’s like a magnet. despite when your head aches because he and ben are singing too loud, you’re drawn to him. there’s no use denying it.

“one date,” you whisper, holding up your finger. “i’ll give you one date to let you try.”

“how do i know if there will be a second?”

you have to laugh at his boldness. his grin widens at the sound.

stepping back, his hands dropping from your hips, he shows three fingers. “that’s three times. i think that automatically qualifies me for a second date.”

“we haven’t even gone on our first!”

“doesn’t matter.” he hops down from the dressing stool and presses a loud kiss to your cheek. “pencil it in. two dates, back to back.”

“joe—”

he pauses at the trailer door. his toothy smile flips your stomach. “i’m being annoying, i know.”

before you can laugh again, you bite your lip. “get out of here, you idiot.”

he purses his lips in an air-kiss before bouncing out the door.

you grab the broken sewing kit from the floor. straightening, glance at yourself in the mirror. 

your cheeks are flushed and your lips look freshly kissed, but you’re smiling. maybe not laughing, but smiling. joe’s the first guy who’s made you smile in awhile. he’s made the stress in your chest relax, and the constant worry at the back of your head slow.

that ought to count for something. maybe even a third date.

[thomasandhissides]

Forbidden Fruit- Part 4

ao3 | Beginning | Previous | Next

CW: alcohol use, choking, beginning of a panic attack 

Original chapter on ao3 contains some spicy times so if you wanna read that, check out the ao3 link

Janus got cleaned up as best as he could after the show, wiping the sweat from his face and pulling a new shirt on. He was the last one of his bandmates to go out to the bar, scanning the area for Patton. He smiled softly when he spotted him, sliding into the seat next to him.

“Enjoy the show?” He asked with a sly smile, ordering a drink when the bartender came by.

Patton almost dropped his glass in surprise, coughing as he realized who was next to him, “Uh, y-yeah I did. You guys were really good.” He coughed.

“Careful there, you don’t wanna choke,” Janus chuckled. “At least not yet.” He whispered seductively in Patton’s ear.

“S-sorry, you just make me nervous. I don’t know if you could tell but I’ve never really been to one of these before…” Patton trailed off, turning a bright red at the comment purred into his ear.

“I can tell, you stuck out in your soft colors,” Janus looked Patton up and down. “You don’t look like the type of person to come to a concert like this.”

“I like the music!” Patton protested, “Just not the aesthetics that go with it…”

“Awe, does a little black scare you?” Janus teased.

“Yes!” Patton smiled brightly and Janus laughed.

“Think I can change your mind then?” He tilted Patton’s head up with two fingers under his chin to look at him. “Show you it’s not so scary.”

“It won’t be scary as long as you protect me,” Patton looked at Janus with bright eyes and the taller of the two almost melted at the sheer innocence in his smile.

“Someone as innocent as you? I couldn’t imagine letting anyone hurt you,” Janus murmured and leaned in as he spoke, lips inches from Patton’s. “May I?” He asked quietly as to not break the atmosphere. Patton gave the slightest of nods and Janus smiled, kissing him gently. The kiss only lasted a few short seconds before Janus moved back, resting a hand on his cheek.

“How was that?” He asked with a hint of a smile.

“T-that was nice,” Patton giggled, looking down sheepishly. Janus stroked his cheek lovingly with his thumb as he glanced down at his lips again.

“Can I get your number?” Janus asked gently, hesitantly pulling away from the soft atmosphere that was Patton.

“Yeah sure,” Patton answered, writing his number on a napkin and handing it to Janus.

“Thanks, babe,” Janus took the napkin from him, folding it delicately and slipping it into his pocket. “I’ll call you later tonight.”

“I can’t wait,” Patton beamed.

--

Virgil hummed as he walked up behind Roman, a drink in either hand.

“That’s an expensive jacket,” He pointed out, handing Roman one of the drinks when he turned around. “Keep it, purple looks good on you.” He winked.

“Thanks,” Roman responded, swallowing the glass in one go. “That was an impressive performance by the way.”

“Why thank you,” Virgil smiled. “You really know how to handle your alcohol.” He laughed as he drank his at a more moderate speed.

“It tends to happen when you have a lot of feelings you need to repress,” Roman deadpanned, turning to him.

“What kinds of feelings?” Virgil questioned. “You seemed pretty flustered during our performance. And you’re wearing my jacket.”

“Intense attraction. A little bit of loathing. Some confusion. Mostly attraction though.” Roman smirked.

“Whoever’s got your eye must be a pretty lucky lady,” Virgil winked.

“I mean if you consider yourself a woman, sure.” Roman looked him up and down. “I’m gay.” Virgil bit his lip, flustered under his gaze.

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be, babe,” He purred with a wink.

“How about you just be yourself and then we’ll go from there,” Roman suggested and Virgil nodded.

“I like the sound of that,” He agreed. “Tell me a little about yourself, starting with your name.”

“Roman. Roman Prince.” He answered with a smile.

“Well, Princey,” Virgil gave a dramatic bow. “I’m Virgil.” He introduced himself, holding his hand out for Roman to shake. “Virgil Storm.”

“Stormcloud. Nice.” Roman complimented, shaking his hand. “So how’d you get into a crowd with that snake Janus?”

“Another last name themed nickname, I like the creativity,” Virgil laughed. “One-night stand that wouldn’t leave me alone. They needed another member so I decided, fuck it. The money could be good if we get this thing off the ground.” He shrugged. “Better than what I was doing before.”

“What were you doing before?” Roman asked. He couldn’t help his curiosity, something about Virgil just drew him in.

“Lived in a mental hospital for six months,” Virgil hummed. “I got out and my family had abandoned me. Janus kinda took me in. It’s been fun being in a band with him.”

“Music is a good outlet, huh?” Roman said, looking into his empty glass.

“Music and weed,” Virgil agreed. “You want another drink?” He offered.

“Yeah. I don’t smoke, but I’ll be damned if I don’t kick a drink back.” Roman nodded. Virgil laughed and pat him on the shoulder.

“I’ll be back,” He walked off to the other end of the bar, ordering him and Roman another drink before coming back. “So, how’s a pretty boy like you here alone? Or are you?” He handed him the drink.

“I’m here with my bandmates,” Roman laughed, “Heard there was a band in town that could give us a run for our money, I had to see if it was bullshit or not.”

“Well?” Virgil gave him an amused smile. “Think we’re good enough to give you a challenge?”

“A challenge? Yes.” Roman admitted, “But just that. My band is twice as talented. After all, I am the lead singer.” Virgil scoffed and sipped his drink.

“Pretty and cocky? How’d I get so lucky?” He teased sarcastically. “Come on, our lead singer would blow you out of the water.”

“Just because someone has been in the business awhile doesn’t mean they’re talented. I’ve won the Battle of The Bands every year since I was 16.” Roman bragged.

“Funny, our singer said the same thing.” Virgil shrugged. “One of you is lying and I hope it’s not you. I like you.”

“Well, it has to be a lie. The only way it would be true is if we were in the same ba-” Roman stopped suddenly, his glass hitting the floor as his eyes widened.

“Woah, you alright there, prince boy?” Virgil gave him a concerned look.

“I-I can’t be here. I have to go,” Roman panicked, beginning to shake. “I can’t be seen here.” He started to get up to leave before Virgil grabbed his arm.

“That’s not happening until you tell me what’s going on,” He frowned.

“I will tell you but please. I. Can’t. Be. Here.” He said adamantly, tears in his eyes. Virgil got the hint and nodded, wrapping his arm around Roman’s shoulders.

“Let’s go somewhere else and you can explain. Is that okay?” He wanted to help but he didn’t want to push him if it was too much.

“That’s fine. Let’s go,” Roman walked out quickly, Virgil following close behind with his arm still securely around the popstar’s shoulders. Once they were a safe distance away from the building, he looked at Roman expectantly.

“Your lead singer… Remus… Is my twin brother.” Roman looked at him seriously.

“What’s so bad about that?” Virgil realized what the question sounded like as soon as it left his lip and he shook his head. “Let me rephrase that, what happened that made you have a panic attack about being in the same building as your brother?”

“The last time we saw each other we had this big argument.” Roman said, wiping his hands over his face, “I didn’t like how he was becoming because of Janus and he ended up leaving the band. But not before I said that I would be bigger and more popular than him. But he won’t let that happen.” Roman shook his head. Virgil frowned and pulled Roman into a hug.

“I’m so sorry,” Virgil comforted softly, rubbing his back. “I wouldn’t have said anything had I known.”

“It’s okay I know I probably sound crazy but I know he’s out to get me,” Roman said honestly, “The moment I came back from hiatus. The exact moment I had reporters questioning me about the specifics of our argument, and the rumors of how hard I am to work with.”

“It doesn’t sound crazy to me,” Virgil shrugged. “In all honesty, I don’t like working with them. Janus is a shady person and Remus is just… Remus.” He sighed.

“If it helps,” Roman offered, “You are an amazing guitarist.” Virgil flushed at the compliment and shook his head.

“I’m alright I guess,” He mumbled. “Janus likes to threaten to replace me a lot. I wouldn’t blame him.”

“Are you kidding me?!” Roman laughed in disbelief, “I would kill to have half the talent you have, Stormcloud. You’re phenomenal.” Roman took Virgil’s hand in his own. Virgil looked down at where their hands connected but made no move to pull away, a smile on his face.

“You don’t mean that,” He shook his head shyly. “I’m sure you’re better at it than I am.”

“I can’t play an instrument, actually,” Roman said sheepishly, “So that means you’re better. You could try and argue but I’ll charm my way into getting you to believe me.” Virgil shook his head but he didn’t argue.

“Thanks,” He smiled, lacing his fingers with Roman’s. “You’re really sweet.”

“I try,” Roman laughed, “So Virgil, I’d hate for this to be our last conversation so I have to ask, can I have your number?”

“Of course you can. Here, hand me your phone and I’ll put it in. You can take mine and put yours in,” Virgil was already digging through his pocket for his phone, pulling it out. Roman put his contact in and named it “Princey <3”.

“There,” Roman said triumphantly. ”I hope you use it.” Virgil nodded, looking down at his phone when it started to ring. He groaned quietly.

“It’s Remus, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you later.” He promised, kissing him quickly. “Be ready.” He winked. As Virgil walked away he could hear Roman cheering happily. He let out a soft laugh and shook his head.

“Man this guy is cute,” Virgil smiled softly to himself.

[possibilistfanfiction]

prompt: leslie and/or tina’s reactions to seeing karolina and nico together! (as easy as it is to write leslie as homophobic I truly don’t think she would be, especially after watching the second season, so I’m interested in your take on this!)

[this is just basically entirely au bc honestly … idk i didnt want to write abt murderous parents lol… also sometimes i forget that karolina is in high school! so small!! just a baby!!!!]

//

all of your friends already know, and it’s not really that big a deal; gert is ready to drag you to a fucking parade, probably, and molly has already gotten you a little rainbow pin.

also, there’s nico, who is soft and so beautiful and you knew you liked girls before you kissed her—there’d been crushes and you’d definitely touched yourself a few times while you were absentmindedly watching callie and arizona during a grey’s anatomy rewatch—and then you had absolutely hated kissing chase, so. you knew. you knew even if it was hard to admit, and even if it was harder to say aloud.

it still is; you’ve only said the words to gert and that was because you were plastered and she was so genuinely proud of you, excited for you. it’s not that you’re ashamed—you’re not; you love who you are and you think you’re definitely in love with nico—but it’s still hard sometimes.

all of this is running through your head really fucking fast because you’re having a movie night with your mom and she’d ordered your favorite pizza and you know that you should tell her, that dale and stacy know because they’d caught you and nico kissing in their backyard during a dinner when molly said they wouldn’t be home until later, but they had promised that you could stay with them if you ever needed.

it’s just—you’re supposed to be the perfect church girl, and you are; you’re tall and thin and blonde and you like pretty clothes and you get good grades and you are kind; nico has told you this with all the confidence in the world, and sometimes you have petty thoughts, recently you have felt a kind of anger that you never have before—but you are kind. you are good.

you’re thinking this kind of like a mantra as you walk downstairs, and your mom is setting out plates and smiles when she sees you.

you check your phone to stop your hands from shaking; you’d told your friends in your group chat you were probably going to talk to her tonight.

gert: I support you and we all love you so much! You know if you ever need someone to protest for you I’ll be there in a heartbeat

gert: Also my parents said i can pick you up if you need, just let me know. There’s tons of ice cream and also wine, I’m pretty sure they’d let us have it without even asking

gert: but ur mom is going to be cool. You got this

you roll your eyes because okay, it’s a little excessive, but she’s just doing her best and being who she is, really, and that is why you love her.

chase: love u kar !!

it makes you smile. molly texts you just a lot of rainbow themed emojis, and even alex sends you a few purple hearts.

nico texts you in your own private messages: you’re the bravest person i know and no matter what i’m so proud of you and i’m so proud to be with you

you smile and shoot back quick texts thanking all of them, and then you put your phone down and sit on a stool at the island.

‘hi sweetheart,’ she says, slides over a plate to you with pizza and a few greens on the side. ‘how was your week?’

you can’t bear to even look at your food you’re so nervous you feel sick, and you clench your hands under the island so your mom can’t see how much they’re trembling.

‘mom,’ you say, and you will your voice to be strong and steady; logically you have a wild amount of privilege in the world so even if this goes horribly wrong you’ll be really, really fine. 

she sits down next to you and takes a bite of pizza, nods.

‘can i talk to you about something?’

she sits back and looks at you seriously. ‘karolina, of course.’

you nod, clench your jaw. you had a whole speech planned but what comes out is, ‘i kissed nico,’ and it sits in the air and you’re about to start rambling and explaining but your mom just puts down her pizza and stands, steps toward you and folds you into a gentle hug, fierce and tight and soft.

you start to cry and you’re kind of embarrassed, distantly, but your mom is steady and strokes down your back a few times, eventually backs up and frets with your hair for a few seconds before smiling gently.

‘is that what you’ve been so upset about recently?’ she asks, gently but also like it’s so normal, like she would’ve asked about any boy. ‘does she not feel the same way?’

‘oh,’ you say, and feel the heat rise to your cheeks. ‘uh, no, she does. we like each other.’

your mom smiles and sits but doesn’t let go of your hands, even though they’re shaking. ‘i love you, karolina. you’re my daughter and i’m proud of you and the gender of the person you like could never change those things.’

you give her a watery little smile and when you sniffle she stands to bring you a few tissues, kisses the top of your head.

‘i had a whole speech planned, about being gay.’ your voice is rough and kind of small but you’re so relieved you don’t even care.

‘you can still give it to me, if you want.’ your mom’s offer is sincere and sometimes she’s fucking annoying but honestly she’s a good mom.

you shrug. ‘nah, it’s okay.’

‘okay.’ she rubs your back once. ‘do you want me to warm your pizza up for you?’

it’s so absurd, you think, the normalcy of all of this, the fear that had been eating away at you for weeks. ‘that’s all right,’ you say, and take a bite.

‘so,’ your mom says, turning toward you and sitting forward, dropping her voice a little conspiratorially and you almost want to preemptively roll your eyes. ‘how’s it going with nico?’

‘oh my god,’ you groan. 

‘are you girlfriend official yet?’

‘mom.’

she grins, really, sincerely grins. ‘do we need to have the talk? you’re being safe?’

you think your face is burning. ‘not that it’s really any of your business but we’re haven’t—i’m not ready. yet.’

it makes you sound so young and vulnerable and you hate it; you know you love nico and you want to have sex with her but you also want to take your time, especially after whatever happened at that party; you want it to be safe and unhurried and beautiful, for both of you.

your mom’s smile softens. ‘okay,’ she says. ‘well, if you ever need anything, let me know.’

‘i definitely will not.’

she laughs and then takes both of your plates to the couch. you sit next to her and refuse to even let her click on the lgbt movies category. you pick salt instead because you both love that movie even though you’ve seen it like a million times and your mom just gives you a little side eye when angelina comes on screen.

‘you’re way too excited about this,’ you grumble around a bite.

she pats your thigh. ‘i could tell you were holding something in for months, now, karolina—a heaviness. i was worried.’

‘oh.’

she brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. ‘you’re my child, and this is just something about you. i support you and the church does too. mostly i’m very relieved that you’re happy.’

you nod because you’re going to cry again and you really don’t want to.

you set aside your empty plates and curl up into her side like you did when you were very small, even though you’re taller than her now. she smells the same and growing up is kind of fucking terrible but this, right now, really isn’t so bad.

you text your friends quickly when she goes to the bathroom, that everything was cool, it was great even.

and you text nico: my mom was awesome. i love you

you send it before you realize that the first time you’d told her that you love her after you kissed her is over text but it’s sent now, there’s no going back. you laugh a little but she texts you back i love you too and you decide you’ll tell her a hundred times in person, a thousand, to make up for it.

you fall asleep on the couch after you’ve eaten a lot of ice cream and your mom wakes you eventually, walks you to your room.

‘i love you, karolina,’ she says, drawing you into her. ‘so, so much.’

you take all the half-asleep comfort you can from her hug. ‘i love you too.’

[fenton-bus]

I.

How To Lose Acquaintances And Discourage People

    All you really need to know is this:

Austin spills his Monster Energy drink on some Hawaiian-shirt wearing redhead in his Poli-Sci class and Trish ends up paying for it for the remainder of her natural life.

∞

A long shadow falls over her IPad screen.

  Despite the fact that she is a grownup-esque, adult-ish, totes mature person Trish honestly cannot help the rapid fluttering of her heart, the dizzy thrill of reckless hope at the possibility that today of all days, in this crummy corner of Daley’s surrounded by sad, dreamless randoms she’s managed to find her James Darcy or Edward Cullen. Bracing herself against her chair, Trish takes a breath, turns around.

 “Do you ever think about parallel dimensions?”

 JK, its Dez, decked out in a leopard print vest, polka dot pants combo that screams I’m a grown man.

 Trish wrinkles her nose. “What are you wearing?”

 He smiles, wide and warm before choosing a direction to stare into like a pirate ship captain gazing off into the horizon. Hands on hips, dignity forgotten.

 A solitary hair flip. “I woke up like this.”

 “Go back to sleep. It obviously didn’t work.”

 His mouth falls open in an all too real outrage, palms spread. Sensing the full twirl before it happens Trish holds up one hand.

 “Flawless.” Dez intones.

 The voice is more Batman than Beyoncé.

 “No.”

 “Bow down.”

 Trish winces. Grits her teeth. “We’ve been over this freckles, you’re not allowed to blaspheme Beyoncé Carter-Knowles.” It’s way too early in her life for this. "Please go put on different pants.”

 “I hear your criticism, Dez rocks back on the balls of his feet. And I’m going to go in another direction.”

 “The door?”

 “Nope.” There is the ear-punching scratching of chair legs being dragged across the wooden floor (and the subsequent staring of sad randoms without lives) and bam, pale, freckled, freakishly long limbs are stretching across the table to get at her pumpkin spice muffin, gargantuan Franken-feet are nudging her flats under the table, and Dez’s face, sparkling with a truly exhausting amount of joy like they haven’t seen each other in four years as opposed to four days is turned toward her like some giant, non-verbal invitation there aren’t enough versions of ‘I Renounce Thee Satan’ in the world to rsvp to. Trish grabs her iced caramel macchiato and hugs it to her chest protectively.

 “Go away.”

Dez eyes her IPad. “Dude, are you tweeting Quincy Jones again? He hasn’t responded to your last five tweets. He flips his hair again. (Trish does not growl) That last one had a pretty aggressive tone.”

“Carrot face, the girl says sweetly. I’m working.”

The doof actually smiles in this commiserating way, like he lives in a world where applying for internships and writing music reviews are in every way comparable to juggling or baking brownies or riding a unicycle down the Long Island Expressway or whatever he does with his free time. Trish rolls her eyes. Seven months ago she would’ve called Dez Wade a doof and moved on but now, his status is clear: he is high king of the doofs. The Eminent Supreme Doof. On his home planet, whole civilizations of lesser doofs have carved his image in stone and decorated the halls of his palace with his stupid, doofy portrait. The amount of sheer doofiness that is able to exist in one pale, stick figure of a body is Beyond.

 Sometimes, the fact that someone like Dez even exists, much less speaks to her on a daily basis is just…how? Or, it would be, if Trish thought about it for too long. At the moment, she’s up to letting it sit in her brain for a maximum of thirty seconds before she decides to go out and

 Anyway, Dez is saying “Cool,” like he’s worked before, and nodding and launching into a conversation he had with his cat this morning and she’s totally succeeding at not paying attention (on goes the IPad, hello Twitter) when he claps his hands real loud, real sudden, and shouts “Okay!”

The barista formerly carrying the iced mocha latte is currently frozen in place, watching it sail across the room. Staying on its given trajectory means it’ll collide with Wall Street Guy who chose today of all days to wear his best Brooks Brothers suit. But the dude is so busy having a deep convo with Bargain Basement 90s Era Will Smith (big ears, neon green windbreaker, dark purple fanny pack, currently singing the items on the specials board to himself) that he doesn’t notice the coffee he didn’t order until it’s sloshing around in what was previously his very natural looking hair piece. (Wall Street has been coming in and ordering black double espressos since midterms. Trish can’t believe she didn’t notice the rug.)

 Wall Street Guy’s yelp is drowned out by the actual scream of the woman at the table behind him, when his wet hair falls on top of her cinnamon bun.

 “My bad.” Dez mutters.

Trish manages to tear her eyes away from the beautiful train wreck long enough to give him her limited-edition, Side-Eye that had he actually been looking at her, would have given him the effect of feeling judged for all eternity.

Now Cammy the Barista is gazing off into the distance. Not like a pirate captain though, she looks legitimately horrified. Trish has seen that very specific brand of shock and terror on her co-workers faces whenever her bosses go on tangents about “trimming excess”. Trish knows that right this very moment, every tiny, seemingly trivial mistake Cammy’s ever made inside these walls is flashing through her head movie montage style. (the soundtrack? Her anguish) Every messed up order, every backed up afternoon rush,  every time she had to tell the long-haired, piercing-riddled, Ray-Bans wearing, tattooed,   painter from Brooklyn on his usual stop in during his morning bike ride no they didn’t have Amish-made, vegan cranberry pumpkin bread maybe he should try the vegan bakery on lower sixth and even though she got here at five and has already had three encounters that made her put quitting back on the table, and even though she has the same fifty-four word conversation with a dude who chooses to walk this earth with an un ironic rat tail every single morning since she woke up desperate enough to apply here, her voice is calm and polite and even a little regretful, like a tiny part of her feels bad about the fact that a major chain doesn’t carry Amish-made, vegan cranberry pumpkin bread-and then, after all of that Judgey McShower Please still finds enough inner tool bag necessary to take time out of his busy fixie bike tour of the lower east side to pluck one of the little white customer surveys from the pad next to the bucket of skull rings on the counter and fill it out, (resting his weight on the counter like the effort exerted by being a douche exhausts him) making passive aggressive scratching sounds with his pencil as he underlines the phrase “tone was needlessly aggressive” three times. 

 He hands it to her silently, hoists his bike on to his shoulder with one hand, and heads for the door. Trish hopes with all of her might that he rides through Hell’s Kitchen and falls into a construction hole.

As Cammy grapples with the very real possibility of being ‘terminated’ (she has school loans and a cat, and at some point, she kind of wanted to travel-or at least  see a view that wasn’t her elderly neighbors listening to Tony Benet and sucking face.) and Trish tears her eyes away from the ‘well I never’ bluster of  Wall Street Guys trembly rage, (if the vicious way he’s stabbing at his phone is any indication, this melt down is going to be epic) Dez manages to execute the ‘backing away slowly’ move while sitting down. He straightens his shoulders and fold his hands on the table like the last four minutes didn’t happen.

 According to Trish’s Creeper Manual, (545 Pgs., De La Rosa Publishing, $150.00 retail value, all funds go to The Trish De La Rosa foundation) sixty seconds without blinking is classified as a stare.

Trish stares back.

Dez starts humming The Jurassic Park theme.

 Her eyes are in very real danger of rolling out of her head and tumbling across this dirty floor.

 Thirty seconds. Forty-five.

 “Oh my God, what?”

 Dez starts. Smiles. “Oh, I was just wondering what I would look like if I had a carrot for a face.”

 “Do you own a mirror?” She says before she can stop herself.

 Inexplicably (no, she doesn’t want to know) the doof’s grin grows. “Would my face like transform into a carrot or would it just get really orange?”

 “Full on carrot. Trish nods. “Think werewolf but lamer.”

 “I could live with that. I wouldn’t have to worry about getting eaten unless I ran into people who really liked carrots. Ooh, maybe there’s some birth defect that causes people’s faces to turn out vegetable-y! Trish!” He slams his fist on the table, winces real hard, finds the strength to continue. "What if that’s my destiny, to gather all of the down-trodden vegta-people, looked down on, denied their rights simply for being full of folic acid.”

 His voice is rising like a Wonka-vator, gaze full of heroic things only he can see (thank god). She takes a long sip of her coffee, wonders what people lucky enough not to be her are doing right now.

 “Maybe that’s why I was put on this earth, to teach them to love themselves. We’ll live a life free of the judgment of you normies; we’ll build our own colony, with our own laws. He rubs his chin in thought. Maybe we’ll live in a pyramid.”

 “I will pack your bags.”

 “Thank you.”

 Trish leans over, smiling indulgently, pats his hands. “Anything for you buddy.”

 “Aww, His face changes. Wait-“

 “Hey, remember when I told you to scram?”  

 Dez nods, “Was that before or after we planned my future as the pop star impressionist Dezyonce?"

 Deep in the caverns of Trish’s temporal lobes, lies a specific set of neurons responsible for the chemical reaction to strong, talented women being besmirched by fools, thus she is just barely able to resist slapping him in the face with his own hand. Assault is assault after all, and she has the feeling anytime spent in police custody would just result in the gleeful taking of pre and post lock up selfies.

 “Listen Freckles, she intones, in the sweet tone that everyone but the idiot in front of her easily recognizes as the Trish DeLa Rosa, limited edition, “I Will Bury You, Then Innocently Read the Eulogy At Your Funeral With The Kind of Solemn Strength and Dignified Crying That Could Get Me An Oscar” timbre. I know some things-the concept of personal space, how much cologne is too much-are like, totally foreign to you, but if you pay attention, there are these tiny little things called indicators, that can tell you whether or not you’re going in the right direction.”

 He’s doing that rapt attention thing, looking at her with undivided, singular focus  like she’s reading him the bible or describing Zalian VII spoilers or giving him explicit instructions as to how to safely survive the on-coming zombie apocalypse. Trish thinks about this look approximately zero times a day, but if she did the quiet intensity of it, marred somewhat by the eagerness with which he leans over, as though it’s necessary to hear the pauses in her speech, would make the words gently elbowing each other for a prominent spot in her mouth feel incongruous.

 But it doesn’t.

 And they don’t.

 "For example, not only is the amount of Fantasy you’re wearing right now about four times the amount Britney would be caught dead in, but I think we can go ahead and classify it as a biohazard.” Trish straightens her back against her chair. "And it’s weird that you don’t already know this, but “go away” doesn’t mean “oh my god, come closer” in magical, confusing girl language. In general it usually means “go away”, in this specific case, she leans over making sure he’s looking directly into her eyes so there’s no goofy sitcom confusion about this later in the week, “it means the English language hasn’t created a precise set of words that would accurately describe how badly I want you to get out of your chair, and walk away right now.” 

 Trish squares her shoulders. “That’s an indicator.”

 She means for that to be punctuation, to go back to her tablet and if there is a God, maybe, just maybe hear the squeaking of a chair being pushed back and the shuffling of oversized P.F. Flyers, and every other sound of her morning being returned to her.

 But. Dez isn’t looking at her. He’s looking at the hand curled around the collar of his sweater. There is a hand curled around the collar of his sweater and his eyes are trained downward, so he can look at it without moving his head. But then he dips his chin a little, just a couple of inches and it’s hers. Her hand. Trish’s.

 “It’s Curious.”

 “What?”

 “I don’t um, I’m allergic to Fantasy so I only…” His voice tapers off, and Trish, Trish rips her hand away. 

 Dez looks at his hands, spread across the table, wiggles his fingers once, two times.

“So, um…yeah.” The squeaking of the chair legs being dragged across the floor is twice as loud, an unpleasant burst in her ears. The shuffling of worn, size twelve sneakers starts.

 Stops.

 “You want people to be afraid of you," His voice doesn’t tapper off, is calm and quiet and if it shakes only Dez knows for sure. But they aren’t. I know what that is, and no one, nobody’s afraid of you.”

Trish looks at the looping pink cursive of the specials board, Boca patties with bean sprouts, blue cheddar hummus, mushrooms and mozzarella on chibata.

 “People feel sorry for you.”

 Green onions and black bean sauce. Margarita pizza grilled cheese. Spinach and kale mini kiesh. God how many specials does this stupid place have?

 “Everyone feels sorry for you and they just act like they’re afraid, because that’s the politest way to do it. No one would ever say it to your face.”

 The thing Cammy puts above the door isn’t a legitimate bell,  it’s from some dumb door handle Christmas ornament reject thing her mom got her as a sort of homemade alarm system when she moved to Bushwick. Like something that sounds like a cat toy was gonna successfully warn her daughter about intruders. It doesn’t even work. The sound gets lost before it reaches the Beans of Columbia display.

 She sits for a minute. Her index finger brushing against her th-

She sits for a minute. Orders another caramel macchiato ‘cause her first one’s cold. She could heat it up but those coffee microwaves make everything taste weird. Her laptop emits a dissonant buzz that sounds like a choir of atonal bees.

 She doesn't move for a long time.

[ask-icancraft-it]

“The Halloween 1-2-Switch”

(( This started off as a request from my good friend, @coneygoil! She asked me to write a fic where “Felix and Cal wear a couples halloween costumes to the Nicelanders party and Cal is not happy about it.” I really ran away with this idea and it turned out to be just a little bit more than that, haha! Enjoy! ))

As the elevator doors slid open, Fix-It Felix adjusted the bright red cap on his head and thumbed the straps of his overalls before exiting. Briskly making his way down the hall, he spotted Nicelander Mary nervously pacing just outside her apartment door.

 “Hey Mary,” Felix smiled as he placed a white-gloved hand on her shoulder to gain her attention. The woman had to do a double take, given what he was wearing.

 “Oh my goodness, Felix!” Mary tittered, placing a hand on her chest. “I almost didn’t recognize you!”

 “I know right? And I haven’t even put the mustache on yet,” the handyman excitedly reached into his pocket and brought a fake, brown mustache up to his face with a smile.

 “You are the spitting image of Mario,” the Nicelander giggled. “Oh uh…but there might be a slight problem about your couples costumes…”

“Oh? What’s that?” Felix inquired.

 “It seems your sweetheart is having some second thoughts,” Mary said, dejected.

 “Mary, please know that this is no slight on you and your hard work. Tamora…well—she’s probably just a bit bashful. I’m sure the dress you made for her looks wonderful.” 

 The woman nodded with a smile. “Thank you, Felix.”

 The handyman turned and knocked on the door in front of him.

 “Tamora, honey?” Felix paused as an impish smile played across his features. “It’s-a me, Mario~!”

 The two Nicelanders in the hallway heard a groan from beyond the door.

 “Thank you, Fix-It, for solidifying that the decision to go along this couples costume thing was a poor one.”

 “Oh Tammy, don’t be like that!” the handyman pouted. “I was just having a little fun. Why don’t you come out?”

 “I look ridiculous,” came the Sergeants curt reply.

 Felix heard a small whimper come from Mary behind him.

 “Tammy Jean, I’m sure you look lovely in the costume Mary worked very hard on to make for you.” The handyman made it clear by his tone that he didn’t approve of how rude Tamora was being towards one of his tenants. “Please come out.”

 There was a long, defeated sigh followed by the clicking of heels on the wooden floor. The door opened, and the statuesque form of Sergeant Calhoun bent downwards to step out in the hallway where she could stand upright.

 As soon as he saw her in full, Felix gasped, stars in his eyes. From the cute little crown on the top of her head, to the magenta heels that just barely peeked out from under the pink, A-line dress, she looked stunning.

 “I know what you’re going to do Fix-It, and I really need you to not do it,” Tamora deadpanned.

 But the handyman simply couldn’t help himself. A gleeful squeal erupted from his small form as he grinned.

 Tamora clicked her tongue. “Okay…” she muttered, turning to go crawl back in her hole.

 “Tammy, wait, wait! I’m sorry,” Felix held her hand. “Your costume just looks so amazing! Pink really suits you.”

 “Oh joy,” Tamora rolled her eyes. Looking down, she studied the outfit her beau was wearing. “Well, at least you look just about as ridiculous as I feel.”

 The handyman chuckled, “Then we’re even. The party is about to start, shall we make our way down?”

 “I guess it won’t kill me to humor you for an evening,” Tamora gave him a wry smile, and then turned to the Nicelander woman beside her. “Mary, I appreciate the work you put into this outfit, and I’m sorry if I made you feel otherwise. It’s just not what I’m used to.”

 “Oh, I understand, dear. Thank you.” Mary smiled sweetly. “I’ll see you two downstairs as soon as I change!”

 Hand in hand, Felix and Tamora made their way downstairs and outside the back side of the apartment building, where various characters from all corners of the arcade were gathered for the grand Halloween party ‘Fix-It Felix Jr.’ held each year.

 Along the back patio were strings of orange and purple lights, with faux cobwebs on the surrounding hedges, and there were pumpkins practically everywhere.

 Felix gravitated towards one of the many tables, which had a large spread of various types of themed snacks and, of course, slices of pumpkin pie.

 “There will be plenty of time to scarf down later, lets see if our “special guests” are here yet,” Tamora steered him away.

 “See! You’re enjoying this,” the handyman beamed, quickly grabbing a pumpkin cider to indulge in. “Admit it, you just can’t wait to see what they look like!”

 “Sure, Fix-It,” the Sergeant shook her head, amused. She quickly scanned the crowd. “Doesn’t look like they’re here yet.”

 “Mario is always fashionably late. Let’s go drop in on Ralph and Vanellope!”

 The couple made their way over to the Pumpkin Toss by the river, stopping to chat with various folks along the way, many of whom praised their costumes. As they approached Ralph and Vanellope, the wrecker hoisted a large pumpkin in his hands, having no use for the catapult beside him.

 “Hey kid, watch this!” Ralph reeled back and chucked the gourd as hard as he could. It flew hundreds of feet before it landed with an abrupt ‘SPLAT’, much to his companion’s delight.

 “Sweet mother of monkey milk, that was AWESOME!” the racer exclaimed.

 “That was a pretty good throw, brother!” Felix added.

 Ralph and Vanellope turned, and the girl began to howl with laughter.

 “You guys look so funny!” she said. “Sarge, I’ve never seen you wear so much pink!”

 “Don’t remind me,” Tamora folded her arms. “So what are you two supposed to be?”

 Vanellope moved the goggles resting on the top of her head over her eyes and twirled around to show off her lab coat stained with food coloring.

 “I am the mad Doctor von Schweetz, and this big lug is my creation: Stink Brain!” the girl patted the wrecker’s arm, who looked like candy-made version of Frankenstein’s Monster. “Ralph, do the thing!”

 Ralph rolled his eyes, raised his arms in front of him in a zombie-like fashion and gave a low growl.

 “Very nice!” Felix chuckled. “Well, we’ll leave you two to finish setting up, Mario and Peach should be here any minute!”

 As if on queue, the distinguishable sound of an oncoming tram rang out.

 “That might be them now, come on Tammy!” Unable to contain his excitement, Felix bounced in the direction of the tram.

 “I can’t run in this dress, Fix-It,” Tamora called out.

 “Just hoist up your skirt, honey badger!” the handyman pantomimed the action.

 “Correction, I won’t run in this dress.”

 Felix had already hopped onto the platform by the time Tamora made it to the stairs.

 The tram appeared from the shadow of the plug’s tunnel, along with its two passengers.

 “Ah! There they are!” Felix cheered, holding Tamora’s hand as she stepped beside him.

 Mario turned in his car’s seat and pointed at Felix, and the handyman mirrored the gesture as they both practically doubled over with laughter. The tram rolled to a stop at the platform and Mario hopped out to hug his look-alike.

 “Oh my land, I can’t believe you shaved!” Felix gestured towards the plumber’s bare face. 

 “Eh, it’ll be back before the quarters drop tomorrow,” Mario waved it off and poked Fix-It’s belly. “What’s-a this?”

 “Just a little throw pillow. I figured it’d be a bit more accurate, seeing that you’re stretching out my shirt.”

 “Mamma mia, this guy. Taking shots at me when he can’t even grow his own mustache!”

 “Little help here, boys?” a high-pitched voice interrupted their playful jabs.

 “Sorry Princess! Allow me,” Felix lent a hand to a struggling Peach as she maneuvered herself up onto the platform in her homemade ‘Hero’s Duty’ armor.

 “That’s alright, it’s just a bit tough to move in all of this. How do you do it, Miss Calhoun?”

 “Funny, I was about to ask you how you manage in these heels all day,” Tamora replied.

 The princess giggled. “Oh, barely!”

 “Wow Peach, you look amazing!” Felix looked the Princess up and down. “Tammy, are you seeing this?”

 “Last I checked I still have both eyes, Fix-It,” the Sergeant had to admit, she did approve of the sheer amount of craftsmanship. “Nicely done, Pink.”

 “Come on, ladies!” Mario left the platform, pulling from his tool belt a hammer he spray-painted gold. “Let’s-a go!”

 “Hey, that’s not my line!” Felix bounded after him.

 “They certainly seem happy,” the Princess giggled.

 “Yup,” Tamora sighed. “I think I’m going to tuck into a few ciders while they get up whatever mischief they have planned. Care to join?”

 “I’d love to.”