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kscheibles · 1 year

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e la vita ch. 2

~ ch. 1 here ~

content warnings: f! reader, fluff, smut, semi-public sex, oral sex (m receiving), smoking, religious trauma, bisexuality

word count: 7.1 k

When I meet Matty the following Thursday, it’s in the city center. Feeling nervous and awfully out of place, I cover my eyes with my hand as a kind of mock-visor and search briefly for his familiar face in the square that’s packed with older gentlemen gossiping and families blowing bubbles each bigger than the last. I take a seat on a bench near the middle of the piazza when I don’t see him, hoping I’ll be somewhere he can spot but not as awkward-looking as I might be if I stood still watching the scene like some sick, American voyeur.

Matty walks up with the gait of a bad Mick Jagger impersonator. I can see now that he’s all limbs though not in a bad way; in a way that exaggerates his movements and announces his presence to the world around him. He seems comfortable with the reality that people will look at him. I suppose it makes sense, given his choice of career, but it still mesmerizes me.

I watch him as he walks towards me. He’s wearing a fitted t-shirt that exposes his arms to me for the first time. They’re golden and covered with a variety of tattoos in different styles; from his biceps all the way down to his wrists. Eventually, he notices me looking and his face breaks out into a smile. He nods up to the cathedral to my left as he approaches me, giving me a quick, fraternal hug.

“How do you like it, then?” he asks, eyes trained on the holy building.

“Matty, that’s a church,” I state plainly, “I spent my childhood in places like that, and I’m pretty sure I’ve learned that God doesn’t like girls like me.”

“If God exists, I promise you’re one of his favourites,” he laughs as he says it, as if it’s not one of the kindest things anyone has ever said to me in my life.

“What do you know about God?” I ask.

“Oh nothing, really,” he concedes, “Just that he’s the most vicious, generous bastard in the world.”

I eye him as he says the words. I suppose that must be true for him. I resent the idea that our accomplishments and qualms are all consequences of our virtuous or sinful behaviors. It’s asinine. But if God is real, he’s certainly blessed Matty – with beauty, intelligence, love, money.

If God is real, he’s cursed me to be something immutably unlovable. Damned to rot from the inside out for the rest of my life. I don’t believe what Matty says, even for a second. There’s no way I’m one of God’s favorites.

Matty waves his hand in front of my face, snapping me from my thoughts.

“We don’t have to go in if you don’t want to. I didn’t consider that you might have…religious trauma or something,” he assures me.

“It’s okay, I’m fine,” I say, though truthfully I’m less sure than I say. I wonder if entering the cold, marble palace will transport me back to my youth; to standing primly in church as a child, scared to make a wrong move. Scared to think a sinful thought. Considering each older woman around me, their beautiful hair covered by cotton squares in a performance of modesty. I envied them, how easy they made it look to live by the rules. How little they seemed to struggle with keeping their mouths shut and their shoulders covered and denying themselves the indulgence of imagining another woman’s warm, sweet lips on their own.

Matty seems to clock my hesitance. He takes my hand and leads me in and I was so wrong.

It’s not cold inside, it’s breathtaking in a way that makes me feel welcome. On the outside of the central atrium are alcoves, each decorated more elaborately than the last. My senses are overwhelmed by the smell of incense, the sounds of hypnotic Latin chanting, the sight of refracting, colorful light. It feels Heavenly. I suppose it’s meant to.

Matty draws me towards one of the scenes that’s painted on the perimeter of the nave. It depicts a woman washing Jesus’ feet. Her head is bowed in submission, focused completely on the task at hand. In her hands is her long, black hair, which she uses to wipe at the top of Jesus’ feet. The chiaroscuro of the scene illuminates the action; everything else is noise. All that exists is her devotion.

“She was a sinful woman,” I say, “A prostitute, I think.” Matty raises his eyebrows in consideration.

“Was it like a punishment or something? Making her wash his feet?”

“No,” I breathe, “She did it to show him that she knew who he was. Knew he was worthy of being revered.”

“So her taking care of him was a sign that she understood him? Or what? Loved him?”

I shrug. “Isn’t that what we all do for the people we love? If we’re loving them right?”

“I suppose so,” Matty turns his head to look at me. He must see something on my face – a flicker of an emotion or a thought – that he recognizes because he adds, “But it’s no one’s fault if they haven’t been loved right. It doesn’t make you unloveable. It makes the other person a bad lover.”

“Well I suppose we can’t all be as easy to love as Jesus, can we?” I sigh, moving away from him, towards the center of the church.

I sit in one of the pews towards the back. In front of me are tourists and locals; people of all backgrounds, colors, and ages approaching the altar. Some of them have brought candles, hold rosaries. They appeal to God, beseeching his benevolent will. I empathize with them, even though I have serious reservations about the efficacy of their methodology. It’s beautiful how much they care about their fellow man.

When you see a woman wearing sheer tights, gray hairs combed perfectly into an updo, and kneeling on the cold tile floor with her hands pressed together, twins conjoined in supplication, you know that her motive cannot possibly be her own wellbeing. As selfish as we humans can be, it would be blasphemous to come to God’s house and light a prayer candle for yourself.

Matty sits down next to me, close enough that our legs are touching: his corduroy pants to my bare legs, pebbled by the cold air. I remember sitting in church with my crush as a girl, feeling wretched for wanting to inch closer to her. When I finally let our legs touch through layers of wool fabric, the excitement of touching faded instantly, giving way to the all-encompassing shame of the sin I’d committed. I reject the shame now, gently pushing my thigh further into Matty’s to prove to myself that it’s something I’m allowed to do, even in church. I’m allowed to touch him. I’m allowed to look at him and be distracted by his handsomeness. I’m allowed to think about his lips, plump, rosy, and left open wantingly. I’m allowed to think about his hips, how easily they swayed to the music the night I saw him in the club, and how deeply the rhythm seemed to be embedded in him. I’m allowed to think about his sculptural arms and nimble, calloused fingers. I’m even allowed to lust after him, to daydream about how good he could make me feel, if he wanted to. If I wanted him to.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, breaking my train of thought.

“I don’t know,” I shrug, trying desperately not to feel caught, “You?”

“Thinkin’ about the people who made this place. All of the gold light fixtures they had to weld. I mean fuckin’ hell look at this,” he points to a sconce on the wall. It’s carved in the shape of winding vines and inlaid on the front are mother of pearl accents positioned in the shape of a cross. “They did it with much more primitive technologies than we have as well.” I nod along.

“The devotion,” I muse.

“What’s that?”

“Think about the devotion they must have had to God in order to create such a beautiful thing for Him. It would show if the constructors didn’t believe. They would have phoned it in; cut corners on the carvings in the pews and the intricate architecture of the dome,” I tilt my head to get a better view of the dome in question. Inside of it, windows filter perfect yellow light into the building and angelic sculptures stand guard over the heavens.

Matty throws his head back completely, looking up towards the sky like there’s something up there that will save him or give him a more profound understanding of the place where his feet dwell. It’s misguided; I’ve spent enough time looking up to know that. There’s nothing good God can teach us that we can’t learn on our own. It’s nice to imagine sometimes, though: that if you look a little harder or listen to the silence on your knees for a minute longer, all of a sudden the answer to your problems will be revealed.

With his head towards the sky, Matty’s neck is open and vulnerable to me. A strong vein is prominent on the right side of it and his Adam’s apple protrudes, a silhouette that’s so thrillingly masculine. It feels intimate that he would let me see him like this: all awed and curious and unguarded, like a dog that’s rolled over to offer me his belly. I’m flattered that Matty feels safe getting lost in front of me.

I admire how open he is to the beauty of it all. It’s because churches aren’t places that make him instinctively put his guard up. On the other hand, churches for me are places where I was fed lies, Sunday after Sunday. Where old men seized upon my innocence and insecurity and forced poison down my throat until I swallowed every last drop. I’d had to go through withdrawal when I finally got the antidote. It was arduous, sweaty, painful. I learned to question everything a little too well. I don’t believe in any kind of magic anymore; I can no longer believe anything that’s not right in front of my eyes. God took that from me. Matty is lucky God didn’t take it from him, too.

I look up, following his eyes. It’s all so beautiful it almost loses its meaning. Everything is marble or silk or stained glass. It’s too much all at once. I can tell it’s all spectacular but in the flurry of everything, each individual marvel loses its luster. As I tip my head further and further back, I get a little dizzy and the colors that float above me begin to bleed into each other in a kind of kaleidoscopic haze. I snap my head back up; back to reality. I reach out to hold on to Matty’s arm.

“Can we go now?” I whisper to him, still wanting to preserve the sanctity of the place for the other patrons.

He nods in wordless understanding and leads me out.

–

The scorching heat of midday eventually breaks and yields a brisk night. When the sun sets, my skin remains sensitive, showing temporary, pale markings when I press my fingers into it. It hurts a little; a reminder of the fun I had that made me forget to reapply my sunscreen.

I sit at a table with Christina, Nina, and her friends. Some of us indulging in an aged wine from the region and others vying for an Aperol even though the sun is long past set and the orange bittersweet liquid now looks opaque.

“You know the best way to get over someone is to get under someone new,” says Nina, grabbing another glass of the chianti.

“Like I’ve never tried that before,” I answer. It comes out meaner than I’d expected; though how could it not? I’m not a teenager dealing with a first kiss who pied me off for a blonder, more popular girl, I’m an adult who built a life with someone and rearranged my guts to fit her into every place that was important to me. Who introduced her to my parents and friends and was now having to wait for the dust to settle in an explosion that blew the whole thing to pieces.

There are so many life-or-death questions that remain unanswered: Which friends will take my side, and which will take hers? If I have a fling with a toned Italian Adonis this summer, which of our so-called friends will stop inviting me to Dyke Night at Ginger's? Which of them will forget I exist just because I’ve left the city?

No, getting under someone new won’t help any of that, I decide.

“Sometimes we all need a distraction,” remarks Nina. “Look, the truth is that a breakup uproots your whole life. You don’t know which way is up, you don’t know which places are safe from them, especially in New York. I remember when Mason and I broke up, I didn’t go below 16th Street for a whole month, just because I knew I’d be safe from him if I stayed uptown. My point is more that you don’t have to worry about any of that. You’re in fucking Italy and she’s gone back to Michigan while she figures out her next move. So do exactly what you want for once, it’s not as though you can do that when you’re in a relationship.”

Exactly what I want. The words echo in my mind as the savory wine causes my neurons to sing. What exactly do I want?

–

It’s just past ten when I meet Matty at a cafe near our homes. A late night up with the girls means I’m cursing myself for not arriving early enough to order a cappuccino. Matty is leaning up against a chair with his sunglasses on, looking down. He holds his phone in both hands, a cigarette between the index and middle fingers of his right. He exhales some smoke from his lungs and looks up to see me walking towards him.

“Y/n!” he smiles, immediately putting his arm around my shoulders and kissing me on the cheek, “How are you, darlin’?” I can feel my cheeks getting warm due to our proximity and his openness.

He has a European self-assuredness to his movements. I’m not stupid enough to think that all of Europe is the same, but there’s a facility with which he takes my hand. Whereas, if I were to touch somebody, I would pause and hedge and overanalyze before reaching out. Even more so if it was someone I liked—which I’m slowly realizing I do.

“I’m good,” I smile at the dark lenses of his sunglasses. I hate those little pieces of plastic for keeping me from seeing his brown irises in the sun. I bet they would sparkle. I want to steal them from him and hide them so he can never wear them again and I’ll always be able to see the magic that happens in his eyes. Maybe it would hurt him, maybe his crow's feet would become more pronounced but I don’t care even a little bit. I want to know what it feels like to look into his soul again.

“So what’s the plan for today?” I ask.

Matty nods toward a light pole a few meters away. Propped up beside it is a shiny black Vespa.

“Thought we’d take a little day trip to the lake,” he says.

“Oh no, I can’t,” I say out of instinct.

“Oh,” he deflates a little, “why not? Have you got somewhere to be?” I look at him embarrassed.

“My mom would kill me if I got on a motorcycle,” I say. Truthfully, I’m scared more by the feelings that bloom in my stomach at the thought of holding onto his waist than the thought of riding the vehicle itself. He breaks into a toothy smile and crinkles sprout at the edges of his eyes.

“Your mum’s not here. How old are you, again?” he asks. I decide that doesn’t deserve an answer, instead opting to roll my eyes pointedly at him. “Besides,” he continues, “it’s a Vespa, not a motorcycle.”

“Do you have a helmet?” I question, timidly. He reaches out to my tote bag – embroidered with the familiar emblem of Shakespeare and Company – and tugs my silk scarf from it. His hands move tentatively towards my head, face questioning softly if he can touch me. I give an imperceptible ‘yes’, and soon his warm hands are cradling me. He places the scarf lightly on my head and then moves his attention down to my chin, tying it in place delicately. He reaches out to caress my jaw.

“There you go, princess,” he coos. The nickname doesn’t have the sting of taunting it once did. It feels sincere; like Matty really believes I should be treated with the utmost care. As soon as I can begin to smile up at him, he’s gone again, throwing his leg up to straddle the bike. With his Wayfarers covering his eyes, slicked-back hair, and tan skin, he looks every bit the rockstar Nina’s friends say he is.

I find myself skipping to him and straddling the bike behind him. I can’t see his face but I imagine it must be twisted into that ridiculous, self-assured grin I witnessed on the first night I met him. Where it once produced acrid bile that stained my throat with hatred, it now endears me to him. It’s indicative of a boyish playfulness, a thrill-seeking tendency that I so admire. Girls can’t afford to be silly and I’ve been surrounded by them for so long. I want to walk around in Matty’s skin for a day and learn what it feels like.

What does it feel like to him when he walks home alone at night? It must be how I feel when I walk during the day. No– it’s even more free, it must be. Even during the day, I cringe imperceptibly away from every man I pass on the street, no matter what part of town I’m in or whether I have my headphones on.

When Matty meets a girl and chats her up, he must not feel any of the apprehension that I do. No poking and prodding to see if she’s the one straight friend that’s tagged along to the gay bar because she’s just “so tired of men” or the sweet, bi-curious loner who’s looking for her first girl-on-girl action. He can just approach them without pretense and genuinely try to get to know them. He can entrance them with the arcane physics of his adorably curly hair and the spellbinding timbre of his speech.

When he speaks up, people must listen to the deeper, commanding pitch of his voice. They must be piqued by the melody of his Mancunian accent. They must believe him, perhaps even when they shouldn’t.

Do I want him? Or do I envy the ease that seems to come with being him?

Do I want to feel his insides? Or do I want to feel him inside of me?

I snake my arms around his middle, trying not to dwell on the soft cotton and lithe muscle that cover his torso. I clasp my hands together just under his ribs.

“You ready?” he asks. I press my cheek to his back, bracing for impact. I nod against him.

“Yeah,” I whisper. He chuckles at my hesitance and hits the accelerator.

And we’re off, bumping down old cobblestone roads, bathing in daylight, and meditating to the sounds of the city – babies crying, birds chirping, music playing, meat mongers yelling like showmen – and it’s not scary. Matty is solid underneath me, resilient. He runs a hand through his curiously straight hair like it’s nothing to him.

On our way to the lake, Matty slows down at a fruit market packed with old ladies haggling with one another. He puts the kickstand for the Vespa out, twirls the keys around his hand, and pockets them. Then he strides over to the gaggle of nonnas greeting each of them in due course.

“Come stai, Matteo?”

“Come sta l’america?”

“Che rockstar!”

They clamber for his attention like he’s a grandson they haven’t seen in several years.

“Tutto bene, grazie,” he manages, his English tongue contorting around the Italian. He still sounds anglophonic when he pronounces the words, but they cheer and coo all the same. Matty beckons me from the bike over to the fruit stand. “What do you want, darlin’?” he asks when I arrive next to him.

I look down at a ripe selection of fruit that’s bursting at the seams with juice. Apricots the color of the sunrise, jewel-toned berries, and peaches: fuzzy, soft, and yielding – not unlike human flesh, I think. My thoughts wander to Matty’s hands and cheeks and thighs. What would they feel like if I touched them? Would they give? Would they warm me? Could I squeeze him hard enough to make him burst?

“Andiamo a Lago di Garda,” Matty explains. The nonnas grab a paper bag and begin pointing to the selection of fruits. “Albicocca, pesca, frutti di bosco,” they gesture to each in turn. Their voices undulate and vary in pitch as they describe the fruits. It sounds like verse to my ears: romantic, melodic, and exquisitely idyllic.

Matty turns to me, “They want to know what you want.”

I look at them – their pink noses and wiry eyebrows and floral aprons – and smile. I mime how many of each I’d like and they pack our bag to the brim. They pass the fruit to me as Matty pays what he owes, bidding them farewell. He runs up behind me as I approach the Vespa and takes the bag from me, setting it at his feet. Then he reaches into his pocket and fishes out a pack of cigarettes. He grabs one with his teeth and lets it stay there, nestled between his lips. My eyes remain trained on his every movement and he notices, tossing me a lighter as he starts up the bike.

“You light it for me, sweetheart?” he asks. My hands fumble with the lighter, bringing it to the end of the cigarette and idling there while Matty inhales. When it doesn’t light right away, he brings his hands up, cupping them around the end and they graze my fingers on the lighter. We look like two school children telling secrets and the moment feels as intimate if not more. How I’d love to know his secrets, each and every last one.

I release the lighter and Matty lets the cig hang languidly on his bottom lip.

“You want one?” he asks.

“I’m good,” I say.

“Too right you are,” he replies, “hold on tight darlin’.”

–

Matty drives calmly down the motorway as I clasp my hands together as hard as I can. The breeze whips against my face and chaps my lips but I don’t mind. With the sun on my face and Matty underneath me, I feel unreal, unstoppable. As we reach the lake, the trees become more abundant. They flank the roads that lead to the beach and smell like fresh-squeezed lemonade, refreshing and revitalizing.

We finally slow down and sit on the rocky shore. Matty hands me a basket of berries and I immediately pop one in my mouth, enjoying the sweet juice that explodes on my tongue.

Next to me, Matty bites into a peach. The juices run down his chin and he uses the back of his hand to wipe them off.

The sticky juice glistens on his hand as he puts it down on the rocks to support himself. I’m mesmerized by the way the sheen that covers his hand catches the sun. I’m like a magpie drawn to anything shiny and ripe and sweet, not content enough with the fruit that’s bursting in my own mouth. I need to have his too.

“Can I try it?” I ask. Matty turns to me mid-bite and hands the peach to me as he chews the bite in his mouth. With the fruit in my hand, I inspect the marks his teeth have left, the place where his tongue has been. The thought that the tangy, sweet flavor will be laced with the taste of Matty’s mouth is absolutely delirium-inducing. It intoxicates me like a drug: the thought that I want him inside of me, that I could have him inside of me if I only lick the spot in front of me. I take a bite out of the yellow flesh and suck the juice into my mouth before passing it back to Matty.

It’s better than I expected. Warm from being outside, not cold and refrigerated and sterile like the fruit Claire and I used to buy in New York. It’s soft, yielding easily to my teeth and tongue. And it’s sweet, sticky. The surface of the flesh is covered in Matty’s saliva and it seems to make me hungry, truly hungry, for the first time in months. I want to devour the peach and then the berries and then every other perfectly imperfect food I can find. It tastes like vitality. It tastes like desire.

“That’s really fucking good,” I declare.

Matty inspects the dents I’ve left in the fruit. Then he runs his tongue over the fuzzy skin and yellow flesh before biting into it. My skin burns from the sun and the eroticism of the situation. We’ve each been inside of one another now, him in my mouth and me in his. I want to taste him properly, from the source.

“How come your hair is straight today?” I ask, reaching my hand out to touch a strand that’s fallen over his face to partially obscure his eyes. It’s stiff and crunches beneath the pressure of my fingers.

“My natural hair would have fallen in my face and gotten us into an accident, especially given the fact I have to drive on the right side here,” he answers, leaning back on a boulder on the beach. I consider his face, trying to imagine his absent ringlets.

“I wanna see your curls,” I say. I kneel next to him to get a better vantage point. From above, I see each gray strand of hair that invites the light into his mop of curls. I hold his gray streak up to the light and let my hand linger as it falls into his hair and then down to his face, feeling the rough stubble beginning to form on his cheeks.

“Yeah? You like my hair curly?” he teases, a blush gracing the tops of his cheeks as he looks up at my face.

“A lot,” I nod.

“I’ll never wear it straight again,” he says to mollify me.

“Good,” I state. I stand up and take my sundress off so I’m standing before him in a white cotton bra and underwear. Matty’s eyes go wide as I remove my clothing and hold my hand out to him.

“Come on then,” I encourage. He stands up smiling, unbuttons his shirt, and removes his trousers, leaving him more naked than I am.

I thought I was beginning to know Matty, but seeing his bare chest reminds me of how much I have left to discover. It’s littered with poems and phrases, crests and colors. His shoulders are broader than mine and they’re covered in sturdy muscle that continues down to his pectorals and upper abdomen. I’m staring, I’m sure of it. He’s hard in all the places I’m used to softness and wide in the places I’m used to encircling in my warm, small hands. I grab his arm and drag him towards the lake, submerging my head in the cool water as soon as it’s deep enough. When I emerge, I push my hair back and toss some water in Matty’s face.

“Oi! What was that for?” he exclaims.

“You said you’d never wear your hair straight again,” I remind him, “Come on, I’ll help you.”

Matty kneels before me as I scoop handfuls of water onto his head until he’s totally soaked. It feels thrilling, having a man on his knees before me, at my mercy. I’m not used to gentleness from boys; only jeers and catcalls and hands obnoxiously placed at the small of my back in clubs. But I don’t want to use my position for anything other than sweetness. I rub his curls lightly, removing the gel from each strand. Matty looks up at me as I massage his head watching my eyebrows scrunch.

“Your hair is soft,” I tell him. He smiles up at me and moves his arms around my hips to hold me as I continue my ministrations on his hair. He breathes through his nose and I feel the warmth that emanates from him as it seeps into my skin. He’s centimeters away from my core, no doubt feeling my heartbeat wildly in my chest and smelling the faint, musky aroma of the wetness that’s beginning to gather between my thighs.

“Thanks,” he says, lips kneading the soft flesh of my tummy as he does. It tickles and my eyes snap to his, gasping. His gaze remains trained on me as he moves his mouth to kiss me there. He uses only his lips at first, pecking and rubbing at me, but soon he grows impatient. He leaves open-mouthed kisses just above the waistband of my panties, sucking the skin below my navel, nipping at it, and smoothing his tongue over to soothe it. He moans into my stomach as he does, letting out a sound muffled by my belly.

I whine in response, grasping tightly at his hair to keep myself steady. He jerks back quickly.

“Ah!” he hisses.

“Oh fuck, sorry,” I duck down to him, holding his face to make sure he’s alright.

“I’m fine, sorry,” he shakes his head. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“It’s okay,” I say, “actually, you’re all good now if you want to, um, rinse off.”

Matty ducks into the water, smiling brilliantly at me when he meets my eyes again. I crouch down, reaching out to him, wringing out his curls, and scrunching them up onto the top of his head.

“Better?” he asks, standing up. Beads of clear, freshwater pool in his collarbones and race across his torso down to his hips. They catch on the sunlight and make him glisten. I want to lick them off his body, trace their path, and make him whimper.

I smile and nod, standing up to more or less even our heights. He wraps his arm around my neck, looking down at my body once we’re close enough that I can’t follow his eyes. I tremble. My arms are decorated with goosebumps, my breasts are peaked from the cold, and my white undergarments are soaked, plainly revealing what lies beneath them.

“You chilly, huh?” he asks. I nod into him. “Let’s get you warmed up.” Matty drags me back to the rocky shore and covers me in his button-down shirt, beckoning me to sit between his legs. He envelops me in his arms like my own personal human-sized blanket and holds me until I stop shivering.

–

“Oh shit, have you ever been in one of these?!” Matty shouts. He doesn’t need to yell to be heard, I’m right behind him on the Vespa. But he’s so excited at the thought of the old 35mm photo booth that stands tall on the side of the road. He leaps off the Vespa and digs around in his pockets for the 10 or 15 cents he needs to get it to work. “This is so fucking sick!” he exclaims. “Y/n! Come over! This is amazing!”

I dismount the bike more methodically than him, taking care not to get my skirt caught on the seat. I push the velvet curtain to the side and am met with a very eager Matty. He grabs my hand and pulls me onto the bench, instantly winding me up in his arms and tickling me. I’m caught off guard as the bulb in the center of the wall flashes, CLICK. I push Matty off playfully, turning back around to him – CLICK. I look at him, chest heaving for a moment – CLICK. It draws his attention and Matty’s eyes flit to my breasts, I notice – CLICK. I launch my body towards his, unable to contain myself anymore. His lips catch mine as I bring my arms up and around his neck – CLICK. Matty’s hands reach around my shoulders, feeling my bare skin, warm from the sun. I move my mouth hard against his, eager to taste the leftover juice from the fruit, tobacco from his cigarette, anything. Anything as long as it’s Matty. I reach into his soft frizzy curls and hang on to them to steady myself and push further toward him until he’s completely up against the wall of the photo booth. Matty’s hands find the smallest bit of my waist and pull me into his lap. His hands fall to my knees and rub all the way up my thighs, caressing the velvety flesh and stopping only when he’s reached the top to grab two handfuls of my ass.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes as he releases me slowly.

Using my newfound leverage, I push his head back onto the wall and attack the exposed skin on his neck and chest. I lick his Adam’s apple and kiss the ink peeking out from under his button-down.

“Fuuuuuuck, y/n,” he moans, lifting his head up to watch me as I unfasten each button on his linen shirt. His abdomen is hard under me and it feels so divine; almost painful but in a way that I deserve, that I revel in. I caress each tattoo on his torso with my tongue and his hands fly to my hair, massaging my scalp. I look up at him when I reach his ‘we are kings’ tattoo, partially concealed by his trousers. My tongue darts out to wet my lips as my eyes question him. “Please, go ahead,” he says, needily. His pupils are blown out and his hair sticks up in places it shouldn’t.

I hook my fingers under the waistband of his trousers and boxers, feeling giddy and nervous with anticipation. It’s hardly my first time – boy or girl – but it’s new in the sense that I’ve been used to one person for so long. How she sounded and tasted. Seeing his cock spring out, hard and red, makes me feel like a schoolgirl. I’m intoxicated by everything I don’t know about him and what I’m about to learn. I move his clothes down below his knees and tentatively kiss his inner thighs. The skin there is thin and warm and it smells musky. I reach my hands up to touch the hair that grows at the base of him. Then I lean my head towards the same spot and kiss the skin there. I run my tongue around the bottom of his cock, wetting him as much as I can and kissing him everywhere as I make my way to his tip. When I get there, I look up at him. His head is backed up against the wall and he’s sat on his hands, surely in some semblance of politeness. I move the left one up to cup my jaw.

“Show me what you like,” I plead, “I wanna make you feel good.”

He groans through his lips as he pushes his thumb into my mouth. I wet it the same way I wet the rest of him and then I suck on it, just a little, moaning as I do.

“That pressure’s good,” he tells me. I nod and he takes his thumb out of my mouth and rubs it against my cheek. “Honestly though I really wasn’t expecting this. I don’t think it’s gonna be an issue for you.”

“Is that your way of saying you’re turned on?”

“Very,” Matty chuckles.

I smile at that: an innocent, sweet, reassured one. His words give me the confidence to cover his tip with my mouth, my right hand falling to the base of his length and encircling it.

Matty’s hand flies to the back of my head, under my hair and grips it like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. My eyes fly up to his face as I take him further in mouth until I meet my hand. I move up and down on him, relishing in every whimper and squeeze and twitch he unleashes.

I begin to feel Matty stirring under me, and I look up at him, surprised at what I see. His eyes are open watching me with religious devotion. His right hand travels down my shoulder, blindly searching for the straps of my dress and bra and pushing them down until my breasts fall out, spilling down my chest. Matty wastes no time grabbing a handful of one as I continue my pace on his dick. He squeezes me gently but soon opts to pinch my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pulling it out teasingly and keeping time with me. It feels fucking delicious and spurs me on. I remove a couple fingers from him and take him down further, hollowing my cheeks and moaning around him as he twists my nipple with sadistically erratic pressure.

“Please,” I groan around him. It’s possible he doesn’t understand what I’ve said, but he gives me what I want anyway, touching me rhythmically and gently fucking my mouth as he chases his orgasm.

“I’m almost there,” he pants, reluctantly bringing his hand to my face and pushing it off of him, “You can stop.”

I keep his tip on my tongue and shake my head side to side.

“Please?” I look up at him begging, “Want it in my mouth.”

“Fucking hell, okay,” he breathes, manouvering himself back inside of me, fucking my face harder than last time but still shallowly enough that I can take it without gagging. I need him. I don’t know why or what I even expect to gain from it but his release is the only thing on my mind. It consumes me. I move my hand from his thigh and squeeze his balls gently, then cradle them in my hand. I taste him not long after, salty, warm, and pooling on my tongue. I can feel him pulse in my mouth, giving me more and more. Though the load gets smaller, and each burst further apart from the last, I find myself hoping it won't end. I feel content, consumed by pride and pleasure.

I hold him in my mouth until I’ve caught every last drop, savoring the feeling of him filling me up and the flavor of him on my tongue. I swallow and lap at his tip and shaft to clean him up, and then I tiredly lay my head on his left thigh. It's been a long time since I let someone drip down my chin and licked them up, desperate to get every last drop. It feels good to need someone like that. Like water. Like medicine.

He leans over just a bit to cradle my head with his hand, pushing the front pieces of my hair behind my ear, dragging his thumb to my lower lip, and lingering there. I breathe heavily while my eyes pierce his, mouth wantonly open.

“Fuck, that felt so good, thank you,” he breaks the silence. I take his thumb in my mouth in answer, sucking at it delicately. I release him and kiss the pad of his finger gingerly. Matty takes hold of my hands and lifts my body back to his, holding me in a hug for what seems like an eternity. Time stops for a moment in the booth – it could be the year 3000 or the 80s, there could be a parade outside or a silent street that echoes with each of our breaths – it’s just the two of us, chests pressed against each other, the air thick with elation and longing.

Eventually, I have to peel myself off of him. Matty stands and stretches his arms above his head, displaying his toned triceps and delts. He bends at the waist to retrieve the strip of photos, fingers over each frame as he admires them. He folds the strip just before the last still, hiding the photo where our lips are meeting. Then he rips it off completely.

“There you go, princess,” he places the film with the first four photos gently in my hand. I look up at him confused and just a little sad. “This one’s for me,” he amends, tucking it into his back pocket. “So that I know I didn’t dream it.” He holds my face between his hands as I gaze up at him.

“Angels usually only visit me in dreams.” I roll my eyes and try to avert my gaze from his. He doesn’t let me, tilting my head up toward his by putting his finger under my chin. His eyes search mine with a fervor that would scare me if it came from anyone else. He closes them as he slowly leans forward to catch my lips in a slow, sweet kiss that tastes like goodbye.

“Don’t make me leave,” I mumble into his mouth.

Matty wraps his arms around my back, pulling me further into him, and rests his head on mine. He’s warm and wet and smells like sex.

“Why did you want to do that?” he whispers into my hair.

“I don’t know,” I say. I don’t really. It wasn’t logical, it was more instinctual than anything, a natural progression of my feelings and of the direction in which I was kissing him. I wanted to kiss him there; it felt natural.

“It wasn’t to, like, get over your ex or something was it?” he pulls away to look at my face as he asks, “I’m fine if it was, but I just want to know if you like me or if you’re just going through something.”

“I try not to make a habit of blowing people I don’t like,” I tell him teasingly. He chuckles, rubbing his nose against my cheek, tickling me with his five-o’clock-shadow. He kisses the edge of my face, right next to my ear.

“I like you, too.”

For a moment, I allow my mind to run free with the knowledge of his admission. To imagine date nights and naps on his bare chest on the sun loungers at the villa. My stomach flutters. I want it so badly.

I reach my arms up around his neck and touch my lips to his.

“Will you take me home, now?”

#matty healy fanfiction #matty Healy fanfic #matty healy x y/n #matty healy x reader #matty healy fluff #matty healy smut #matty Healy

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havin-fun-imagining-twd · 4 months

Text

Penance + (knock-off) Ambrosia

still alive, slowpokes :P

When -- during the meal at the Greene's Farm as seen in S02 Chupacabra. After Shame on a plate.

What -- Carol wanted to cook a communal dinner for the Greenes in thanks for all they've done to help your group. Under the weight of Otis' death as well as possibly having to vacate to God-knows-where, the shared meal is tense. Meanwhile, Daryl's busy beating himself up alone in his room and won't eat.

Relationships -- slow burn Daryl x You

Perspective -- You 2nd, Daryl 3rd

Pronouns -- neutral

TWs -- some language, and a non-descriptive allusion to Shane's actions in Stuck in a damn bed.

Masterlist -- Official one here and Chronological one here

feedback is nice to get :D

Jimmy’s note to you reads: “What’s a pirate’s faverite letter?”

Easy, you know this one!

After double-taking at the typo, you scribble back “aRRRR!” and pass it to where he sits beside you, a smug grin tucked in your face. Only rule is: don’t laugh.

Yo, this table is fun, you’re not even embarrassed about being in your mid-twenties and sitting at the kiddie table. It’s too bad Carl tired himself out earlier, he’d be in stitches!

Oh, come to think of it, that wouldn’t be good, his actual stitches are still healing. So are yours, for that matter…

Anyway, it started off as a silly thing: Not 5 minutes into the meal, Beth had tiptoed to get her drawing pad from the den and wrote “please pass white gravy + pepper?” instead of whispering it, because supper had/has been that darn quiet.

This immediately (and somehow wordlessly) turned into the no-laugh competition you’ve all got going.

Granted, laughing out loud might would make the dinner a little less stiff, but you aren’t certain.

The big table seems rough. They’re barely making eye contact, not really talking, eesh.

Before dinner began, Patricia, Lori, and Carol were chatting as they finished up the cooking, and at the same time there was light discussion as you were helping wash the dishes and set the table with your friends. Even Lori exiting Carl’s room after plainly having been crying didn’t alter the good jibing any, things were chill.

But when everyone came in, sat down together? It got uneasy. When Mr. Greene said the blessing it almost felt too loud.

Now the room is limited to clinking, scraping noises, murmured niceties, and hushed requests to pass things.

You did almost lose the no-laugh game first when Glenn quietly mimicked the way Gollum said “what’s taters, precious?” because you whispered at him to “pass the mashed taters, please?” instead of ‘potatoes.’ Don’t fret, you’d obviously murmured back the only correct response of “po-tay-toes?” as well as the cooking instructions Sam says in the movie.

You almost lost it again when Glenn next decided to break the silence by asking the entire room if anybody knew how to play the guitar. The crickets that followed, hilarious!

Except, then Patricia spoke up that her husband had known, Mr. Greene agreed about how skilled Otis had been.

Oh, did the tension spike.

First thing you'd done was peek around to see if Shane was okay. He wasn’t.

His expression had taken on that 1000 yard stare sort of deal he’s been slipping into. Scared, lost. Then hard and almost mean.

Something got broke in him real bad that night Otis got killed. It’s scary, especially considering how he snapped at you yesterday and even…never mind, you don’t want to get into it.

At any rate, he made a very serious apology to you earlier today, very serious.

So, yeah, the room turned way more tense after that innocent guitar question, certainly sobered you up right quick.

And the strange sensation you’d had after Amy got killed, the one where it felt as if her blood was back on it, it started to come back pretty strong. Granted, it had come back after what happened with Shane the other day, too, but the sensation revved up more after the guitar question. Rest in peace Otis.

And at least to you, it made the unspoken understanding of Sophia twist harder, too.

When poor Jimmy got teary when his dad was brought up, you traced a blessing on his forehead and set to scribbling the next dumb joke you could think of on another scrap of paper for him and reminded yourself your hand was clean and that Otis and Sophia’s fates weren’t on you.

As for poor Glenn, once the exchange was over, he looked like he wanted to transform into a chair.

Silver lining was that Maggie helped him feel better; she slipped him a note that must’ve been a really good joke because Glenn seemed giddy as a schoolboy as he wrote down the punchline or whatever.

‘Schoolboy’ is definitely the best term — Mr. Greene and Dale happened to see Glenn sneaking back his response and were staring at the folded paper in his hand.

It’s kinda silly, right? Not only were you, Margaret, and Glenn sat at the kid table, but you were also acting like kids, what with the note-passing. Caught by the principal lol.

In the moment, you’d figured might as well, and so scribbled in big letters on the back of the notepad itself: “Too quiet, so we pass notes!”

When you held it up to the two of them, Dale read the words, swallowed a smile, then mouthed "troublemaker" to you.

As for Mr. Greene, his expression was, per usual, unreadable.

That was, what, all of 10 minutes ago? And it’s still a quiet, tense meal.

Maggie hasn’t taken the note from Glenn out her pocket to share it. A part of you hopes it’s something sweet, therefore private.

And, well, right now, you’re staring at your plate and thinking on how you’ve already got helping #2 on it. It makes you wonder if the quiet in the room, tense as it feels, might could be related to the food?

’Cause dude, it’s been so long since a hot meal this good!

Even the heartbreak about Sophia isn’t enough to stop the cravings from going into overdrive (not true, actually, but the meal is great, is what you mean)—and Carol orchestrated the dinner, anyway. She’s in a place where even she can eat, so…

Wiping your hand on your napkin again (and again), you take another sip of water, and fidget with your fork and knife.

God save you, you want to go hog wild on the food and shove it all into your mouth in one fell swoop. So, you know, maybe everyone else is also extra quiet to focus on eating politely and not stuffing it all in their face like half-starved hamsters, too.

That’s a nice thing to imagine, rather than it being gonna-get-kicked-off-the-property-and-we’re-very-sorry-Otis-is-dead-and-are-we-allowed-to-enjoy-things-when-Sophia-is-probably-dead? tenseness.

Because the food really is so yummy! And there are potatoes! Carol was so thrilled to find out they have potatoes! And there’s dairy! Therefore butter and cream and milk — hallelujah!— oh, you did a happy dance the second a forkful of the mashed taters touched your lips!

Back to the present, as you set to crafting an unnaturally large bite featuring a taste of everything from your plate, Jimmy is reading your response to his pirate joke while — grinning wide and shaking his head?

Then, you see as he scratches with the pen again on the note in his lap and hands it back to you.

Is not a pirate’s favorite letter R? What other letter could it…

You keep chewing while you open the folded note.

It reads:

“aRRRR? Nay, ‘tis the C!”

…

OH MY GOSH—

___________________________

Him

___________________________

A familiar laugh belted out from down the hallway where they was all doing dinner. This was followed by couple seconds of silence even more dead than the dinner already sounded.

But after that? It was as if a dam had burst and carried in pack of hyenas who quickly overtook the dining room.

He next thought he heard the word “pirate,” but that made no sense. A few minutes later, the hyenas seem to have left, judging by how shit got all quiet again.

That is until another noise, this time suspiciously moan-like, called out from the dining room. Within a second or two, he heard the food’s praises sung, T-Dog leading the charge, and, well, the din stayed put after that.

One, big, happy family.

Minus one missing little girl.

Daryl hadn’t touched his plate yet, hadn’t moved from his spot on the bed. Didn’t feel like eating.

How those dickbags was having a dinner was beyond him at that point.

The search today was a bust, yet again. The neighborhood T-Dog’s group went to check was mostly burned down, and the highway spot set up for Sophia was still untouched.

Carol’s words to him wouldn’t shut up, neither — and why in the hell she gave him a kiss on his head?!

“You did more for my little girl that day than her own daddy ever did in his whole life,” she’d told him.

Can you believe that shit? “You did more for my little girl that day than her own daddy ever did in his whole life.” If failing and getting benched for a week was the best that little girl ever got, she had a piss poor life, and that fact whipped Daryl on the back harder than his own old man ever had.

Speaking of, when Carol brought him his tray, she hadn’t knocked. Meaning, Daryl hadn’t had time to pull the sheet over his shoulder before she walked in. His shirt had been off.

Daryl’s hope was that it’d been dark enough in the room that she wouldn’t see the scarring, just the tattoos. It's his own damn fault— he hadn’t felt like putting his shirt back on after Patricia checked his stitches, and house got warm from the cooking, besides. And because he didn’t care to slump out of bed and wrench open the window more, he stayed shirtless and decided to simply kick off his blankets.

Joke’s on him. And now, someone else had seen them.

He could just about hear Merle tell him, “quit wallowin’ like you’re on your period, Darylina.”

Well, Merle wasn’t really there, so Daryl would wallow all he wanted, and think on Carol telling him that he was also “every bit as good as them.”

As Rick, as Shane, as T-Dog, as Glenn, as — fuck, who cares, it didn’t matter. Because Daryl was not.

Carol wasn’t the best judge of character, just look at the turd she’d married.

“You did more for my little girl that day than her own daddy ever did in his whole li—”

—A steady knocking sounded at the door, breaking up the echoes of Carol’s words and setting Daryl on edge.

Yup, it was Y/N’s knocking, no mistaking it.

“Just open it!” was the loudest he’d spoken all day. He didn’t want to be around people, was that such a big ask?

There was a pause before he heard the door open a crack.

“Would you prefer to be left alone awhile longer?” his friend asked softly.

The annoyance Daryl had felt eased and drained off. His whisper was hopefully loud enough for Y/N to hear. “What is it?”

After another pause, whatever they said in response was too quiet and blocked by the door. All Daryl heard was “Red furseh?”

“Y/N, y’can just come in,” he relented. He even bothered to turn toward the door for them, except, his friend hadn’t opened it up yet.

“A-Are you decent?”

Am I…what, did they think he had his hand down his pants or something? “Yes.”

He watched as the door opened and Y/N (nervously?) looked at him, eyes flitting down along the bedsheet.

Goddamn, Y/N really did just worry if I had my hand down my pants.

“Are you ready for seconds?” Y/N repeated, relaxing.

Got it, that’s what they’d been asking from the doorway.

Daryl responded by way of a gruff, soft, “Nah.”

Another pause.

“Do you feel sick? Or are you,” they tilted their head and frowned again, “‘wallowing’ ain’t the right word — are you beatin’ yourself up, Daryl?”

Yes, somebody has to. “What do you want?” If Y/N could not hit the nail on the head right now, that would be great. He had a bandage on it, after all…

“I’m-I’m asking ’cause the symptoms are usually the same, I mean,” his friend started walking toward the bed as if they was hesitant to do it, “you ain’t even touched your plate, your voice is — for real, sugar, d’you feel sick, depressed, or both?” Saying this, they laid their wrist against his forehead.

“Careful, I got a bandage!” was stupid of Daryl to grunt, because it was coming off tomorrow morning and because Y/N was careful, but he grunted it anyway. Just — why’d they need to use that pet name?

“There were a whole lot of ways you could have contracted yourself an infection, and, well, y-your shirt is off. Ain’t never seen you do that, um…” Y/N inhaled, then exhaled slowly, and pulled their wrist away. “You are kinda warm, but it is warm in here. Really warm, actually, um, d’you want the window open more?”

Yes, please. “M’fine.”

He shifted back onto his side and resumed staring into space.

“Let me do somethin’ for you before I go,” Y/N gently insisted. “Please.” They put a soothing-type tone on. Normally, a tone like that would cause him to feel belittled or pitied, but, he didn’t know, maybe after this week he was used to it. And, he didn’t know, maybe pity wasn’t such a bad thing.

“First, would you like a shirt, or are you good?” his friend asked.

‘Would he like a shirt,’ hell yes, he would like a shirt.

The tugging sensation in his chest came back for a sec. Y/N had a knack for hitting the nail on the head with him. And while the offer was both innocent and loaded, he started to feel as if his soul had been stripped bare-naked in front of them again.

The fact that he’d even let them see his back had been a lapse, a huge lapse. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking.

But, if right now he didn’t act like it was the worst thing, he hated hated hated people seeing, nobody was supposed to see, weren’t nobody’s damn business! a big deal, it wouldn’t be, right?

Which is why Daryl decided to make no effort to cover up more at that moment, so that nothing would seem off. It made his skin crawl to not, it made him feel cornered, but he left the sheet where it was and decided to kick Y/N out.

Yet, strangely, instead of hoarsely grunting at them to 'leave him be' like he thought he was about to, he softly admitted, “Yeah.”

Y/N grabbed the clean, folded shirt and pants that Lori had brought and placed it beside him.“Here’s your pants, too, make it easier in the morning when you get discharged. Miss Patricia will come in and you’ll be all ready!” A nod at his untouched meal. “Want the plate to stay, or go?”

“Take it.”

“Positive? Carol, Lori, and Patricia went ham cookin’ the food. Literally, they cooked some salt ham, but there’s also a little of the fish left that Andy caught for me, if you’d prefer?” They tried to entice him more. “The green beans are fresh, the veggie casserole is creamy, and the mashed taters got fresh butter in ’em? There’s white and brown gravy…”

The thought of eating was tempting as hell, he’d give it that. He was hungry and the food smelled amazing. Still, he shook his head. The thought of putting a bite in his mouth made him feel sick.

Y/N looked a little disappointed, but accepted his decision with a tiny, forced smile. After a beat, their smile turned real. “You’ll get awarded MVP for not touchin’ your plate tonight,” they teased. “It’ll get shared well. I don’t reckon there’ll be crumbs left at the rate we’re hoovering it down, I-I accidentally already had thirds. But, um,” they added, biting their lip. “Dare, in a little while, please might can I bring you a bowl of dessert, in the least? You must be terrible hungry by now and you need to eat if you’re gonna heal, hon.”

He just sorta stared back, didn’t know what to answer yet. Them using a pet-name again wasn’t helping none.

This was no problem for Y/N, who seemed to have begun nervous-jabbering. “When I told Jimmy there was dessert, his eyes got all big. I’m not gonna lie, it was so darn cute. But I didn’t ruin the surprise and tell him what it is, I just winked and let him imagine. Do you wanna know what it is?”

His cheeks warmed. “What is it,” Daryl dutifully responded.

“It’s a surprise!” was the completely expected answer. Y/N looked very pleased. “But it involves hand-whipped cream,” they sing-songed.

___________________________

You

___________________________

You haven’t seen anyone’s mood here drop as low as Daryl’s has in the past few days, not since Andrea’s did after Amy died. Not even Shane after what happened to Otis, he’s handling the pain differently.

But just now when you enticed Daryl with the notion of whipped cream, he almost smiled, you saw it!

Victory!

And, before you went to Daryl’s room to see if he wanted more, you’d walked over to the big table and whispered in Shane’s ear that when dessert was served, he should wake Carl to give him a bowl and get “cool uncle points,” and he smiled, too!

Victory!

Why do you feel like you are personally responsible for holding everyone’s shit together?

Like, even at the dinner, after you’d burst out laughing, it felt so good to have eased the tension in the room, even if by accident. Then, when you heard the laughter dying down and the room going quiet again, you felt as if you’d just failed. So, you had to fix it.

Cue you to shove a big bite into your mouth and loudly moan about how good it was in the hopes that saying so would keep the momentum going. And prompt Hershel to accept your people, change his mind, keep your family safe, and keep everyone together because what if you personally aren’t trying hard enough or doing it the right way and things fall apart? Who’s fault will it be? Why does your stupid hand feel like Amy’s blood is on it again? Dale already explained how it’s ‘self-reproach because of survivor’s guilt,’ so why can’t you shake it off?

Okay, chill out, it’s not all on you. You’re not responsible, you cannot control and fix it all, it’s not all on you.

Surrender it up, and trust.

Offer it up and trust…

Thankfully, Theodore had joined in with your noise of appreciation, declaring, “I second that, mmm-mm!”

Good Moses, you could’ve legit knelt down and pledged him your fealty (or whatever it is squires did for knights in shining armor).

Heck, you were tempted to ignore the age difference and propose marriage to him instead, you were that relieved that he’d gone with it, because it prompted those at the big table to join.

Shane was right there for you, too. “This meal is hittin’ all the marks,” he quietly praised, “ain’t had grub this good in a while.”

Then there was a toast (thank you, Ricky and T-Dog), and things stayed fairly light after that. Light and comfortable.

And only during your last bite, when you noticed everyone else had seconds (…or thirds…), was it that you scrambled off, mid-chew, to Daryl’s room to see what he wanted for seconds and maybe convince him to join everyone.

Instead, you were met with an untouched plate and a man who’s voice could barely raise above a gruff whisper. So, you had to try and fix it, obviously, even if the only thing that would actually fix it is finding the little girl who everyone’s hearts have already mourned.

“Wha’ was so funny earlier?” Daryl suddenly surprises you by asking.

You snort. “We were trying to see who’d break first and laugh — this is at the kiddie table, by the way.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Psht,” you play-grumble. “But yeah, I lost the game big time. I’d just taken a very impolite sized-bite of food, too. Ain’t never swallowed a bite that big in my entire life, but I didn’t want to snarf in front of everyone!” Way to overshare, weirdo. “Oh, right, you’ll probably want to know the joke,” you remember. You can get scatterbrained when you’re carrying on. “What’s a pirate’s favorite letter?”

“A pirate’s what?”

“Favorite letter.”

“A pirate’s favorite…” Daryl makes a low, soft hum as he exhales. “Didn’t, uh, wasn’t most pirates illiterate?”

“Bro.”

“I dunno, um, the…P,” is the gem he comes up with.

Bless his heart, has Daryl never heard the ‘arrr’ joke before?

“Why a P?” you’ve simply gotta know.

“P…P for pirate, and peg-leg and um, eye-patch, and, the uh, they got parrots. That’s a lotta Ps.”

The immediate gut reaction you have is the strong desire to gasp with delight and smooch him square on the lips WHAT THE, why did his answer turn you on?? Oopsy lol, yeah, gross, no way. You meant to say, um, ah,…?!?

Anyway, you unfortunately end up squealing, “Oh Lord, that was hot.”

It’s fine, you slip in a ‘dude’ right after. “C’mon, dude, what do pirates say? Like the, the sound they make in movies and books?”

“I don’t, uh…'Yo-ho…ho?'”

That’s now you, belly-laughing, even as it makes your stitches pinch more. “No, the noise they make, like, when they’re mad or tryin’ act all scary.”

Hold the darn phone, is he — good Moses in heaven with the angels and saints, Daryl Dixon is blushing.

He’s gone from plain to red splotches on his cheeks, it’s visible even in the low lighting. The inconvenient butterflies start fluttering around in your stomach again, but this is such an unexpected treat, who cares? Ha!

“No way you’re turnin’ red, nerd,” you whisper.

“Stop,” he grunts in his way, and his eyes are crinkled and his mouth is threatening to grin.

A pleasing shiver travels down when you scrunch your pointer finger into a hook. “Arrr,” you enunciate with spot-on cartoonish flair, if you say so yourself.

His eyes shut when the punchline hits him. “Sonofa—it’s R, then?”

Hot damn, is this joke satisfying. “R? Nay nay, boy, ’tis the C!”

___________________________

Him

___________________________

That he’d gone from wishing he were left for dead in a ditch to laughing out loud in the few minutes his friend was in the room with him…Y/N was something else.

A weirdo, too.

The dessert was ambrosia, by the way, Y/N eventually came back into the room with two bowls of it. “Ambrosia” was a loose term; it didn’t have none of the usual stuff but for the pecans and cream dressing.

“It’s peach, raspberry, wild blueberry and pecan ambrosia with hand-whipped cream — Glenn won’t even know to miss the marshmallows!” Y/N had chirped.

Him telling them it was “knockoff ambrosia” (as a joke) only lead to them pursing their lips, giggling, then immediately going back to happily twittering on how: “Lori hand-whipped it to make it extra special, and Carol added a mite bit of buttermilk to get the tang it needs. Can’t wait to taste how it came out…”

Their little food dance as they took the first bite was cute.

And shiiit, the little moan they made as they shut their eyes and tilted their head back shouldn’t have been enough to turn his thoughts sexual, but yeahhh did it. The cabin fever was apparently messing with his dick, too, great.

But, like, why did Y/N say something he did was “hot?” Was it slang for something else, other than what he knew it usually meant?

“Dare, what do you think?” Another quiet, hummed moan, and then Y/N opened their eyes and saw that he hadn’t tasted any. “Oh, Daryl, c’mon and try some? It’s heavenly. I think I’m dying, it’s so yummy.”

Nah. As good as Y/N was making it seem, he couldn’t, and so, shook his head.

But then his friend said something that, weird as it was, for some reason hit the nail on the head for him once more. It was as if there Y/N was, seeing his soul bare-naked again.

“If I were your confessor,” they began so casual-like, “other than explaining how accidental injury ain’t sinful, I’d tell you your penance was to eat what’s in front of you.”

Y/N almost took another bite as if in example, but hesitated before the spoon reached their lips. The light expression they wore dimmed and turned serious. “All you’ve gone through this week isn’t divine justice, that ain’t how God operates. It was an accident. Just like Sophia. It, it wasn’t no test or punishment what happened to her. It was just a… a bad thing,” they hushed, eyes fixed on their bowl, spoon. With an empty half-laugh, they mumbled, “Suddenly can’t stand the thought of food, now, neither.”

With that, Y/N put the bowl to the side and didn’t seem to know what to do next other than maybe cry, by the look of them.

Daryl would’ve missed it if he’d gone back to spacing out and wallowing, but from the corner of his eye he noticed them wipe their palm on their knee a few times as if to dry it off.

He recognized what was going on, or was pretty sure, anyway.

After Amy got killed, Y/N had this messed up thing go on with the hand, the one they’d used to try and stop her from bleeding out. For a few days, it felt to them as if Amy’s blood was still on it and wouldn’t clean off.

Back when Sophia first went missing, he noticed their hand thing came back a little that first afternoon.

“Y/N.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s clean.”

“What is?”

“Your hand.”

They took an extra beat to respond. “I-I know. It’s nothin'.”

“It’s clean,” he repeated, which resulted in Y/N bowing their head. “Ain’t nothing there, Y/N. Lemme see?”

His friend lifted their head back up, raised their hand for him, and shrugged. “Dale says it’s a guilt thing.”

Yeah, he could see that.

“It's not on you to fix everyone’s everything,” he needed to say. Y/N seemed like they didn’t remember that sometimes.

“Ayy, way to come at me with a hammer,” his friend answered with a dry smile. “I know I can’t fix everyone’s stuff,” they spoke carefully, their throat sounded tight. “But we’re called to help, right? After how far things have fallen, we’re called even more now to, to bring, you know, that, that light, to do what we can. And, and,” they stuttered, then took a deep breath. “I dunno. Before all this—did you ever feel like your life was stagnant? Like you was just...existing?”

Did Y/N know how well they could hit the nail on the head?

Yes, Daryl felt like his life was stagnant, it fucking was, he was a nobody! Didn’t do shit with his life, he’d just…rotted, and fixed up bikes in whatever direction his brother drifted. “Yeah.”

“That’s how I was was for years, too. Kinda floated one day after another, just tryin’ to make it to the next.”

Daryl stayed quiet. Yet again, they’d hit the nail on the goddamned head and he wanted Y/N to keep on talking.

And Y/N did, they kept chatting very matter-of-fact. “It got better, ev-eventually, I um, I got help, and then started forcin’ myself to do stuff, get out in the community, all that. Healed a bit.” They swirled their spoon around the bowl. “It didn’t fix everything boom, like: I still felt stagnant a lot, or like a failure, or that things were all my fault, still sometimes wanted to die really bad,” they shared with a shrug, very chill. “But that’s why we can’t rely on feelings, right?”

The invisible string was tugging Daryl’s whole damn torso toward them at this point and he just wanted to hold them to him and — shit, sorry, uh, he meant he wanted to pat ’em on the back, at least.

“Really, it was when the, um,” his friend bit their lip. “This is gonna sound weird.”

“Prolly, if it’s you we’re talkin’ about,” he ribbed, completely dead-pan.

His friend liked it, and even taunted back all goofy, “sure is, betch,” before their smile fell away. After a beat, Y/N quietly, quietly told him the rest. “It was when the…outbreaks happened, that I-I didn’t have to force it anymore. There was suddenly such a, a, a clear duty, clear sense of purpose, I dunno. Just—so much to do, so much to live for, and,” a big exhale, “so much work to be done.”

That explained a lot. Y/N tended to go hard, burn the candle at both ends, if that’s the right phrase.

In fact, he flat-out said so. “Is that why you push too damn hard to be ‘useful?’”

“Again with the hammer on the nail, dude. And, no, it’s—” Y/N found their words. “When you think how w-we, we might could get killed, at any second, any one of us. And how we’ll look back on it all, all our choices, and then answer what we did ‘for the least here on earth’…”

Ah, that checked out, too.

It was something, to see someone still believe in all that stuff after the world fucking ended, he’d give it that.

He used to, too. Not that he’d been any good at it.

Didn’t matter, he didn’t anymore. Not after the dead started walking.

“Now, before Teddy materializes in here to scold me, I get that ‘It’s not through our own efforts.’ And the problem I have with feelin’ worthless is a separate issue my faith helps tackle. Now, I know it ain’t about racking up works of mercy, but, dude—there’s so much work to do! And I want to do as much as —” Y/N shook their head a few times as if shaking out of it. “Sorry, I-I’ma just quit while I’m ahead, here. Oversharing Olympics.”

“Mm.” Hey, it was. “But that’s part of the deal with friends, right?” he murmured while trying to think of a good way to razz on them. “Means you trust ’em.” Y/N tended to make light about everything, so a tease would do ’em good, right? “It, like, Sunday or somethin’, preacher?”

The tease might’ve missed the mark that time, if he was seeing it correctly.

“Friday,” was all his friend mumbled back, and looked embarrassed as shit. The forced smile they offered in return — it made Daryl’s side ache more, somehow. And the way Y/N then sat there, curling their feet in and looking as if they felt…just about as small as Daryl did?

It was as if the invisible knee to the nards was connected to the invisible tugging string on his chest, because while that knee to the nards got him good, he felt that strange string tug toward Y/N big-time.

It was next, when Y/N stood up and moved to take the dishes out, that something very forceful moved in Daryl that had him sitting himself upright (sort of upright) and reaching for his bowl and spoon (oww) before his friend could get to it.

“It’s still good without the cherries and the marshmallows?”

His friend blinked. “Th-there are some, uh, it’s technically got those mini freeze-dried ones, as an extra-surprise.” They tilted their head, squinting at him in a way not unlike how Rick squinted at shit. “The Greene’s had some hot chocolate packets in the back of the pantry, we separated the marshmallows out.”

“That’s a lot of work,” Daryl commented, scooping a spoonful. Looked real pink because of the raspberries.

Y/N next twisted their mouth and almost seemed shy, when they realized what he was about to do.

It made Daryl feel good, seeing them spark up like that. And their shy smile was damn cute, as always.

“Oh, here, try mine if you’re only havin’ a bite,” Y/N asked, holding out their own bowl to him.

“Nah, m’gonna do the whole thing. It being penance and all,” he grunted, then waved his spoon at them. “You, too, go on. Do your penance.”

“My penance?”

“Yeah.” Oh goddamn, the stuff was delicious. “Have a seat, eat up.”

His friend settled on the side of the bed, still looking as if he’d caught them off-guard. They watched him eat for a few moments, and, Daryl had a random, unusual worry that he was eating too sloppy. But holy shit, fresh fruit and whipped cream!

He glanced over mid-scarfing to see Y/N nibbling on (no lie) half a pecan.

“Quit playing with yer food.”

This earned him a small huff and a “I’m savoring it.”

“White lies cost a quarter, remember.”

The amount of attitude Y/N next put into their next bite was funny. “I’b also sduffed a’ready, banjy hick,” they added with their mouth full.

Don’t smile too big, Daryl. “Penance is penance.”

“But pedaces ca be cobooted.”

Don’t smile too big! “They can be what?”

Y/N apologized, swallowed their food and their giggle, and repeated: “Penances can be commuted.”

“They can travel to work?” was his idea of a dumb joke, and this time it did the trick and he made them burst out laughing a second time.

Y/N broke into a laugh so hard they hinged forward and caused some of the cream dressing to get onto their shirt right before their spoon clattered to the floor.

“Laughing like that still hurts, you butt,” his friend wheezed, pressing their arm to their stitched-up side. They coughed a few times, still giggling, and when they thudded their chest a few times they winced. “Ow, bruise. And Lore just washed this top, too.” Another snort. “My fault for bein’ a sucker for dumb jokes, I guess. ”

“Ain’t nobody’s fault, just an accident,” he got the immediate urge to tell them, and so, did.

In response, Y/N looked at him with an expression he wasn’t sure how to read. It wasn’t a bad expression. Then, because that expression made his stomach do more flippy-floppies, Daryl gestured to their bowl again, and Y/N obligingly took another spoonful.

“Dis is so gub,” they hummed softly after taking the bite.

“Damned tasty for knockoff ambrosia,” he had to admit, joining along with another scoop of that damned tasty knockoff ambrosia.

“Do’d even deed deh bigger barshballows.”

Y/N was so fucking cute sometimes. “Or cherries.” He loved the cherries the best, after the marshmallows.

Y/N swallowed their bite.“Or the mandarins.”

“Or the pineapple.” His third favorite part.

“Oh, or the coconut,” Y/N realized, then thought out loud, “Shucks, this is a knockoff.”

“Tasty knockoff, I’d eat it again in a heartbeat,” Daryl murmured. He couldn’t believe his bowl was already empty. “Y/N, you just say ‘shucks?’”

“Shut up.” His friend shook their head and smiled. “Y’know, Daryl, this is prolly one of the top five penances I’ve ever gotten.”

“Top five?”

“One time I got ‘buy yourself something nice that you’ll get good use from. It’s okay if it’s a little expensive, it’s okay if it’s a little frivolous.’ Almost a direct quote, that. I’d been bein’ too, um,” they cleared their throat, “the priest thought I was a bit too hard on myself.”

Daryl knew whatever came next had to be something good, based on his friend’s playful little grin.

“That’s how I bought me my PS3. Pre-owned, so it was a solid deal, and it got very good use.” And with a wistful sounding exhale, they finished, “I miss that thing.” Y/N wiggled their bowl at him. “Please help me with this?”

Daryl’s mouth watered. The stuff tasted so good. Fresh, creamy, sweet, tangy.

Y/N raised their eyebrows at him and smiled.

“If I gotta,” he grunted back.

“Thanks for the assist. Plus, it’s penance.”

“Mm, guess I have to." Oh yeah, big scoop. "If it’s penance.”

------------------------------------------

-> Masterlist link here <-

and our teeny tiny taglist :D

@spenciepoo338 ; @its-freaking-bats ; @whistlesalot ; @buffy-the-assbutt-slayer ; @dreamingaboutthewonderland ; @kwazii-kat ; @darylsmavis ; @outlanderhornet22 ; @battinsonrobs ; @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable ; @writingmybeloved ; @boomergirl123 ; @iheartathena0 ; @moonliight-luv ; @suniloli ; @supernaturalgirl02 ; @cnake-garden ; @daryldixmedown ; @sophehe ; @crashlyrose ; @virgo-sunflower920 ; @jennythe ; @theficbaker ; @vampireautism ; @rosetta196 ; @wifeof-barnes ; @thegemthatreads ; @olive-branch-witch-library

(inbox is open if you would like on or off the taglist, slowpokes. Please don’t feel bad or nervous if you don’t want to be tagged anymore, just let me know in the inbox! We’re all friends here and your comfort level matters)

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shslfanficreader · 2 years

Note

Ok ok, we know Gundham gets really flustered at cute compliments from you like "You look really cute today!" Or "You're so gorgeous" BUT THE MOMENT he notices you getting flustered by his deep villainous voice he won't hesitate to tease and torment you with it. He finds it amusing and perfect that you are under his mercy whenever he chuckles close to your ear X////X

Dear anon, (and everyone else who’s sent me an ask or confession): I’m so sorry!! This was sent over a year ago and I haven’t replied because I’ve had a bit of a tough time, but I’m back so even though you might not care about this being answered anymore I’m going to answer!!

MATURE/SUGGESTIVE

Warnings: Gundham x gender neutral reader, suggestive, mostly sfw but for mature readers, voice kink, somewhat shy but dominant Gundham.

Ho - hold on just - hold on a sec 😳

Yes.

Excuse me whilst I'm a major slut for Gundham and his voice 👀

(But first I would like to formally apologize to Gundham’s voice actor, please, if you ever see this for any reason, leave now. It’s for your own safety. God bless. And yes, I know he won’t see this, but I’m paranoid.)

Okay back to the horny.

Gundham is so pretty when he's all flustered and blushy, but he's also so embarrassed by your compliments that he can't help hide his face in his scarf and look away. (I need to stop now before I just go on a rant about a shy and possibly submissive Gundham because good lord.)

He has no idea what his voice does to you at first. When you're talking and you get a flush on your cheeks and your hand moves up to sit near your chin, he initially thinks it might be the topic of conversation, but ah, why would the diet of the dark devas cause you any unease? Hmm, other than that, all he can think of that flustered you would be… him.

But you'd never been disturbed by him before so perhaps… his voice? He was just quite loud. He might have gotten too invested in telling you about the devas.

You'd think that since he acts so sheepish when he gets compliments, he would understand what being flustered is like and maybe go easy on you.

You'd be wrong.

He leans in close to you so you can feel the rumble coming from his chest as he speaks. He talks low so you can hear him clearly but it still feels intimate. You can feel the warmth of his breath fanning onto your skin.

His voice is deep as ever, but the tone… he draws out words and adds growls to the ends of sentences, he lets his voice get breathy, he hums as if he’s asking a question when he’s just stating facts.

Gundham’s always been good with his words, but it doesn’t even matter what he says. His compliments and teasing are a bonus, his eloquence overlooked, all focus is only on the sound of his voice.

He would never think of his voice as seductive, but god, you would. The tone is enough to make your skin crawl and cause a shiver to snake up your spine. If you gasp, he’ll give a low hum in response and his eyes will flicker down to your lips for a split second.

That’s when he’ll feel flustered again. You’d only see it if you’re paying close attention, but his cheeks flush red, along with the tips of his ears. The red even spreads down his neck and chest but luckily for him, his scarf hides that.

He hides his nervousness by drawing attention to you and your reactions to him. He teases you for the blush over your cheeks and torments you for the quickness of your breath, asks what’s wrong in a patronising manner, as if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.

He’ll take his time playing with you before he suggests going somewhere more private, but if he’s feeling ruthless, he’ll do everything possible to get you to admit that it’s warm and your blood is flowing between your thighs.

Either way, he’ll growl and cackle in your ear before dragging you off too more secluded area.

Thank you so much anon, and again, I’m so sorry that answering this took so, so long! I really do appreciate every ask and I’ll be trying to answer all the ones I’ve received in the past and I’ll try to answer one’s I get in the future faster too.

#danganronpa smut #sdr2 smut #gundham tanaka smut #gundham smut #gundham tanaka x reader #smut #I know it’s not really smut #but since it’s suggestive I want to tag it #just in case #🥰

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beewithknee · 11 months

Text

of fear and isolation

day 11 of redactober 2023 !

darlin/asher/david (unrequited love)

Darlin’ hung back. A ghost on the wall that always managed to disappear. Never heard, rarely seen. Overlooked.

They enjoyed it that way. Forming limited connections meant less heartbreak further down the road when they decided to leave. People always left.

Watching the two people you were hopelessly in love fawn all over the other made it a little less easy to not care. Apathy was something Darlin’ had spent their whole life in the company of.

Through their parents, their friends, Quinn. None of it had ever really mattered, just adding complexity to their grey life.

However watching David and Asher be David and Asher, now that created reds and blues. It caused dark greens and pale yellows. It wasn’t fair. Why had these two had such an affect on their life that no one had managed to before? Why the two mates who were so sickeningly in love, that it was apparent to everyone?

The Alpha and the Beta were every happy-ending given true form. They’d survived Gabe’s passing, Quinn, the inversion, and come out all the better for it.

Those events… they’d simply chipped further and further away at Darlin’s humanity. Left them scarred, broken, shattered. They would never recover from any of those moments in time. That was the simple truth of it all.

Milo had once begged them to tell his best friends about their secretly harboured feelings. That was met with a resounding no and a promise of violence if he ever told anyone.

So there they were, glued to the back wall like a parasite. They didn’t move, didn’t speak, as David gave his speech to his pack. All of whom were watching with great awe. David certainly wasn’t his father, but Darlin’ thought that might’ve just been a good thing. He bought so much more that Gabe (Bless his soul) had ever been able to.

After Liliana’s passing, Gabe had been broken. He’d attempted to keep the peace with his pack and himself, but Darlin’ saw. Kindred spirits and all that.

There was something familiar, even to their adolescent mind, in the way Gabe’s cracks seeped through into his everyday life. Maybe that’s why they’d felt such a close bond with the former Alpha.

Fiddling with their ring, they kept their gaze firmly on their mutilated hands while their ears remained tracked to every word that fell from between those sweet lips.

At one point they glanced up, feeling a gaze on them. Asher. Even from behind their sunglasses, they were positive he caught the way their eyes widened.

‘David’s speaking, why is he looking at me?’ They questioned silently, internally panicking at every out-of-place area on their body. 13. That’s how many they counted just with a quick mental scan.

Fuck.

‘Wait after. Please?’ Asher signed discreetly, nodding in their direction to confirm that he was speaking to them. Limbs paralysed and anxiety crippling their every survival instinct, they nodded and moved their unseeing gaze back to the Alpha.

In their peripheral, they watched as Asher kept looking at them for a few moments before turning back to his mate.

Sweat welled up along their hairline, a physical manifestation of their rapidly-increasing anxiety. Leaving now would draw too much suspicion, as well as alerting their friend Beta. The doors were far too loud to be moved without gathering unwanted attention.

They remained frozen, heart galloping in their chest for the duration of the pack meeting. Pack meeting. Honestly they weren’t even sure why they’d shown up; they certainly weren’t ‘pack’. Others had made that abundantly clear.

Oh god. A lightbulb flicked in their mind. David and Asher were kicking them out. They’d spotted Chrissy whispering to Ash not moments before the meeting began.

Fuck.

They were being kicked out. A loner. A rouge. Granted, majority of the time they felt like that anyway; but at least they still had the layer of being a Shaw on their back.

After this they’d be naked. Vulnerable. Totally alone.

Shit.

Noise finally penetrated their ears, seeping in around the buzzing. Clapping. The meeting had adjourned.

With the confirmation of their impending doom in their mind, Darlin’ did the one thing they knew their boys… their Alpha and Beta would hate the most.

They turned tail and ran.

#darlin' is just dumb basically #i love them but yeah #dashli #redacted asmr #redacted audio #angst #fluff #redacted david #redacted asher #redactober tober 2023 #redactober 2023 #whumptober 2023

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shiraishi--kanade · 2 months

Note

Serious answer: Not that I’m qualified to give actual art advice bc I do not take the hobby seriously but over the course of however many years I’ve been drawing, I’ve found that regardless of how much I improve, I still dislike most of what I make, and I think that’s true for a lot of artists (esp those who have it as a casual hobby).

Tracing/drawing from reference/mimicking styles you like is a good way to feel more comfortable with drawing, as is just making a lot of quick bad sketches that you never share. Comparison is the thief of joy or whatever but it’s especially the thief of joy when you’re looking at people who draw like 26 hours a day and have been doing so since they were .2 days old, because it’s so easy to see the skill and not the years that went into building it (at least, that’s the issue I run into a lot). You’ve sorta just gotta stick with it. I believe in you… (said by someone also in The Art Trenches)

Unserious answer: they don’t. drawing is pain.

Oh hating your own work is universal creative experience I believe. I hate most of the things I've written (the only ones currently evading my hate are Chlorine and Everything Moves, god bless, I still think they're neat), so I can totally see that.

Unfortunately I've no intention to dip my toe into the art trenches as of right now (and I sincerely doubt that'll change soon if ever), but thanks for the advice!

#jay rambles about life.txt #jay gets asks.txt

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albatmobile · 2 years

Text

The Art of Rehabilitating Snowbirds Chapter 3

𓅪 After not hearing from Roy or Jason for five years, you suddenly find yourself taking in extra income as a babysitter for Roy and Jason's child.

𓅪 Rated: M | TW: addiction mention | 6.5k fem!Reader x Jason Todd x Roy Harper [masterlist]

Chapter Three: Work is Easy...| ao3 - wattpad

You show up two minutes after the set time even though you’ve been waiting in the parking lot for fifteen minutes. After calculating how long it'd take you to walk up, you decided on an inconspicuous four minutes before the expected time to start your trek up to their apartment.

Definitely not overthinking anything or overreacting in any way. You? No way. Not at all.

The building is as shitty as your freshman year college dorm with dulled, florescent-lit hallways, though you expect just as much, seeing as you pulled up to the slums of Gotham.

While some people are scattered about the hallways, no one seems to pay you much mind. It’s a relief because now you're free to worry in peace. Not to mention, the last thing you want to do is draw too much attention to yourself on this side of town.

Even though you’d grown up in the area, you can never be too cautious.

You know as soon as you reach the address that it’s theirs. The door is covered in gaudy shit like a flower wreath, complete with a sign that reads ‘Bless this Apartment’ with angels around it.

You internally gag at the horrid decor and wonder if it truly is just Roy, Jason and a kid. What, do they have a minivan now, too, or something?

You check your clock to see that you’re right on time, so you send Damian a quick message to let him know you’ve arrived and take a deep breath.

Two minutes after your set time and you finally knock on the door.

You don’t have to wait long, seeing as the door opens immediately to reveal an unfamiliar yet familiar face.

God, it’s been so fucking long.

You choke down the random urge to cry and fight the other urge to hug the big-ass doofus in front of you. You have to play it cool.

“I was wondering how long you were gonna stand out there,” Roy says as he leans casually against the door frame. You can’t help but notice that his arms way more filled out than you remember. Even as a senior, Roy had muscles, but this? Even through the sleeves of his hoodie, you can see that this is a whole other level of strength.

You don’t understand what Damian meant about Roy's supposed addiction. His face still looks like a typical stoner. Aside from his overgrown stubble, you notice that his kind, gorgeous, light green eyes have changed the most drastically, though you can’t quite place why.

He seems to notice you eyeing him up because he noticeably begins rubbing at his arms. Well, arm, considering he only seems concerned with the right one by the looks of it.

It’s only then that you see the red, wretched-looking scars that reach out from underneath one of his long sleeves. You’re immediately smacked in the face with heat, feeling a blush of embarrassment fan across your cheeks.

Damian had mentioned an addiction, but heroin?

You need to divert attention away from his arms and fast.

“I was just texting someone in case you were actually planning to kill me or some shit.” It's a complete lie, one that makes entirely no sense, but your brain is currently short-circuiting, trying to put new Roy and old Roy together.

No matter what you do, you can't seem to make sense of the man in front of you.

“Still paranoid, princess?” Roy holds up his hands with a smirk. It’s then you notice that his right hand is black and metallic- just how exactly did you miss that? Roy swiftly shoves it behind his back and you politely continue on like you haven’t noticed.

It seems like you're going to be doing a lot of that today.

A lot has changed.

“No,” you shamefully admit, wishing your blush would fuck the fuck off. Not that Roy’s old nickname for you helped any.

"I’m still not scared of Damian, by the way, so I'm not sure what help he’d be.” Of course he’d know exactly who you'd been texting. “You wanna come in?” he says, removing his arm from the doorway to motion you inward.

Do you want to come in?

No.

You want to go home and crawl up in your bed and pretend like they hadn't even texted you in the first place.

But you're here.

You look into his eyes hesitantly before nodding.

You're still trying to make sense of this whole thing and not be awkward at the same time, but you don’t know how when all you want to do is stare at your ex-friend until you memorize every part of his foreign body.

Wait, that sounds wrong. You start over.

You just want to run your hands through his fiery locks to make sure he still smells the same.

Okay, fuck it, you ditch your train of thought entirely before you start blushing again as you brush past him to go inside. You catch a whiff of whatever body wash he uses and are extremely disappointed in yourself when it leaves you dizzy upon contact.

Okay, so he doesn't smell the same exactly, but it's still intoxicating, nonetheless.

“Alrighty then,” he laughs to himself as you continue to take everything in.

It’s completely domestic and you can't help but cringe when you see that the tacky decorations continue inside.

There’s shit everywhere, including the remains of a pillow fort next to the tv in the living room. In the kitchen, you see the first real evidence of a child: crudely drawn drawings plastered over the cheap fridge.

You nearly miss the artwork, though, through the mess. You're quickly affronted by the sight of plastic plates practically falling out of the trashcan and a sink that’s seemingly disappeared under a pile of petrified dishes.

You gag silently and fight the urge to get on your hands and knees and clean everything in sight.

Roy seems to notice as he runs a sheepish hand through his stringy hair. “Yeah, not exactly the cleanest, but that hasn’t really changed now, has it?”

You nod, thinking back to all those times you had to organize his backpack so that he could find his notes. “I’m more surprised your cleaning habits rubbed off on Jason and not the other way around.”

You both smile at each other, basking in what you know. It’s a safe zone and safe is good. Especially right now when all you want to do is bolt.

You'd known Jason to be as much of a clean freak as you've always been, especially when it came to cooking.

Jason was the only one who never dared to comment on the cleanliness of your apartment the one time he and Roy came over to pick you up. It was a place not even Damian had been to. You were too embarrassed at the time when his house was a whole fucking manor in Bristol and yours was an empty, shitty apartment in The Bowery.

You remembered trying to clean it as best you could, but, just like Jason and Roy's apartment, it was a shithole to begin with, so cleaning only helped so much. Not like your parents were around enough to help out with chores, let alone much of anything else.

"Yeah, well,” another sheepish grin from the redhead that leaves your stomach flipping, “full-time job and kid doesn't exactly leave time to clean.” He shrugs a bit. “Speaking of, let me go grab her.”

Ah, yes. The reason you're here in the first place.

While he's gone, you look around, noticing framed photos of a little girl, who you assume to be their kid, though there's not much else to go by. The place is technically decorated, yet it still feels somewhat impersonal.

Roy returns a few seconds later, hand-in-hand with a dark-haired little girl. Meanwhile, his right one remains concealed behind his giant back. “Lian, this is,” he pauses briefly after saying your name, “possibly your new babysitter?”

You crouch a bit, giving her a tiny wave, “It’s nice to meet you, Lian.”

She huddles further into Roy’s muscular side as she shies away from you.

Roy rubs at the back of his head with his prosthetic hand (arm? You couldn’t be sure with the long sleeves) while the other remains on Lian. “She takes a little while to warm up to new people,” he tries to assure you, so you nod, never having interacted with a child for this long before, anyway. You can't help but feel pained with how he refers to you. How are you new when he's the one who went M.I.A.? “Don’t get discouraged.”

You don't have to worry there, Roy, you think humorlessly. After all, you should be used to it by now with them.

“It’s all good,” you say instead of voicing your actual thoughts, giving Lian a thumbs up as you stand back up. “I’m shy sometimes, too,” you admit, causing the girl to meet your eyes for the first time.

Roy clears a seat for you on the couch next to him and Lian. You end up sitting on one side of Roy while she clings to his other side.

The close proximity is enough to leave you gasping for air.

This is too casual. Way too casual for what happened.

“So, you never answered my question from the other night,” his eyebrows wiggle up and down playfully as he speaks.

“Couldn’t hardly recognize your voice, dipshi- oot.” You barely manage to catch yourself from cursing in front of Lian, who keeps peeking out around Roy’s bicep to get a better look at you.

You give her a tiny smile, but instead of smiling back, she just seeks cover behind her dad again. You wish she'd stop because all it does is draw your attention to those sinful, rippling muscles and once you're looking, it's hard to force your attention away.

“She doesn’t bite, right?” he teases your name, inadvertently causing you to shiver. “Maybe not the right reassurance.” He throws a quick wink your way.

You roll your eyes before you can stop yourself. “One-track mind still in full effect, I see.”

Had he seen you checking him out? Oh, god, please say no.

He laughs mirthfully, “You’ve always been fun to tease. Can you blame me?”

“Excuse me,” you and Roy turn to Lian, who speaks up suddenly.

“What’s up, kid?” Roy asks, giving her a pat on her little head.

“I can braid.” She nods your way shyly.

Roy smirks at you. “Oh, yeah. She’s really into braiding right now,” he says, pointing to the little braid underneath the rest of his hair to further his statement.

Lian nods, confirming this before speaking further, “Your hair is prettier than my dad’s.”

“Okay,” you say as you hesitantly run your fingers through your hair.

You don't really want a kid to rip it out after you’ve carefully taken the time to dry it properly after your shower earlier. You want to make a good impression ultimately wins out, though and you slip to the floor in front of Lian to offer her your hair by turning and placing it on her lap.

She gently takes your hair and runs her fingers through it a few times. “You smell nice.”

It’s the only warning you get before she’s off, wrestling at the hair she's sectioned off.

“Wow, you’ve got a strong grip there,” you say through gritted teeth as she makes a particularly hard tug.

“She’s very strong, right, Lian?” Roy throws slow, fake punches around her that she dodges with ease.

“I have super ninja strength, probably,” she says as she continues to torment your scalp.

“I can tell. Superman would totally be jealous.” You face your head up a bit more so she can see your smirk.

She laughs as she quickly pushes your face back down. “I love Superman and Superboy.”

Kids always like Superman, you internally roll your eyes, but everyone who’s anyone knows that Batman is where it's at.

“They’re alright." You aren’t about to go on a comic book rant to a four-year-old. You hear Roy snort from next to Lian on the couch, but you don’t dare mess up whatever progress she’s made on the braid for fear of having your face pushed down again. “Do you like Batman?” You feel the girl shrug, but you gasp, turning dramatically, “What?!”

“I like Superboy a lot.” She looks at you expectantly.

You turn around to shoot Roy a dirty glance. “This is sacrilege.”

“Glad to know you’re still a nerd,” he sighs with fake exasperation.

You wave him off as your face is pushed down and forced frontward once again by an impatient Lian.

“Stay still.”

You apologize and get back into braiding position with your back pressed up against the couch

“So, are you taking classes?” Roy shifts over more so you can see him without punishment for moving from Lian. He’s counting on his fingers. “You’re 19, right? Sophomore?”

“You’ve been gone for too long.” It’s the first time either of you admits it out loud, but it’s true. The last time you saw him was when you were 15. “No, not a sophomore. Yes, 19, but I'm turning 20 in a few months,” you clarify for seemingly no reason, though you both know exactly why you've said it.

“I hardly doubt you skipped out on college.”

You can tell he's trying to piece everything together, so you help him out by further elaborating.

“You already said it,” you sigh, suddenly feeling the weight of this meeting again. “This nerd took all AP courses Junior and Senior year, so I only went to college for one year.”

Roy’s eyes widen at this piece of information. “You already graduated college?”

“Not like I had the money to stick around much longer than that,” you glance away from him with embarrassment, "you know, even with the scholarships and all."

Jason and Roy had both grown up around wealth, not that you're able to tell from their tacky apartment now, but what they had available to them back then is still nothing you’ve ever experienced.

“Pesky student loans,” he says as he tries to lighten the mood, but your stomach is already feeling sick with anxiety now that you've dug into the taboo topic.

Luckily, the conversation gets cut short before either of you can make further fools of yourselves.

The door opens suddenly and shuts quietly as Jason slips in without glancing up.

You and Roy are both silent as Jason comes in and doesn’t seem to notice you or, more likely, doesn’t want to.

You watch his movements out of the corner of your eyes from where you sit on the floor. If he's going to ignore you, you definitely have no trouble doing the same. This is how you and Jason end up staring in each other’s general direction with crossed arms, refusing to actually look at each other.

Roy, per usual, breaks up the tension with his shit-singing. “Ah, yes,” he teases with his signature smirk, “reunited and it feels so good.”

“Hardly,” you insist with a roll of your eyes.

It's a lie, you know that much, but not one you're willing to let them in on.

Lian tugs your head back with strength you're pretty sure no four-something-year-old should have, effectively startling you out of the moment. “The braid,” is all she says and you nod while you lean back further to try and give her a better angle.

“You still have that scar.” It’s a simple, somewhat off-handed thing to say in all the awkwardness, yet completely how you remembered Jason. It would be the first thing he mentions, seeing as he'd spent years lamenting over how you got it in the first place.

“Yeah, it’s a scar,” you state, obviously not really wanting to get into the encounter that had just recently stopped haunting your dreams. “You'd know all about that, though.” You glance up at his somewhat familiar scars scattered across his cheekbones. It’s too much for you to reminisce, so you change the subject before you can ask yourself why you even want the conversation to continue. “Guess I missed the protein shake diet memo?”

As many elephants as there are in this tiny apartment, one of the smaller ones seemed to be that both Jason and Roy had god-like, insane-looking muscles. You can only imagine what's going on under those clothes, though- NO! No, not doing this, you steel yourself.

Focus.

It’s then that you notice all the to-go containers lying around. “I’m surprised Jason doesn’t cook for you.”

The raven-haired man shrugs and gestures to Roy and Lian, who are sitting on the couch. "It's Hard to cook when you have a loving boyfriend and child.”

You scrunch up your nose and don’t realize you have before it’s too late. You blame it on it being hard to see just how much has changed. Well, supposedly, you remind yourself. You still can’t bring yourself to buy this whole lovey-dovey little story they're putting down.

“We were just talking about what she’s been up to,” Roy supplements into the awkward silence that's settled across the room.

You and Jason have always been like oil and vinegar. They may taste pretty good together, but they don’t and never will, mix.

In the past, you were always at odds and ends with each other, always on each other’s nerves, always testing each other, always pushing each other's limits. You remember now, in this moment, just how exhausting and thrilling it was.

You're only getting a little taste of it now and you can’t deny a part of you yearns for more of him.

“College, right?” Jason settles into the couch beside Roy with careful steps as he gets closer to you. It's as if he’s scared he’ll startle you off. Or maybe he's too disgusted to be near you. You can’t quite tell after his dramatic entrance.

“I graduated last year,” you fill him in on the AP’s you took after both of them vanished into thin air. “I work freelance programming now, so that’s pretty much it.”

Now on to where the fuck you guys have been, you think to yourself. You glance up at Jason out of the corner of your eyes, watching as he reaches over to ruffle Lian’s hair with familiar ease.

You know the fucker can see you staring, but you don’t care. It almost becomes a challenge to see if he'll meet you head-on.

He does.

Predictable, you think with a barely concealed smirk as you meet his bright green eyes for the first time in years. The smirk quickly falters, though and it becomes difficult to swallow as you feel your anxiety jam itself heavily into your throat at the shared eye contact.

Aside from the sounds coming from Lian’s frustration with your hair, it's completely silent as you take each other in.

“I know we both owe you some kind of explanation.”

It's weird seeing how Roy now seems to be the voice of reason throughout this whole ordeal when it always used to be Jason or you.

Things really have changed.

It's just like you've silently feared, making it harder to distance yourself from them. Even though you aren’t sure if distancing yourself is even what you want, you can't deny that you'd come running as soon as they came knocking.

“You think?” you butt in. “My friends just disappear for years and now you’re some ripped gay fucks who need me to look after your child?” You can't help but get up to pace around, unable to hold in your doubts any longer. “Look, I don’t even believe this shit. You,” you say, abruptly turning to Roy, “were banging multiple chicks a night for the entire year I knew you and you,” you don’t even bother pointing or looking at Jason directly and instead focus on the ceiling, “were so busy being an angst king to even want to fuck anyone.”

“That’s not even true,” Jason huffs, crossing his arms. “I’m not an angst king.” His mouth downturns a bit, only further proving his angstiness.

Instead of being offended, Roy just smirks. “What, you want to see us make out that bad or something? Some kinky shit there,” he says your last name. “I’m surprised," he says, though doesn't actually sound surprised, "you used to be such a goody-two-shoes.”

You think back to all the nights you snuck off to smoke pot with them in the manor, skipped class, or even to the shit you didn’t necessarily remember, like your first high school party.

“That’s not exactly how I remember it, but okay.”

You cross your arms again when you feel Jason’s stare on you, not that you'd actually know since you haven’t looked in his direction since the unofficial staring contest ended.

Roy shrugs and wastes no time in covering Jason's body with his own. Jason scoffs but pulls him in for an exaggerated, wet kiss nonetheless.

You're so busy staring at your two ex-friends going at each other’s mouths that you don’t notice Lian sidle up next to you on the floor. She pulls on your leggings, forcing your eyes away from something that you admittedly don’t want to as their sloppy sounds become louder with each passing moment.

You're confused enough as it is, but now you're left blushing like a virgin over them making out.

You forget, once again, that Lian is next to you until her quiet whisper reaches your ears, “Family.”

It’s almost too rehearsed. Your eyebrows shoot up inadvertently at the little girl.

Standing there with your half-braided hair, you've seen enough.

“Okay, enough, fuck- shoot.” You quickly look at Lian and then at her apparent dads. “You see this?” You motion around exasperatedly at the gaudy fucking decorations, to the horndogs on the couch, then finally to the little girl beside you. “This isn’t going to work.”

They look dejected as they wipe away the trail of saliva stringing from their mouths. It may be harsh, but they need to know the truth.

You haven’t talked to them in years, you're shit with kids and this is an uncomfortable position to be put in when you can’t deny your old feelings for them are very much coming back. Aggressively. It had already caused enough strain on your relationship the one year you'd hung out with them, but now? As adults? This shit is even messier. Throw a kid into the mix and you've got yourself a certified fucking shit show.

Nope, no thanks.

“You’re a freelance programmer,” Jason says your name, causing your heart to jump uncomfortably. “Think of it as working two jobs in one.”

Always one to get back to business.

“Just a business deal?” The hell is your life coming to? How does this make the situation any different? You think of the cash and how you struggle to pay rent, let alone all of your other bills. “After all these years of me complaining about how annoying these cretins are, why would you even choose me to babysit in the first place?”

The unanswered question of why you haven’t talked for over five years hangs heavy in the room.

The unanswered question ends up getting answered by Jason, no less, in ever the unhelpful manner. He looks dead at you and taunts you, “Pick me, choose me.”

You can't help but gasp.

Seriously? The fucking audacity. And how is this not further proving his angst-king nature?

You flip him off and face Roy after, once again, crossing your arms.

Roy has the decency to look somewhat abashed for his supposed boyfriend.

“What?” He runs a hand through his long, greasy hair, though all you can focus on is how his forearms flex and bulge in the process. “We’ve known you forever.” He looks up as if thinking of the points on the spot. “You’ll cook her actual food,” he points out with raised eyebrows, seemingly impressed that he managed to weave your earlier point into his argument.

“And you know self-defense,” Jason adds helpfully for once.

Roy snaps his fingers. “Right, that. Plus, we miss you.” Roy looks over to Jason, who ducks his head in response. “Both of us.”

“And you’re a people pleaser too, so,” Jason ends his sentence as if it’s obvious you’ll say yes, which annoys the shit out of you because you don't want to say yes.

He's changed physically, yet, underneath it all, he's still the same annoying, presumptuous asshole you've always known.

Great.

Then there's Roy, staring you down after all these years whilst giving you with his iconic green puppy dog eyes. All the while, Lian tugs your head back in an attempt to finish her braid.

Meanwhile, Jason's still brooding as ever, refusing to give you any sort of clue as to what he's actually thinking.

Just like old times.

Well, you think back to Lian, almost.

You sigh and then look at both of them. What the fuck are you doing?

“Weekly pay, you stingy whores.” You stare down at your unpainted nails while the two of them glance at each other. “When do you need me to start?”

•••

Turns out they need someone the next day and you return just in time to see Jason heading out.

“Roy said you were coming.” Jason nods in your direction from where he stands in the kitchen. It appears he's still refusing to make eye contact with you.

Whatever.

“Yup,” you answer the obvious as you plop your shit down onto the cluttered kitchen counter.

“She hasn’t eaten yet. She’ll probably want Chinese food or pizza, so,” Jason says before awkwardly sliding $40 across the counter.

“I can just cook.”

He looks at you now like he's also being flooded with memories of the times you’d cooked together. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to look at you. Maybe it’s just as painful for them to see you again as it is for you to see them.

He clears his throat as he looks away to the fridge. “It's probably not what you're used to me having.” Jason, well, the manor, always had every single ingredient anyone could ever need to cook any type of meal and then some.

You walk to his side of the counter to open it up, only to be met by packs of beer, packets of ketchup and a few cracked eggs.

“Do you have flour and butter?”

In response, he opens a cabinet to reveal a shit ton of spices. At least you won’t have to worry on that front.

“We have Wonderbread and olive oil,” he lists off as he searches around a bit more. From the top cupboard, you’re able to see syrup.

“I can make something with that.” You point to the top shelf he was rifling through.

He nods and brings down the pancake syrup for you to use. He obviously remembers that you wouldn’t be able to reach on your own without having to climb on the counters like you used to do during your cooking sessions at the manor.

You reminisce fondly, remembering how your days in the kitchen with Jason always made Damian upset. It was supposedly because 'you wouldn’t paint with him,' but you know it's just because he couldn't (and still can't, for that matter) cook for shit. Plus, you're a woman of many talents and sometimes a bitch just wants a fresh scone, okay?

You'd never admit it out loud, but Jason’s recipe always turned out better than your own and you've been craving them since the last time you saw him.

“I’m still leaving the money in case you want to order groceries or something." You can't help but feel the awkwardness lingering between the two of you. He taps at the counter a bit before grabbing his keys. “Lian’s watching a movie in our room right now.” Somehow, you keep forgetting they're dating. Part of you wants to doubt it still but after the kiss, you're pretty sure it's all real. “I’ve gotta head out, though. Roy’s waiting.”

You smile a bit, but it feels fake even to you. “Have a good shift, I guess?”

“Sure,” Jason huffs somewhat amusedly as he unlocks the front door. “Our numbers are on the fridge if you need anything, but you might want to call the other fuckers on there if we’re not responding.”

Other fuckers?

You give a thumbs up as he locks the door behind himself. You go to the fridge to see Dick, Tim and Barbara’s numbers splayed across a page that Lian clearly wrote in crayon. Well, you remind yourself, it could also easily be Roy’s shitty ass handwriting. You think back to all the assignments you’d helped him with and how his handwriting basically made it impossible for you to use any of the notes- if he’d even bothered to take any anyway.

You look around at the mess, really wanting to clean it up, but decide to say greet Lian first.

“Hey,” you say as you awkwardly stand in the doorway, not wanting to intrude on her parents’ private space. “What’s up?” She gives you a shy look, so you try again. “What movie are you watching?” She hesitantly maneuvers the screen so you can see a Spider-Man cartoon playing. “You know, I once thought I saw Spider-Man,” you start, nodding seriously when she shoots you a skeptical gaze. “Yup, he was swinging around right in this neighborhood!”

She sits up straighter as she listens to you. “Nuh-uh,” she shook her head and set the iPad down, “he’s from New York.”

You smile, impressed she knows that piece of information. Jason's going to be so pissed you're making his daughter into exactly what he called you- a certified nerd.

“Lian,” you say seriously. “I saw string and someone swinging on it, so you tell me.”

Her mouth gapes open. “No way.”

You nod, pointing to her screen where the webbed hero is swinging from building to building. “Just like that.”

“Wow.” Her voice sounds monotonous, but her face looks up at you like you've just told her she can eat candy for every meal forever.

You switch the topic. “Are you hungry?” She gives you so-so hands. “Want to come shopping with me?” She nods a bit, so you motion for her to follow you into the main room, where the kitchen and living room are. “Where are your shoes?” Without a word, she disappears and returns with light-up Superman sneakers. Of course.

“Do you need help?” You gesture to her shoes, but she shakes her head 'no' and plops down to put them on. While she fusses with the Velcro, you pick up a majority of the trash in the kitchen before grabbing the one from the full trash can to throw away when you leave.

Lian hops up from behind you and grabs a tiny purse from one of the bar stools tucked into the very same island that you and Jason had used to avoid each other earlier. “Ready.”

You grab the money off the counter and take off.

You used to go to the grocery store that’s a block away from their apartment all the time, so you forego the car and walk hand-in-hand with Lian down the street.

You grab a couple of essentials before heading out of the shop with three bags worth of groceries and less than a dollar in change. This might not have been the best idea, though, as you now realize that both your arms are completely filled and completely useless to defend you or Lian with. The sun is still out, you note gratefully, albeit just barely, though.

You hesitate to leave the safety of the store, then remember the intense self-defense training the Wayne's had put you through after that one incident… You can't help but shudder at the memory.

“Stay close to me,” you tell Lian, who tries to reach for one of your hands, but it’s too much to hold both bags and her hand at the same time. “I can’t hold your hand, but you can hold my leggings.” You stick your leg outward towards her and she picks up the cue to grab at the material of your pants like she'd done earlier.

You get back safe, but you definitely now understand why Jason had said grocery delivery. It isn’t safe for you to be walking alone around this neighborhood, especially with their kid, you admonish yourself. The only real thing stopping you from doing so is how expensive grocery delivery is.

For now, though, you have dinner at least.

You finish putting away the groceries while Lian sits on the couch, humming along to the Spider-Man theme song.

“You want tacos, chicken parm, or French toast?” you tack on the last option after you remember Jason pulling down the syrup for you.

“Chicken.”

“That’s Italian,” you clarify, just to be sure. You know kids can be picky fucks and don’t want to have to cook twice. Also, because you definitely want to appease this sweet little girl. “Is that okay?”

“Mhm,” she says, wiggling her feet that are sticking off the couch.

Cute.

You realize quickly enough that all the utensils you need are somewhere within the piles, yes, plural, of dishes in and around the sink, so you start washing.

After the first round of dishes had been cleared into the dishwasher, you hand wash and towel dry the rest as you needed most of it to cook with.

You sigh. It's already been half an hour and you haven’t even started. “You still okay?” you call out.

“Yeah?” She looks at you like you told a weird joke.

Your parents had never been around to do anything close to this, so this whole caregiver role is completely foreign territory for you.

You nod, figuring you can at least wipe down the newly cleared counters and sink before starting to cook. “Would you want to help me?” You feel her rather than hear her, reminding you of Damian’s ninja-ass, when she comes to stand beside you. “We’re going to start the pasta water and then bread the chicken, okay?”

She nods like she’s done it so many times before, even though she seems to have no prior cooking experience.

You fall into companionable silence as Spider-Man drones on from the iPad behind the two of you. Occasionally you have to help her, but for the most part, she does a really good job on her own. You stick the chicken you fried into a pan and dump vodka sauce across them, adding fresh mozzarella on top before sticking it in the oven.

You hold up Lian so she can dump the pasta into the boiling water and salt it, then set her back down so she can return to the couch.

“I’m hungry,” she complains, rubbing petulantly at her stomach as she sits down.

Yours grumbles back in response as you clean up the kitchen again. This time, from your mess. “Should be done here soon,” you reassure her.

When it’s finally ready moments later, Lian digs in wholeheartedly. “Are you a chef? Do you have a restaurant?”

You laugh and begin eating, too, “No, just love to cook.”

“I want to cook just like you,” she stares at you with pure determination and a mouth full of pasta.

You wink at her, wiping her messy, sauce-ridden mouth with a Halloween napkin you’d found in one of the kitchen drawers. “I’ll teach you, then.” You twirl a bite into your fork. “Your dad can cook, too.” She wrinkles her nose quickly. “Not Roy,” you laugh, but she just looks at you with confusion. “Your other dad?”

She just shakes her head in confusion.

Okay…

Doubt sets in again that Roy and Jason aren't actually together.

Sure, they may have made out with each other, but you're pretty sure you'd remembered seeing them do that before, though you couldn't be quite sure with how wasted you'd been.

The rest of the night goes by in a blur of princess dresses and Lian forcing her Ariel makeup palette onto your face. You don’t even want to know what your face looks like after her purple eyeshadow and bright red lipstick assault, but it’s probably for the best.

It’s during your princess tea party, technically apple juice party, that she begins to nod off. You claim you’re also tired, which is enough for her to slip down from her seat.

Works for you, you shrug as you help her prepare for bed by washing off her makeup and helping her brush her teeth. You tuck her into bed a few minutes later, but her tiny arm shoots out from under her Superman sheets, effectively stopping you from leaving her tiny room.

“My daddy reads to me.”

Dad. Singular.

You squint your eyes a bit at the information but file it away for later.

You pick up the closest book you can find while she wiggles to get comfortable under Superman's laser beams on her blanket and sit on the floor beside her bed to read the first page of Goodnight Moon. You continue reading to her until, eventually, her breathing evens out and soft snores begin to fill the room.

You quietly get up from the floor, trying not to disturb Lian as you put away the book and turn out the lights.

Once the door is clicked shut behind you, you grab your bag from the kitchen counter that has your laptop in it and make off toward the living room to finish your most recent gig. If there's ever a time to get shit done, it's now.

You try to clear off a spot on the couch, but the whole room is a complete disaster after your play session with Lian. You remind yourself that it wasn’t exactly the cleanest to begin with, though, as you sigh and get up to straighten up the mess.

Once done, you sit back down to work only to immediately have to use the bathroom. Which is, you remind yourself sadly as you walk back in, just as messy as the living room and kitchen had been. You sigh even bigger this time as you set to work, scrubbing at the built-up grime. This whole fucking apartment is going to be clean by the time you're gone, so help you god. You'll finish cleaning even if- you yawn, disrupting your thoughts- it kills you... You yawn again, this time deep enough to bring tears to both of your aching eyes.

You don’t even notice your eyes becoming heavier and heavier with each movement until you find your head pressed gently against someone’s delicious-smelling towel.

Just a little break before work and then you'll be good to go. You nod at your logic, curling back into what your sleep-hazed mind convinces you is a blanket.

“God DAMN!” You wake with a start at the deep voice reverberating throughout the apartment, followed by a quick ‘shush.’

You feel drool on the towel you were apparently spooning and cringe.

You’re still in the process of coming to when you catch a bright glint of red limping around the living room and hear more grunts of pain. You’re more awake now and about to get up when you hear Roy’s familiar voice telling whoever’s groaning to shut up.

You smile sleepily at his voice as you close your eyes again. You snuggle back up into the woodsy-smelling towel and fall into a dreamless sleep until you hear Roy’s voice again. This time, though, it sounds as if he's right next to you.

He stinks.

You wrinkle your nose at his offending scent, leaving him laugh lightly. “Go back to sleep, princess,” you smack him lightly on account of the old nickname as he picks you up, but soon you’re snoring again.

You wake up a few hours later on the completely cleared-off couch (thanks to you, you might add) with a blanket laid on top of you and a nearly missed deadline. You look around the room with bleary eyes to find Roy and Jason eating leftovers in the kitchen.

As if knowing you’re awake, Roy cheers his fork in your direction. “Still as good a chef as ever.”

You yawn and rub the sleep from your eyes, realizing too late the makeup escapade Lian had done on your face earlier still remains.

“The fuck do you guys do for work again?” you manage with a groggy voice while opening your computer to finish your assignment for the week. Said week ending in T-minus 24 hours.

You begrudgingly realize that you’re going to have to pull an all-nighter, sending your mind reeling back to the days of Tim, studying and the inordinate amount of coffee that man could drink.

“Freelance,” Jason tones monotonously.

You don’t even realize you stay there the whole day until Jason and Roy are already headed out the door again and Lian is up and begging for breakfast.

This really better not become a habit.

A/N: I hope ur enjoying! i respond to every comment <33 this fic has been a labor of love fr

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