#look how useful u r. who gives a fuck everything feels stretched and distorted like im suffering some sort of selfimposed Devin punishment
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#*problems occur on a project multiple ppl r working on* my boss @ me: what do u wanna do?#me. disastrously burnt out: i couldnt not even to give a fuck abt all this. i dont care i dont care i dont care#but thats not what i say. i say ok ill talk to the ppl and see how i can drop everything to help. and that probably means driving an hour#away to the other uni which is irrationally terrifying to me to the point where it will probably destroy my whole week a prevent me from#sleeping when i already am struggling to sleep. but its fine. ill get it done and itll be fine. for this stupid fucking project i dont#care abt. ay its so weird. ive never been this angry abt things. i mean its not even really anger its more dispair and frustration but it#manifests as just wanting to scream and throw a fit like a toddler. and i mean its my fault. i dont have to live the way that i do. i mean#i do but in an irrational compulsive way that i cant entirely control. but like its Saturday and i sepent 6 and a half hours taking#measurements and then met with my boss for like an hour and she was showing me cool imagines and talking abt cool new collaborators at her#new school and im just sitting there trying to maintain a smile bc my brain is semi disconnected from my body and im so exhausted#ugh. my brain is so fucked rn. i dont want to drive with even lower functioning thsn usual. and i was gonna meet my friend Tuesday morning#for once. and i might have to drive back and forth multiple days. ans what's my reward if were successful? two fucking weeks of watering#and measurement taking and i might have to stand around other ppl in all that time as well. usually im off spinning in circles by myself#amd looking unapproachable. i dont want to have to b a person around the undergrads#god im so weird. its like from the outside perspective if u were looking thru the window at me u would see me using a hammer and assume im#putting something together and i am but im also hammering nails thru my hand which no one asked me to do#so then why do i have to do it? ugh. thats y its a hard thing to complain abt bc ppl r like oh it sounds like ur compulsive habbits make u#productive and successful and yea sure but they're also destroying my life. im laying on the floor doubled over in pain and ppl r like oh#look how useful u r. who gives a fuck everything feels stretched and distorted like im suffering some sort of selfimposed Devin punishment#whatever. fuck this. tomorrow ill try my hardest to relax. literally i cant remember the last time i stayed in bed until at least 7am. ugh#but i also have some bullshit i have to get done tomorrow so well see#uuuuuugh let me leave this place @ schools send me ur official offers pls i wanna plan out my life for the next 5yrs#unrelated
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dings a rinky triangle right next to your head
Hi guys, it's fic time! I actually put this up last night but I'm telling you right now. It's had a few hours to cool, like a pie out of the oven, but made of words.
This chapter will actually contain mentions of ssssself harm, so viewer beware, i guess.
His world stays dark, even though he knows he’s opened his eyes.
He tries to understand that, brain feeling foggy. He must be somewhere dark. He’s laying on his back. He can hear muffled voices, maybe, over him? He’s under something. He lays there, listening, but he’s too tired to even try to understand, and the voices are too muffled to be anything recognizable. Maybe, if he really strains, he can hear a familiar voice, or someone who sounds like his baby sister, but the only word he manages to understand is “invisible.”
He falls back into a restless sleep.
The next time he’s able to shake exhaustion from his mind, he tries to sit up. It’s easier than he thought it might be. This time, more aware of himself, his body feeling less destroyed, he actually tries to understand where he is. It feels like he’s laying in dirt, or under dirt, in a mountain of it, the usual soft scent of freshly turned earth overpowering. It still hurts to move, but he forces himself to, clawing upwards, through the dirt, until he reaches a wooden plank, which he goes through, like he’s not even there.
It’s a box, containing something foul smelling. A coffin… he’s inside a coffin. Juno buried him below a pine box, in someone else’s grave. The inside of it stinks, like decay and chemicals, and he doesn’t stop to take in whoever this used to be, just pushes up, and out, until he emerges from the ground like a zombie, like Night of the Living Dead. The ground around him is grown over with grass, and he grabs at it, using it as much as he can, as he crawls from someone’s grave, until finally, he pulls himself free from the earth, and lays there, taking breaths he doesn’t need, to clear the smell of the body from his nose. His suit and trench coat are filthy, but that barely registers, at this point. There are more important things to worry about, like getting home- He sits up, catches sight of the gravestone.
Emily Deetz
Devoted Wife, Beloved Mother
“Whom Most We Love Reach First the Golden Gate, Leaving Us Desolate”
He stares at the etching on the stone, and feels something in his mind snap, like a rubber band stretched too tight. He’s seeing the world through a fisheye lens, his vision distorted, blurry, as he tries to understand exactly what just happened. Juno made him crawl out of his own mother’s grave. The body he still reeks of was Emily’s. He sits there, a long time, not feeling much of anything, only able to stare, replaying that memory, over and over, and the only thing that makes him move is the sudden realization of what grass over a grave could mean. Emily’s been buried long enough for it to grow. How long has it been since he’s been home? He does his best to push this fun new trauma down, as far as it will go. He’s got to get back to his family. What’s left of it, he thinks, humorlessly.
He stands, off balance, and wipes some of the dust and dirt from his face, and finds that, annoyingly, his glamour has slipped, and it refuses to reapply. Maybe he’s too drained, though he’s not sure how he’s going to get back home, clearly looking as deranged as he must. He’s too exhausted to teleport, and he wanders around the cemetery, avoiding the few people there as much as he can, as the sun dips low, and vanishes. At least by that point he can force his teeth and ears to resemble normal human’s. The moss and eyes, well, he’s too worn down to care. So he’ll look like an extra grubby hobo, he thinks. That’ll have to be his new look, for now.
He reaches a gate, and leans on it, and then falls through it, and blinks, confused. He’s never been intangible by accident, before. Usually it takes concentration to make his solid form incorporeal. He stands, straightens out his suit collar, adjusts his sleeves, fiddles with his tie, as he thinks. There’s got to be someone around here who can call his family for him, or at the very least, a cab. The cemetery is growing darker, and his attention is drawn to the far off flicker of candles.
He feels a pull, and he approaches, taking in what he sees.
It’s a group of five teenagers with an Ouija board. Predictable. He snorts, and expects that sound to alert the kids to his presence, but they don’t even turn to see what the noise could be. He steps closer, until he’s fully illuminated by the glowing ring of candles around them, and he tries to be friendly.
“Hey, just a normal livin’ adult human man, in a cemetery, at night, approachin’ a group of children. You kids wanna be helpful an’ call me a cab?” BJ tries, but he’s ignored. The kids don’t even look in his direction. He remembers being a snot nosed teen, but this is a bit much. His blood boils, and he leans down, claps his hands in one of the teen’s faces, and she responds to that, but not in the way he wants. “I think I just felt a cold spot!” she tells her friends. “In front of my face, just now!”
“Calm down with that,” a red haired girl shoots her a look. “We haven’t even started yet, and you’re already having a spiritual experience. Yeah, right.”
“No you guys, really!”
“Lookit me,” he interrupts them. The children continue to squabble. His gut clenches. “Look at me!” he demands, storming to the center of the circle, and kicking at their stupid board game. His boot goes through it. They don’t react. Why would they, he realizes, sinking to sit on top of the board.
He’s invisible.
He tries to recall everything Juno had said, as he’d struggled to keep conscious, while impaled. Loneliness. Invisibility, being at the command of the living. Being… forgotten. No, no, NO-
His impending freak out is stymied when he feels hands go through him, and he shoots up, hovering over the board game, as the teens below him react.
“Oh my god, total cold spot! Should we like, make a note of that?”
“Come on, come on, let’s start, while there’s still someone or something here!”
The five teens lean forward, each placing fingers on the planchette.
“Is there anyone here?” one of them asks.
Betelgeuse stares, and feels a tug, again, clearly coming from the board. He knows some demons use these things to play with their food, before they eat, so he gives it a go, and floats over the game, head down, feet in the air, like he’s diving underwater. Maybe these kids can actually help him. He pushes the planchette with one finger, to land on “Yes.”
“Did you do that?” one boy asks, and the group devolves into the kids blaming each other, and he rakes his hands down his face, and tries to move the planchette, again, but they’re too busy squabbling, they’re not touching it anymore. Fuck, this is frustrating. He’s never wanted a group of teenagers to drop dead as badly as he does right now.
Finally, they put their hands back on the pointer, and ask another question. “Are you friendly?”
This time, he pushes the planchette to spell, instead. “S-U-R-E.”
“That doesn’t instill a lot of confidence,” the redhead from before mutters.
“What do you want?”
He nudges the pointer along, painstakingly slow. “H-O-M-E.”
“You want to go home?”
“YES.”
“For fuck sake, yes,” he groans, and then perks as one asks, “How can we help you?”
Well… he’s not actually sure. He squints, trying and failing to recall everything Juno had said. How is he supposed to work with this curse thing, when he doesn’t know the rules? He digs his hands in his pockets, frustrated, and then blinks, because there’s what feels like a business card there, one that he doesn’t remember. He pulls the paper from his pocket, studies it.
BEETLEJUICE BEETLEJUICE BEETLEJUICE
He remembers the way Juno had chanted his name, before he’d lost consciousness. That must be it, then. His name is his burden.
“M-Y-N-A-M-E-T-H-R-E-E-T-I-M-E-S”
“Oh, wait, wait, guys, I’ve heard of this,” one of the girls gasps. “Demonic entities, they have you do things in threes, to mock the trinity, you know, father, son, and holy ghost. It’s a demon thing! We might be talking to a non-human spirit!”
“That means we can’t trust it, right?” A boy asks, and they all look uneasy.
He steers the planchette around the board, desperate.
“W-A-N-N-A-H-O-M-E-P-L-Z.”
The redhead wrinkles her nose. “Do demons use chat speak?” she asks, glancing around the group.
“O-H-M-Y-G-O-D-U-K-I-D-S-A-R-E-K-I-L-L-I-N-M-E.”
“I’m not afraid. Tell us your name, spirit!” a boy calls, and he gives the planchette a push, intent on spelling it. The pointer doesn’t move.
“Come the fuck on!” he growls, but it doesn’t matter how much strength he puts into the action, he can’t move the dinky plastic piece to spell out his name.
“Spirit? You there?”
“F-U-C-K,” he spells out, in a rage, because this is pointless, he’s too exhausted and sore to think of how to make this work, and he just wants to go home, and see what’s left of his family. He growls again, and then snuffs all the candles in the circle, all at once, causing the kids to scream, and scramble, and that, at least, forces a rictus grin from him. He’s always enjoyed the sounds of terror. He leaves the children tripping over themselves in the dark, and decides he’s going to have to make his way home the old fashioned way- floating. At least he doesn’t have to walk, he supposes, tucking his legs under himself, and he floats invisibly out of the cemetery, and down the sidewalk, trying to focus on how good it will be to see Lydia and Charles, and not on how they won’t see him, and especially not on how every part of him, physically, emotionally, mentally, is hurting.
read the rest over here~
If you're totally lost, I find starting at the beginning of something often makes the middle of something make better sense. So you can start at the very beginning right HERE
#beetlejuice#beetlejuice fic#beetlelands fic#beetlejuice broadway#beetlejuice the musical#my writing#lydia deetz#charles deetz#emily deetz#shorter chapter now to facilitate longer chapter in the future. it is what it is beloveds
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Emotions
I had this sudden idea for a story when I was writing Attention with how I wrote Dark's personification of his emotions. I hope you enjoy!
Summary: Annoyance. Frustration. Anger. Emotions that Dark understands and can easily work with, but when he starts to learn about the other ones he has, things being to change.
Emotions
Dark adjusted his tie in the hallway’s full-length mirror. He felt nothing as he did so, he was just on auto-pilot. Dark was used to not feeling anything. That’s who he was. He was a demon. A creature from another dimension with the sole purpose of destroying the ones who have caused him harm, who have put him in this form in the first place. He had no time to deal with emotions. He had work to do.
After straightening his jacket he held his hands behind his back and left the hallway, heading to the kitchen since it was the connection between where he was and the library. He stopped when he saw the Jims on the kitchen floor. The reporter was messing with an Ouija board while the cameraman looked very scared and uncomfortable.
“Demons, Jim!” The reporter shouted as he flailed his body into the air. Dark felt something press into the back of his head as the two stared at him before taking off, leaving the Ouija board behind with salt all over the ground as well. The pressure was still there as he cleaned up the twins’ mess. It was a feeling he was used to with the people he lived with.
Annoyance.
“Hey, Dark! How’s my demon?” Wilford greeted loudly as he slapped at Dark’s back, seeing that the man had his sleeves rolled up as he washed the salt off of his hands.
“We need to inform the Jims, once again, that salt will not make the demon go away. It only annoys him to a severe degree.” Dark growled as he turned off the sink. He nodded thanks as Wilford handed him a towel.
“You know it’s not you that they’re trying to make leave, it’s the ‘ghost’ of the house.” Wilford chuckled, laughing a little more when Dark tossed the towel at him.
“You really need to stop with your pranks on them. It’s a nuisance to everyone in the house.” Dark stated, returning his sleeves back to their proper place.
“I just wanna have some fun with the chums.” Wilford leaned close to Dark and flashed a smile that made the demon feel a little warmth in his stomach. Dark never understood what that feeling was or what to assign the emotion with, he always assumed it was just nothing and he easily ignored the warmth before putting his hand on Wilford’s face and pushing him away.
“You can have fun without causing the Jims to constantly panic,” Dark said as he walked out of the room, the warmth returning a little when he head Wilford’s light-hearted laugh.
Dark sat in the library, casually reading a mystery novel he ended picking up by mistake when he was searching for another. He found himself pulled into the fictional world and was reading a very climactic part when there was a loud ‘thud’ above him as if something was dropped. Dark looked up, sighed and returned to his reading, starting the page over so he could get back into the scene properly. He was about to learn who the killer was when there was another loud ‘thud’. This time Dark lowered the book and glared at the ceiling for a good while before going back to the book again, once again having to start over because he couldn’t just read the killer’s name without the build-up, it ruined the fun. Dark had started learning the killer’s motive when a long string of ‘thuds’ cut him off for the third time. Dark slammed the book shut and stormed out of the library and towards the stairs. There was a tight pinching in his stomach and head as he took the steps two at a time. This was an emotion he also knew very well.
Frustration.
“What are you do-” Dark threw open the door to the room and stopped his yelling when he saw what was causing the sounds. Bim Trimmer was standing on his bed, wearing his white shirt, blazer, and tie, but missing the slacks that went the ensemble, showing off his white and red spotted boxers. The show host was holding a cardboard tube and the stuffed animals lying all around the room told Dark all that he needed to know.
“I-”
“Nope.” Dark didn’t give Bim even a second to explain himself before he shut the door, turning away from it. He could feel his face burning up a little, along with his chest and stomach. This was something he rarely felt.
Embarrassment.
Dark wasn’t embarrassed himself, he felt embarrassment for Bim. He knew how awkward that had to be for the other man. Dark shook his head and headed back to the library. Why was he feeling embarrassed for Bim? Why was he wasting energy on feeling something for someone? He barely allowed himself to have emotions on his own, why have it for others? Wilford referred to it as ‘sympathy’ and Dark stated that it was a ‘waste of time’. Sympathy, empathy, who cares? No one cared for him, he shouldn’t care for others. It was as simple as that.
“Dark! Dark!” Dark turned his head and saw that the Jims were running towards him.
“Don’t you have some news to report or something?” Dark sighed, feeling annoyance come back and taking over what remained of the second-hand embarrassment.
“Wilford left!” Reporter Jim yelled.
“Wilford can leave when he wishes.”
“He took his shooty!”
“He takes his gun everywhere.”
“He was mad!” That statement made Dark stiffen. He knew what it meant when Wilford left angry. Either someone was going to die or someone was going to come very close to it and Wilford had no grasp on the concept of death, he needed someone else there to clean up the mess and make sure he didn’t go insane or at least more insane than what he already was. “You told us to report to you when that happens, right?” Jim’s question was ignored as Dark felt out of his body, slowly stretching further and further away until he found Wilford’s aurora. The strong scent of bubblegum and gunpowder filled his nose before Dark suddenly vanished.
“Hey, buddy. There’s no need to get violent...yet.” Dark heard Wilford chuckle. He found himself at the edge of an empty warehouse.
“How the fuck did you get in here!?” A man screamed.
“Just give me my-”
“Don’t take another step!” Dark turned around and saw that a group of men was standing in front of Wilford, the one in front holding a gun towards Wilford. Pointing his gun at him. Dark didn’t have time to question how that happened before he started heading over to the others.
“Who are you!?” The man was now aiming the gun at Dark. A large smirk played on Dark’s lips, he was excited to see that man’s face when he tore that gun out of his hands. The horror in his eyes as he held him in the air by his neck, cutting off his ability to breathe and forcing him to try to claw Dark’s hand away and kick his legs out in a helpless fight.
“Now, don’t you be pointing that at my friend. That’s-”
Everything stopped when the loud bang of the gun filled the air. Everything went quiet as Wilford fell towards the ground. Everything moved slowly when Wilford landed, blood splattering. A silent scream came out of Dark’s mouth as he sprinted over to Wilford. His heart raced. His chest ached. His head wailed as he felt a strong urge to vomit. What was this? What was this terrible feeling? Why did it hurt so much?
Fear.
Dark was scared. He was terrified. His very soul was crying out as he reached the only person he truly called ‘friend’. Dark fell to his knees, seeing the hole below Wilford’s collarbone. Dark could tell that tears were threatening to fall when Wilford mouthed his name, attempting to lift his hand, but failing. Dark hated this emotion. This emotion hurt. He hated it so much.
Dark quickly pressed his hands on to the wound. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t real. Wilford did not get hurt. Wilford did not get shot. This isn’t real. It can’t be. This has to be a lie. Dark swallowed thickly before sliding his hands away, letting out the breath he didn’t know he was holding when he saw that the hole was closed. He had never been so thankful for his magical abilities.
“I shot him! Holy fuck I shot him!” The man’s cries broke Dark away from his fear. Something else began to take over. A strong burning filled his entire body. Boiling in the pit of his stomach and flowing up through his throat and into his head. Dark slowly stood and faced the group of men. This emotion he knew. This emotion he understood. This emotion he was all too glad to work with.
Anger.
“You have made the worst mistake of your lives,” Dark said, voice becoming distorted. His aura began to grow, the red engulfing the blue, stretching out to form its own tendrils. “ANd YoUr LaSt.” Dark didn’t usually like to get his hands dirty but he easily willing to go against that. He was excited to. The red aura started to shadow over the now screaming men. They took off towards the exit, screaming, even more, when Dark was suddenly in front of them, cutting them off. They turned around and ran to only be cut off again, the aura now completely covering them. One tried to push through the aura but cried out when it burned his hand. Dark slowly walked towards the man who fired the gun. He was now sobbing, filled with the fear Dark had just felt. Good.
“No, no!” The man wailed as Dark reached for him. “I don’t wanna die!” He pleaded as he was grabbed by the throat and lifted into the air. Dark felt a rush of adrenaline coursed through him. Dark was getting what he wanted. The man cried and begged for something he was not going to keep. He was going to lose something he could not get back.
“And my friend didn’t want to be shot,” Dark emphasized the last word by punching his hand through the man’s stomach. Dark usually hated the feeling of blood on his hands. He was more of a man of words. He wanted them to control the people, to make them do whatever he wanted and would send others to end them but at the moment. The blood felt lovely on his skin.
“D...Dark.” The weak call of his name snapped Dark out of his craze. He dropped the dying man to the ground. The aurora falling at the same pace as the body. “Dark.”
“Wilford.” Dark rushed over to Wilford, quickly scooping him up into his arms.
“Dark...I-”
“Hush.” Was all Dark said before vanishing, leaving the men trapped in the warehouse since he took the ability to open the door or break the windows away.
Dark landed in the center of their kitchen, scaring Bim enough to make him toss his mug into the air, the shattering glass scaring him even more.
“Dark?”
“Get Dr. Iplier, right now and send him to Wilford’s room,” Dark ordered, sounding calmer than he felt as he walked away from the stunned show host.
“Can we help?” The Jims asked as they followed Dark.
“Water,” Dark stated, hearing the twins repeat the word and run off. Dark used his foot to open Wilford’s door, the bright pink was a startling contrast to the dark hallway, but Dark was used to it at this point and he laid Wilford down on his bed, adjusting the pillows to make sure that the man was comfortable. He gently removed Wilford’s bowtie and sat it on his bedside table before unbuttoning the yellow top, removing it from the man’s body so he could get a better look at the wound. It was still closed. Dark ran a thumb over it to make sure before going down to Wilford’s feet and removing his shoes, setting them neatly together at the end of the bed.
“How is everything?” Dr. Iplier asked as he entered the room, holding a bucket filled with water and multiple rags.
“The wound is closed, but he lost a lot of blood,” Dark answered, stepping back to give the doctor space as he placed his fingers on Wilford’s neck.
“Water!” The Jims yelled, holding five glasses of water each.
“Thank you Jims, set them on the desk please.” Dr. Iplier said after he sat down and dipped one of the rags into the bucket.
“Do you need anything else?” Reporter Jim asked.
“We’re all good here, thank you again.” Dr. Iplier strung out any extra water and began cleaning off the blood while the Jims nodded happily and left. “Eccentric boys, aren’t they?” Dr. Iplier chuckled softly, glancing a look over at Dark, seeing the blood that was starting to dry. “Are you injured as well? Or does that belong to another?”
“I’m fine,” Dark said, voice soft and monotoned.
“Do you need to talk? You sound off.” Dr. Iplier lifted Wilford’s arm, wiping the rag down the man’s side.
“I’m fine.” Dark repeated in the same tone.
“I might be a terrible doctor, but I’m a great listener.” Dr. Iplier joked, getting a new rag and wetting it as well.
“You’ve improved,” Dark commented.
“I can thank you for that. I think the bruise on my wrist is still there from you.” Dr. Iplier laughed at the memory. “I didn’t expect you to get so angry when is misdiagnosed Wilford with the common cold instead of pneumonia.” Dr. Iplier sat the wet rag down and took a dry one. “It’s almost as if you care for the man.” The doctor teased the demon, giving him a wink.
“I don’t care.”
“Yeah, sure you don’t.” Dr. Iplier clicked his tongue and stood up. “His pulse is even, there’s wasn’t too much blood compared with what has been lost in the past. He’ll be fine. No need to worry.”
“I’m not-”
“Yeah, yeah.” Dr. Iplier waved his hand as he left, closing the door behind him.
Dark let out a huff before taking the desk’s chair and setting it next to the bed, taking a seat and watching Wilford. Was he worried? Did he really care about Wilford? Dark didn’t care about anyone, that’s how he worked, that’s how he got things done. But to feet fear when he believed Wilford to be gone? To have pure anger in him towards the one who caused Wilford pain? He’s has been known to be protective of Wilford, to go out of his way to make sure the other man was okay. But that was just because of, what others called, their friendship. Dark wasn’t entirely sure what they were. He remembered referring to Wilford as his friend when he got shot but that was most likely just the heat of the moment. Right?
Dark looked at Wilford’s face and saw that a stray hair was on it. Dark unconsciously leaned over and brushed it aside, hand pausing to feel the warmth of Wilford’s cheek. A similar warmth, one that has kept bothering him, formed in his stomach. What was this? What was this strange feeling of something fluttering inside of him? Dark couldn’t prevent a small smile from forming as Wilford hummed softly and shifted his head to it was now being cradled by Dark’s hand.
Joy.
Dark quickly snatched his hand back and fully sat back down in the chair. Why did he get so happy? How did that make any sense? He was not a happy person. He did not get happy. Why did Wilford doing something as simple as that fill him with joy? Dark noticed that his face was heating up. He wasn’t embarrassed. There was no need to. What else could cause a heat to the face?
Wilford’s hand twitching caught his attention. Dark had a sudden urge to hold it and he gave in without much resistance. It was just a hand. It meant nothing. He started off by just resting his fingertips on top of Wilford’s palm, slowly moving them and feeling every line and the smooth and soft texture of it. He then slowly and gently wrapped his finger around the hand, his thumb rubbing against Wilford’s wrist. More heat began building up. But it wasn’t the heat Dark was used to associating with the emotions he’s been able to name. Anger had a heat to it, but that heat was harsh, it burned, it fueled him to act out. This heat was...pleasurable? It felt good to have this heat. He’s had little doses of it before and he just assumed that is was nothing, that it was just his body adjusting to the room’s temperature or something. Why did it only happen when Wilford was around then? That question made several different emotions flow through Dark.
Care.
Affection.
Joy.
Desire.
L-
Dark felt his body become even warmer when he finally realized what emotion that heat was attached to. But it couldn’t be. There was no way that it was that. He could never feel that emotion. Even though he believed those other emotions were impossible for him as well but here he was, feeling all of them at once as he looked at the man next to him. Dark felt the words bubbling up in his throat and they escaped before he could stop them.
“I love you.” Dark froze when he saw Wilford smile.
“I know.”
“Wil!” Dark stood up when the man spoke.
“Hey, buddy.” Wilford greeted, voice a little hoarse. “Took you long enough to admit it.” Wilford swallowed at Dark just stared in shock. “You mind getting me one of those glasses of water?”
“You knew!?” Dark finally snapped now knowing what first-hand embarrassment felt like.
“I mean, sort of.” Wilford cleared his throat. “I had a feeling that you at least liked me a little. Wasn’t expecting you to spill your guts out to me on my deathbed though.” Wilford chuckled weakly. “But seriously, some water would be great.”
“I’m assuming Wilford is awake?” Dr. Iplier asked as he opened the door. “Is everything fine?”
“Yep. Dark’s my boyfriend now and I would really like some water.” Wilford’s statement was answered with sputters from Dark and a laugh from Dr. Iplier as he fetched one of the glasses and handed it to Wilford.
“Thanks.” Wilford downed the entire glass, letting out an ‘ah’ when he finished. Dr. Iplier took the glass, checked Wilford’s pulse again and smiled.
“Call me if you need anything.” Dr. Iplier said before stepping back out.
“So, wanna hear how I ended up there?” Wilford asked and Dark sat back down.
“But-” Dark stopped when Wilford took his hand.
“You’re my demon boyfriend and as my demon boyfriend, you have to listen to my stories.” Dark opened his mouth to protest but stopped when Wilford began telling his tale anyways. He just settled down and listened to his friend...boyfriend talk. The warmth staying in his chest and he no longer questioned it. Knowing what it was and never wanting it to go away.
#darkiplier#wilford warfstache#darkstache#some fluffy angsty cuteness#ended up 3 times longer than i thought it would be#whoops#sorrynotsorry
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