#dee wasteman

But with this amount of rigorous dedication—it is a miracle the joystick hasn’t come off—especially because then Dee might be tempted to force feed it to T. 

The single source of all his frustration—Taylor, who seems to have the reflects of a wet wipe. According to Dee, that might even be a generous assessment, especially when he is stoned. 

“Yo, dickhead—you have to chop the fucking lettuce before I can put it in the salad!”, Dee doesn’t look at T, laser-focused on getting his alligator chef to run to the serving station. Somehow that is even more terrifying than him actually putting down the game to have a go at the other man. 

Taylor filches instinctively, muttering a half-cognizant apology, trying desperately to keep up—like his life depends on it. Dee has this way of flipping everything on its head. If it is his problem, you can bet your nan’s birthday money that he will make it everyone else’s too.

“Who in their right fucking mind suggested we play ‘Overcooked’? When this clown can’t even tie his own shoes in this sorry state?!”, he is close to throwing that controller across the room as he slaps the back of Taylor’s neck. It’s not like the wall doesn’t bear evidence of his repeated appliance misuse. 

Instead, the level does that for him—the chiming ‘We are Toast!’ screen appearing in his face. Dee runs a hand through his face, yawning—suddenly bored when the adrenaline lowers enough. He is reactive like that without even realizing why—correction, before he can even realize why.

“Introspection” was for pussies who deserve to get kicked in—what is important is what’s in front of you—surviving another day. 

Paul—the oldest man in the crew, gives an exacerbated look from where he is lounging at his usual deckchair. Why is that thing currently propped inside so he could read his newspaper? It's an old man thing—Dee stopped questioning it a long time ago. Especially now, when Paul had to lay low because he was reckless enough to get himself almost locked up. His seat was placed higher than the sunken lounge of the couch area—a testament to his place in the hierarchy. Some days ago, Dee had watched a ‘Planet Earth’ episode about alpha baboons sitting on elevated spots… the parallel sure gets a laugh out of him in this baked state.

The older man's usual slow-paced cadence is even more dragged out, relaying just how tired he's gotten by the other two’s antics: “Settle down, will you? Bloody toddlers…”

Dee scoffs, already reaching for the bong again—another hit never hurt anyone… maybe? At least it never hurt him, not like people can. What little light enters the room through the taped cardboard boxes and newspaper clippings on the windows still manages to hurt his eyes—courtesy of dilated capillaries. And then his phone dings—not even the burner one, but the proper smartphone. He hasn’t heard that sound in ages, not unless it is noise from some Instagram page. 

He lowers the brightness and makes out the message—you, well the nickname he had fashioned for you after that night. 

Hey, haven’t heard from you in a while. I hope you are doing okay, Dee… I was wondering if we could hang out again soon? If you wanted to, of course.

His neck strains as he sends his head flying backwards. He doesn’t deserve good things. You definitely don’t need to be going down that road with him. Sure, he had been your trip sitter so many times, and sure he loved every second of how your face would somehow grow even softer as you let the weed relax you. But a girl like you… shouldn’t do that, shouldn’t want him. 

Had he been anyone else from this crew, save for Taylor—you'd probably been taken advantage of when you first met... and any time after. Hell, he knew even Paul had girls hooked on his shit, so he'd get the occasional fuck. “Strawberries”, they call them… And Dee is no saint either… but when he saw you that night—the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. He just wanted to see what you were about, how you moved… to rub his eyes to a reality where something good still existed in this fucked up world.

Maybe it had been the Sabutex talking…

You know, angel, people don’t usually ask their dealer about their day before demanding smack. 

Great deflection, he feels almost proud if it’s not for the pang in his chest at the forced distance he put between you.

His thumb joints tremble across the phone screen as he adds:

Appreciate it, still.  

“You linking that girl again?”, Gaz, second in command, asks from the cushion next to Paul—voice far too peppy for Dee's liking. The man is making fun of him for growing soft—anything 'genuine' around these blokes reads like that. And the confirmation comes swiftly: “Look who's got man smiling at his phone!”, he laughs hoarsely, a guttural sound from his blackened lungs and nudges Paul like the lap dog he is.

“Whatever—just don't go moving my stock for free, yeah?”, Paul warns, putting his newspaper back up. Nonchalance embodied even if he can bite any second.

‘His’ stock… Dee hated being dependent on that snake. But the old man is clever—he didn't let any of the ‘low-level’ dealers get close to his supplier, or even meet him. If there is one thing big ego pricks like Paul hate is for someone to go over their heads. Paul eats first while shit… always flows downwards. But Dee has plans—a bigger player on the horizon. One he'd linked up with thanks to his work at a local garage. Patience is the name of the game now—even if he hates waiting. He has the ‘entrepreneurial’ mind to move stock better than Paul—has better ideas about it than that dinosaur could ever scramble together with his eggs of a brain.

“She's not my girl—”, Dee bites back, far too defensive, temperature slowly rising to a boiling point.

“No one said she was…”, Taylor corrects meekly.

That warning makes Dee’s jaw tense. He doesn't need the nervous wreck looking out for him. “And last I checked, bruv, no one was chatting to you!”, he gets off the couch abruptly.

As he passes the two older men on his way upstairs, however, Gaz can't help but rub salt in the wound—still sitting leisurely as ever, but extending a hand to stop Dee: “No? Say it with your chest then, big man… Maybe if she is free use, us old dogs can get some?”, he gestures between himself and Paul, getting up in Dee’s face. God help him—Dee tries to not cause a scene. He has to make this new connection work and for that… he needs to not have such a short fuse, to not call attention to himself like this. And over some... supposedly random girl?

But then the slimy fuck continues: “She looked mad with her pretty little dress. Bet she'd cry real sweet when I—” 

That does it—Dee sees red and swings. And it's none of them pillow hands—he lands heavy, putting his whole body into it without letting the man finish that sentence. The fat on Gaz's face isn't enough to cushion the blow, not when Dee is already looking to land a second, a third—his knuckles throbbing, already bloody. He can't hear anything around him at that point—not Paul shouting for his other attack dogs, not them coming hauling down and certainly not Taylor muttering self-soothing stims, curled on the couch, knees pressed against his face. Dee would get like this when he perceives a challenge, a threat—no way out of the gutter except for punching his way out.

Gaz has already stumbled backwards into his cheap folding chair—its limbs creaking under the sudden weight. Unlike Dee… who feels renewed. But then, two pairs of hands grab at each shoulder and drag him backwards. And just like that, he is swiftly put in time out…

Laying at his old childhood bedroom, Dee stares at his phone, catching a glimpse of the slashes across his knuckles. He is suddenly reminded of how he'd lay here—his mother having bandaged him tenderly after a fight at school... or at home—protecting her. She'd hum to him… the only sound that would get his heart to beat calmer, that would make his thoughts quieten. Even with a split lip—courtesy of Dee's father—her voice would never tremble. She had that quiet strength about her—that's not enough in this world. He shakes his head like the memory can slip loose with it…

You haven't responded yet… Did he scare you off by suggesting you'd text him just for exchanging favors? Nah, you are a smart girl… you had patience, even for low lives like him. A bleeding heart. Like his mother had been…

‘Angel’—damn it, damn you with that red sparking soft dress when you had entered their 'place of business' among the neon glow of that posh house party. Rich kids had vices—and they could indulge gluttonously. Dee enjoyed working the nights in these places—milking all those trust fund, silver spooned college kids. He could up his prices without any protest on the other side. They'd just hand the cash like it was nothing—all to get another high. Need for instant gratification definitely ran deeper for spoiled brats.

And then, there you were—you didn’t even know what you were in the mood for—just being sent on a mission from your friends, hoping your inexperience would result in a discount. Dee lets out a huff now, remembering how you had a list prepared, crumpled from sweat and nerves. What a good, proper girl—he'd thought to himself. You looked overwhelmed, not just by the fact you were soliciting drugs but something about the music at that point had made you flinch at almost every beat drop.

What were you doing here? You'd almost bumped into him on the way in—looking anywhere else in an attempt to not meet anyone's eyes. Like someone would be able to sniff out that you didn't belong. 

“S-sorry—”, you'd murmured. Dee wouldn't have known what you were saying hadn't he gotten scarily good at reading lips in such loud environments.

He could see that you were trying to gather yourself as you were forced to take him in. His tall, broad and covered in tattoos frame probably made him look like the big bad wolf, just itching to munch on the little red riding hood in front of him, who'd wandered into his debauched forest. 

“I-I am looking for Dee?”, you had clarified. 

He was definitely making you nervous… why did he enjoy that?

“Well, you've found him.”, he stretched out his arms to emphasize: “Though you look like you've stumbled into the wrong fairytale, angel…”, the pet name had left his lips before he could think better of it. It was far too fitting...

And then there was your chuckle that cut through the thrumming bass like sun rays through rain clouds. He wanted to bottle that sound and listen to it on repeat when things got dark. 

In the meantime, someone was gracefully vomiting into a potted plant just behind you in the hallway, but Dee didn't hear, couldn't and wouldn't care… not when he was certain you were placing him under some spell. When you'd looked back to your mandated 'shopping list' and he lost your gaze, he wanted to gain it back immediately—bending at his knees slightly just to catch that curious twinkle as you came back up. 

“Believe me… I'd much rather be getting a milkshake or something.”, you'd confessed: “Uhm, just the pie—silo—psilo—sila—”

Shrooms. Your friends had sent you for shrooms and you'd written down their scientific name all proper like it was some textbook you were getting for your courses. You shook your head, abandoning any attempt to pronounce it and just listed off the rest—looking up at him, relief in your eyes like he would finally give you candy.

Instead, he just took the paper, crumpled it and stuffed it into his pocket: “Sweetheart, no.”, his voice sliced—determination so palpable that it left no room for rebuttals. His blue eyes had fixed you with a look that was far too… careful?

Dee didn't want to believe it—as he doesn't want to accept it now while waiting for your text back. He'd denied easy money and for what? So that you wouldn't be 'corrupted' by your so-called friends? He somehow knew exactly who would send you, because he'd seen his sorry ass getting shitfaced in the garden of the large house not ten minutes ago… that crackhead Alex with too much money and too little sense. 

His folks had figured out his habits—like it was hard detective work to put two and two together when his allowance would get drained faster than he could fail his exams. Alex had gone to Dee after—tail between his legs—asking to sell as a means to fund his addiction. But in all his experience, the dealer knew better. Sure he’d partake—“get high on his own supply” every now and again, but he wasn't a slave to it. He could be trusted. And that was precisely why he didn't want you doing Alex’s dirty business. Or worse yet—that waste man getting you hooked on shit. 

Why did he have an issue with that? He sold drugs, for crying out loud—he had no morals to speak of. Many people went down the rabbit hole because of him. But maybe when it came to you… it wasn't something as general as suddenly growing a heart.

“B-but I have to—”, you tried to argue, voice quivering. As your eyes darted around, worried about what to tell that leech if you didn't return with his order—you'd landed on Paul's scowl... and just froze. Like a deer caught in headlights.

The old bastard wasn't exactly pleasant, but… your reaction had been something far beyond casual discomfort. Weird—he cataloged it for later. 

Wait—run that back? He noted something about someone that wasn't pure business? Maybe he was indeed more stoned than usual…

“You don't have to do anything, angel.”, he was almost pissed at you, for you? No, no way—but his mouth had moved on its own: “Tell you what…”, he'd sidestepped, shielding you automatically: “I'll go speak with that mug myself. And this—”, he reached into his endless pocket—the metallic shine of his cigarette case catching in the colorful lights all around the room. With a soft clink, it opened and he produced a joint, inspecting it almost proudly. Tightly wound, the filter tip so carefully folded into a signature triangle shape—a slight squeeze of it sealed it as Dee had passed it to you: “—is on the house. For you. Not Alex's greedy ass.”

You'd picked it up, the brush of your fingers with his was far too electric. Then… you were sniffing it like a… curious rabbit.

“It smells like basement—but thanks… I think.”, you'd smiled—small and careful and Dee was sure he must have some undiagnosed heart issues. 

He recovered quickly though, or he liked to remember he did: “Basement's one way to put it…”, he rolled his eyes, feigning offense as you’d fumbled with the joint he'd so carefully crafted—ground, laid out, mixed with tobacco and rolled. To him, it was a science—a ritual that'd calm him every time he would open a baggie and now… he was passing the dissolute torch to you. Yet there you were—pawing at it like a kitten with a new toy. “You know, streets call my cali top-shelf more like—”, he corrected with no bite to it, just a joke that settled like tasty smoke between the two of you: “—but sure, let's go with ‘dank crypt’.”

Yet another chuckle, although more strained as you’d tried to exit the room—putting any distance you could with Paul… for some reason. Dee should have let you walk away then… he should have—he had a whole shift to cover, more money to make. You know—the actually important things. 

But he wanted to see what you were made of—looking all anxious, yet as if you'd seen enough from the world and people in it to know better. Not timid, but careful… He enjoyed taking complicated things apart, only to make sense of them and put them back together. A mechanic at heart as well as in practice—he needed to see it for himself that there were good things in life still, kind things—not because they were untouched by its ugly sides but in spite of that.

And so, he had reached for your retreating form, grabbing lightly on your shoulder out of nowhere—that rose tattoo sprouting on the back of his hand weirdly fitting right in with the red straps of your dress. Your shoulders had slumped—not in fear but relief—like you'd been holding your breath all night but for some unexplainable reason you'd finally let it out when you met his eyes again.

“About that milkshake—”, he wanted to speak more softly—discussing something as innocent seemed far more daunting to him than shouting off his various illegal on-sell options. But, forced to raise his voice over the music, he continued: “There's a 24-hour diner two blocks from here. They do mad desserts and… something tells me you could use a break from this place. Maybe have a chill trip after and all?”, he'd enticed. 

You'd looked around, biting your lip in contemplation… he wanted to bring his fingers to your chin—tilt it just so, in order to never lose sight of your warmth. But this wasn't some “get down fast and dirty” situation… he'd savor this—like you were his to grind and roll. His ritual.

“You sure? I don't want to get in the way of your work.”, you'd tilted your head inquisitively as your voice cut through his brain fog. That's all the confirmation he needed that you, in fact, were itching to get in the way—to share this with someone. 

“Work?”, Dee echoed with a wholehearted snort, shaking his head: “Nah, angel—these idiots'll still be here at sunrise—begging for another hit.”

Like a conveniently placed prop, proving his point, Dee kicked at a fully passed out guy with his sneakers—just to check if he was still breathing. The poor trust-fund bloke was alive, alright—bet his pride would be intact as well come morning even if he was gone down the slide now. Money could earn you all of it back.

You’d looked between Dee and the sight at your feet, nodding along. Then, something had crept up in you—an unguarded smile spreading to your eyes as you'd added more confidently: “Okay but fair warning… I get an extreme case of the munchies when I'm high.”

That sweet smile juxtaposed your words in the most maddeningly enticing way possible. You weren't all that innocent after all… the little red riding hood didn't know how to get her supply well enough but she'd indulged before… Perfect.

“Oh, angel, Jacob's waffles will have you full in no time. But if you get that desperate, we could always go back for round two…”, he winked and almost instantly regretted it. 

What happened to getting to see what you were, instead of pouncing on you? It was a difficult instinct to keep in check. Again… he was no better than his associates and he wasn't trying to be. It'd more so be… an experiment—taking you apart.

That diner had become his meeting spot for all things unsavory. What with Jacob—the owner—having known Dee from as far back as when he’d barely reach the gruff man’s waist. Now, Dee towered over the old guy with good two heads or so—allowing him to move however he pleased. A dangerous thing to get used to. Jacob had seen worse… used needles and wrappers left all over the small bathroom stalls after Dee would bring some of his prettier clientele. But he would always cut Jacob a piece of the pie. So, yes—you could show up with him—high as a kite and the owner wouldn't bat an eye. No reason to gut your golden goose if it can continue shitting you golden eggs.

You hadn't addressed his double entendre directly—your own way of graciously allowing him to correct the course: “I'll see you in ten minutes then—by the statue outside the house? I'd prefer the milkshake sober…”

That's when Dee had realized that maybe it was an experiment for you too. The other side of the same coin—seeing whether people like him were all bad after all.

He is so lost in the memory now, almost reliving it—heavy limbs and eyes—just staring at the gray skyline as he lays on his side. When he was little and staying over at his grandparents… he'd imagine he could grow wings and fly over the roofs of all those identical houses. Going… nowhere—just consumed by a constant need to run and escape from life. Even his image as “top dog” now is… well, just another form of escape—‘the “good life” lets you hide all the sadness you feel’… or whatever that song is that he pretended he didn’t give a rat’s ass about.

Then there was your shared getaway—you'd never told Dee what it was about Paul that made you fold in on yourself and he never asked… he figured you telling him about your abusive shit of an ex was more than enough. That your only ever experience with weed had actually been a panic attack, caused by your ex's shouting—not some warm, hungry feeling like you'd made it out to be initially. You'd been running late, unable to cook him dinner because you had to study… he'd made you believe it was okay— even offered you to smoke together. Turns out, it had all been a ploy to get you vulnerable and more pliant… as he'd start accusing and throwing things.

“Granted, I'd get panic attacks just on the daily—it really messes with your head when someone that's supposed to love you tells you that you don’t deserve to live… Just for not being of use to them...”, you'd said as Dee pushed you on the swing. 

“You are much more than that—”, he'd tried to assure. Empty words that were spoken a thousand times in human history. But he'd tried—to relay something meaningful with them.

“Issue is, you feel like that's all you can be when you are with someone like that… it's like… that it's all you ever were—useless.”, you'd interrupted, like you were afraid Dee would fill your heart with void promises. And he knew that feeling well—maybe not firsthand but… the dynamic of it. 

“But now you are finding out who you can be? Ain't that exciting?”, he'd tried and you'd nodded with a carefree giggle. 

He'd found it hard to speak at that moment… but once he could, he told you about Sophia—about his mother. Her name—a constant tattooed reminder on his neck. The stars had become so blurry that night but he didn’t think for a second about leaving you as he sat on the swing next to you, passing you a lit cigarette. 

“Those always taste more tolerable when I'm not sober…”, you'd admitted. Not to try and wallow in pity or as a self-deprecating joke, but to just be present… to observe it all. 

Dee had noticed you were far more chatty when you were high—perceptive, analytical and daring all at once. Your next question assured him of it.

“Why have it tattooed there?”, you'd just taken a long drag as if the question had been brewing in your lungs and now you had to fill them back up with something—with the smoke. Your legs dangled off the swing and for a moment he thought maybe you were flying—not off to somewhere, not away—but with him.

“My father strangled her—”, he said, his turn to fill his chest: “—it's fucked up—”, the tar burned his throat: “—but I needed to remember… that she had a chance to find out what she can be without him too… But he took it from her.”, he'd averted his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek as his voice wavered uncharacteristically: “And I wasn't there to—” 

He hadn't cried… at least that's what he'd liked to remember of that night as you took his hand, squeezing it tight. That moment had felt far more intimate than any physical “escape” he'd ever had before… with girls who'd rather snort lines he'd chop in the bathroom for a quick blowjob than notice the amazing Oreo crunch Jacob would always add to the strawberry milkshakes. 

You'd noticed. You'd seen so much it felt like he'd shed his skin.

“The forget-me-nots are beautiful around her name… we used to have so many of these blue little things in my grandfather's garden.”, you'd illustrated as your hand had trembled in his. Like you could reach out to the past and grab the flowers and maybe something else too.

The memory of the sun coming up, washing the two of you clean as you'd sat there in the park suddenly shrinked as Dee feels his phone vibrate against his hand on the bed. Blurry stars turn into blurry pixels as he reads…

I just want to see you… if you want it too. I prefer my milkshake sober.

He laughs out loud, a breathless sound… he'd sold you weed a couple of times after. Each of them resulted in you calling him hyperventilating and him telling you about his stupid day to calm you down. You were his favorite customer but once you'd stopped calling or texting—he'd figured you got your fix and moved on. 

Maybe there's more to it after all. Maybe not everyone flies away eventually.

Your apartment is a reflection of you—soft but hiding under layers of doubt. Blankets and plushies tucked away hastily as you make him tea.

“My roommate is on an exchange thing…”, you aren't sure where you are going with that sentence. It's not like you expect to sleep with him—you'd called, texted, been in his van but he never once made a move on you… not fully.

“Ah, so I'm just a replacement because you got bored, angel?”, he teases as he takes the tea from you—warmth spreading from his palms across his body.

You chuckle, nudging him as you settle on the couch: “No! Of course not…”, you assure: “I've actually wanted to invite you over for a while now. But my ex started showing up to uni, he almost… followed me here until campus security got involved. So I guess I've been… hiding from everything.”, you shrug, buzzing with honesty like you need to untie that ball of nerves that's been matted.

“You should've said something—”, Dee puts down the tea, suddenly pained: “—I mean, angel—look at me, I can scare that coward shitless just by glaring at him.”

He doesn't say it from a place of care, he can't admit to that. More territorial than anything, expecting you to hang onto his every word. Wanting you to swoon at his show of raw power over everything and anything, to rely on him. Instead, you do something far more precarious—you see him as human—

“You don't owe me that…”, you assure, thumb tracing the warm mug where you hold it—self-soothing.

He doubles down, putting that distance back between you two: “Psh”, he releases a breath between his teeth, dismissive: “Of course not—I'm just the guy you buy from every single fucking week—knowing it'd make you feel anxious. Then you don't get a restraining order on your ex's ass, you play errand girl for the likes of Alex—the list goes on. What—you don't have a head on your shoulders?”, he raises his voice, fully facing you from where he sits.

“I didn't say that, Dee, come on. I told you—this isn't about me wanting a free hit!”, you defend, voice catching in your throat: “You came knowing it'd just be… us.”

He laughs with his full body, almost offended: “And what's ‘us’, angel? What do you think I am to you, hm, if not your dealer? Since I don't ‘owe you’ shit.”, he air quotes, mimicking your voice in a shrill.

Dee could be anywhere else now, yet in his mind—he is humiliating himself with petty things like ‘emotions’, dangerous things—all because you know how to pull at his strings. There are half a dozen girls who are one call away, waiting for the cheap thrill of it. But he is here… So maybe his “needs” were of a far different caliber ever since that first night.

“That's what I'm trying to figure out… with you. Don't you think there's more to this than feeling like a puppet on strings? After how much we've shared?”, you emphasize.

That's how you'd described being high—uninhibited but not on your own accord, like something was pulling you and the honesty out. It had aided in stripping down some walls between you two… but what is the point if, once sober, it's like nothing happened? 

You don't dare ask what he sees you as—not now, after he got to the question first. But at the mere reminder of how open he'd been with you, he flinches like you'd burned him—like you are using it against him. He doesn't see the care in your voice—and even if he does, he cannot trust it. Dee had never trusted anyone else enough to share the meaning of that tattoo. To him, the way you'd held him that night should've made him nauseous. He is a man, a pillar, he isn't weak… he will show you as much. 

“More to it?”, he huffs a frustrated laugh as he smirks sharply—an aligator ready to deliver its death roll: “Cuz you shared so much, yeah? The little sob story over your ex? Bet you never went where it really hurts—not like I did.”, he accuses, cruel now.

“It's not a competition of who opens up first, Dee—”, you try but that only angers him more, as you try to get through to him: “I didn't bring it up to make you feel like you owe me something… just to know it meant a lot to me.”

“Aw that's just precious—”, his tone bites, teeth-grinding, hating what bubbles inside him… he turns on the offensive again: “Who's Paul to you then, angel?”

You widen your eyes, trying to swallow down the lump that suddenly forms in your throat… so you keep silent, thoughts racing. Had he seen how you reacted that night? Of course he did —you'd tried to not let it affect you but you always wear your emotions on your sleeve. 

“Ha, not so easy to ‘share’, is it? So what—you just want to squeeze it out of me—get to dangle it in my face, thinking you know me?! But when it's time for you to pay up, you play scared…”, he taunts to assert he's stronger, braver for not caring. Always on the lookout…

“Paul? I—I don't know a Paul…”, you try to play, but your voice is thinner now.

“Angel…”, his voice wavered with frustration: “—don’t play nitty with me, yeah? I saw how small you got that night when you caught just a whiff of him…”, every word was slower, building up to him glaring at you: “Here, imma spell it out real nice and slow: Who. Is. Paul. To. You?”. Every word feels like an icicle drilling into you.

You suck in air as you look away—gripping onto the cushions tight, your knuckles almost white. “Why do you think I'll tell you, when you're being like this?”, your voice is barely audible.

Dee abandons his tea then, pushing himself off the couch fast—to look at you, to corner you: “Like what?! News flash, angel—this is who I am!”, his voice raises slowly but surely, hands flailing to match his tone: “Not some sorry case you can ‘save’ if you just sit pretty and listen to my shit! Some fucking stray you can domesticate so you can feel better about yourself!”

You flinch at the sudden movement, recoiling in an attempt to become one with the couch. The look on his face is cold and detached, a furious storm dancing in his blue eyes—like his words come from the deepest pits of his soul but emotionally he is somewhere else, protecting himself too. You've seen that look before—granted, not on Dee— but like muscle memory, your immediate response is to make yourself smaller, hands over your ears, chanting apologies that no one heard before…. that were never needed. 

Suddenly, his rant stops with a hiccup—like a hammer has come to nail him down back to reality—and he sees you, trembling, shrinking… because of him. And for what is probably the first time in his life, he doesn't feel good about asserting his ego above all else. For the first time —the cost of it is too great. Because you are the only person with whom life hasn't felt like it's all about survival. Even if he doesn't allow himself to think that—even if it's ‘beneath him’ to consider it. Maybe it was the weed… or a weird ass combination of you and the weed. It hurts to think about emotions, when he’s so unused to. It’s foreign, because ‘men shouldn't cry’. Anger—that is allowed, in fact, it's ‘good’, because it means you are an authority. But that belief… is what got him here—the reflection of his father staring back from the glass coffee table. In all his attempts to escape—he'd wound up exactly where he'd feared... because he knew nothing else.

And just like that, the big bad wolf, covered in ink from head to toe, crouches next to you—shedding his fur, his shield—to reveal a lamb long-lost, approaching another. It isn’t warm, it isn’t even fully realized, but he is trying—even if it is just to get through to you. 

“Shit, I—”, Dee starts, fog lifting from his eyes: “—I didn't mean to get you spooked.”

He did mean it—but just never thought it'd hurt to see the results. You shake your head, trying to apologize on repeat—like a broken record. He is suddenly reminded of Taylor and how he'd get all twitchy. Not that Dee knew how to deal with that besides popping a pill and running from it. 

Then two words enter his mind. Dog fights… Well, not the fighting itself, dumbass—Dee thinks to himself. But rather… he knows how to calm a pit bull after—his father had made sure of it. And in a sense… you are battling with yourself now, right? It shouldn't be so different…

He raises his hand from a distance, testing the waters—shushing you, largely speaking nonsense of ‘you are okay, it's safe’. But when someone is so scared… would the contents really matter? So long as the intent was there—selfish intent, yet fully his. You blink, like you are coming back from a particularly nasty dream—seeing his mouth move, perceiving more so his body language and… his eyes—clearer, brighter, almost hopeful and begging you to come back to him.

You don't know why… but it just feels right to slowly remove one hand from where it was cupping your ear and bring it up to his extended palm. First, the fingers, then the rest—making full contact. His hand was so much bigger than yours… and somehow that doesn't make you feel scared but… safe and warm. You swear you see Dee's breath hitch at that as he takes his other hand to unclasp yours from where it still gripped your hair on the other side—gently. You had never imagined him being capable of that, yet here he is—trying. Maybe for a selfish reason… maybe even manipulating his way into your heart, but fuck… it works.

And then you realize, it isn't just words anymore… he is singing. Not with his full chest like one would do at karaoke but— softly humming. 

Oh the good life To be free and explore the unknown Please remember, I still want you And in case you wonder why Well, just wake up and kiss the good life goodbye

A song his mother would sing to him too—about the facade of an ideal life… about how waking up from it means being vulnerable.

“Y-you have a nice voice—calming…”, you admit and your sudden lucidity almost startles him.

“The only good thing my old man left me, it seems.”, he sighs.

“I'm sorry—you're right. I can't—well, it's hard for me to put myself first, you know. Talking to you, buying from you was actually an attempt at that… sounds pathetic probably.”, you chuckle self-degrading and realize just how tangled the two of you are now. Each hand was occupied with the other's.

“It's not—it wasn't fair for me to hold it against you, angel…”, he admits, far too introspective for his liking—'kissing' the ‘good life’ goodbye it seems, if only attempting to: “Hell, I am the one who sold to you—hoping you'd call all nervous, that you'd come again… I liked… seeing you like that.”

Dependent on him—he’d just admitted as much. Yet, in your head—the only thing that matters, the only thing that echoes and that you want to make sense of is—

Your brows furrow: “You… wanted me coming back?”

Not all the other fucked up implications of it—he is who he is and you are who you are. And maybe that's enough… for two lost people.

Dee nods, not able to voice the real feelings underneath it, masking them still: “I mean who’s gonna ask me all those stupid questions? ‘Hey, Dee do you think squirrels know they are cute—like, conceptually?’—who thinks of shit like this but you, angel? And then... you doing all that magic card trickery for me—that sent me in a frenzy… deadass.”, he chuckles so fondly remembering it now.

Over the facetime—you having laid the cards out and suddenly going: ‘Yikes’ when The Tower had fallen off. He had that big meeting with his then-potential supplier the next day. So, there he’d been—pacing his room, low groans of frustration leaving him with each step, hands combing through his hair messily: ‘Why's The Tower bad?! Ain't they like escaping from it and shit? Look at that bloke, he is basically out of the flames already! Angel, don't play with me—this is some serious shit I'm dealing with, yeah?’. You'd laughed with tears in your eyes then, assuring him it could be just ‘new beginnings’. Then, the Ace of Pentacles appeared and he could breathe more easily. ‘Gave me heart palpitations worse than my parley… I should let you tag along next time I'm betting, you hear?’

You are his lucky charm after all. Because he'd scored the deal… just like the cards—just like you—had told him.

“Yeah, well—”, you sniff, lighter now: “—you have to think on those existential topics from time to time… it's good for your brain!”

You flick Dee's forehead for emphasis and he is just as surprised as you are at the audacity. Then, he matches it by plopping back next to you—sinking into the couch cushions. 

“You know what else’s real good for the brain?”, he drawls as he raises his hips slightly—his sweatpants leaving little to the imagination with the teasing V-line that appears—producing the very same cigarette case you’d seen when you first met him. And there, in its silvery confines, stood a perfectly rolled joint… with a bow on its narrow tip, made from the same rolling paper. “The paper smells like Skittles by the way—thought you might appreciate a little flare and all.”

“Thank you, but... I think I want to tell you about Paul before that…”, you say—putting yourself first.

He nods and leaves the cigarette case opened on the table—a silent offering. But he doesn't say another word—both because he doesn't know what he should be saying right now and because he wants you to have the space. Intuitively… that's the right move. 

“Paul is… was my father.”, you say, swallowing the truth down: “He left or… was made to leave when my mom was pregnant with my sister. I'm not sure he even recognized me at the party—it's been years, but… it felt like I was back again at that awful place when I saw him.”, you take a sip from the tea, long gone cold, in an attempt to ground yourself. 

Dee inches closer, wanting to feel what it's like to be so open without the high. He doesn't like it—not fully. It's like small wasp bites dancing on his skin or like low but persistent voltage settling in his stomach. Uncomfortable… not unwanted, maybe? 

“But you aren't—I'm not there either.”, he tells you and himself—even if he knows he acts the way he does, because sometimes he too gets sent to his own helpless time. “You know…”, Dee says, throat dry but he continues grating through it: “… I'll be leaving Paul's ‘employment’ soon enough—he is a jackass to everyone ‘under’ him. So, let's just say, I'm even more motivated to succeed now, in my endeavors and all. Bastard deserves a proper beating.” You shake your head with a huff and Dee puts his hands up in mock defense: “Metaphorically speaking or whatever—”

He doesn't thank you for telling him about it… somehow it feels like if he does, he'd be suggesting it's really ‘leverage’. But a part of him definitely wishes he'd taken a swing at Paul too this morning, or at least made sure Gaz landed conveniently on top of him. Things happen in a fight…

Whatever life had been—it got you two here, passing a skittles-smelling twinkling stick on the small apartment terrace.

You are not sure how you'd ended up in his lap but the bean bag is snug enough for two… and his solid chest is far more comfortable than the raggedy metal chair. His hands come to encircle your waist as he taps to get rid of the residue in the ashtray. 

Then, instead of passing you the joint like he'd done the past three rounds or so, he pinches the tip between his thumb and pointer finger—like he might take another hit himself. He is a greedy man but it seems his indulgence takes another, more pointed direction as he brings it to your lips directly. You turn slightly, surprised—your left peripheral vision meeting his eyes, set dead on you and your every movement.

“What? Afraid it'll suddenly bite because it's from my hands?”, Dee teases, his voice thicker from all the heavy smoke that still rests at his throat: “Guess you won't be needing that then…”

As he slowly tries to bring the joint back to his lips instead, you clasp your fingers around his wrist, trying to pull his hand back to your mouth with a small whine. He's unmoving through it—the tiniest bracing of his forearm muscles enough to catch you at a standstill. “Nah, you had your chance for a freebie—now you gotta ask real nice, angel… grease a bit, come on.” 

You puff out in a pout and squirm in place—trapped between his thighs. Now that you look down you realize just how massive he is compared to you. It makes you feel… flustered, safely so. Not the kind that rushes, but the slow and steady kind. The kind that makes you stand up, turn to face him and bracket his legs with your own—effectively straddling him. 

“Is this better?”, you ask, trying to sound more confident… more alluring.

He huffs in disbelief but quickly nudges his chest forward… pretending that the abrupt change in position doesn't affect him in the slightest. 

“I didn't hear you asking, angel… just trying to take like this—very naughty.”, he tsks with a smirk, stretching so that the joint is even further away from your reach. The moment he leans back, you feel an unmistakable hardness pressing against your core—like you'd slotted in the perfect spot with your thighs spread like this. You try to not make a sound as you clutch your knees like it will somehow make the want spreading through you less obvious. He doesn't move to get you off of him… but he isn't pushing for anything to happen. Like he's content with playing this game—so long as it's with you. Instead, he snakes his free hand up your thigh where your shorts ride higher… you feel each callous—undoubtedly from all the lifting at the gym and it sends shivers through you. And then a yelp as he pinches at your waist… a reprimand for taking your time, for getting lost without him.

He isn't used to the patience of it—but it seems everything around him demanded he start taking things in stride. Starting with the supplier deal and ending with you, both intoxicatingly lucrative for entirely different reasons—one to give him independence, the other—his to savor, long and sweet. 

“May I have the joint back, Dee…”, you look away, licking your lips—tasting the artificial rainbow: “… please?", you add with forced reluctance.

He scratches the slight stubble on his chin in mock contemplation, rolling his eyes from side to side—the capillaries already so angry and red… unlike him.

“Sure… but you gotta kiss me first.”, he says, and surprisingly points to his cheek. You want to laugh out loud at that—you never expected him to ask for something so childishly silly. Yet, it makes you melt… that he isn't pressuring you into anything further—just wants you to enjoy the feeling of him. 

It feels so right… so dizzyingly right that you lean and press your lips right next to where his finger still rests. You sense the rough stubble against your plush lips and you take him in… lavender, his grandmother’s detergent—always used, he'd told you, even all those years later. Your eyelashes flutter against his face— and you can't help yourself… you move to gently bite on his finger. It's his fault that he is so frozen by your willingness after all… He hissed at that, hips stuttering below you in synchrony with his breath as he then tugs the very same hand up through your scalp—the small pull making you roll your hips unintentionally against him.

Dee drawls in that dangerous but warm tone, just for you: “Baby… I said ‘ask nicely’, not ‘bite the hand that feeds you’…” 

“Something tells me you preferred the second option.”, you assure, pulling out your tongue at him as you try to bring your mouth closer to the joint that threatened to go out soon.

He relents that much and offers it up to you—holding tightly on both you and it with almost equal intensity. As you inhale deeply, your throat tingling with that rich taste like honey, Dee doesn't let you rest. He leaves your scalp only for his now free hand to travel up your sides—below his hoodie, the one he'd draped over you on the first night so you won't get cold. You held onto it, greedily and now—you are paying with interest. Because watching it swallow you whole does things to him, makes him want to feel just how much his hands could cup and cherish. It's ticklish, how his fingers dance along your ribs, so much so that your breath catches around the tip of the joint, making you choke. He tries to bite back a groan the moment he realizes you really aren't wearing a bra. It's your house after all… you are just getting comfy—lucky him…

“Easy, angel…”, he hushes as his hand cups the swell of your breast, thumb resting but not yet teasing your nipple.

“Dee—”, you whine into his touch, choking out smoke and inevitably driving him mad with all those small little trembles against him.

“What's that? Just some weed and a little touching and you're already all stupid f'me, huh?”, he teases but it's clear from how tight his jaw clenches, how slurred his words are and the slow drag he takes—that he's just as far gone as you are. His eyes never leave yours though as he holds the smoke, swallowing it down all the while pressing circles into your nipple… like he's trying to memorize the shape of you, every tremble you make. You can't help but nod feverishly, agreeing with his assessment—twisting your hands into the fabric of his tee, searching to stay present, to not fly away at how good it feels.

As he leaves the joint onto the ashtray, appearing carefree… the casualty of it all makes your heart stutter. You take that hand gently in yours, scratching your nails along his forearm purposefully as you bring his fingers to your lips. Slowly, you kiss every tip, open-mouthed, sighing as you close your eyes—like the action itself, being so close to him, is the most soothing thing. And maybe right now it is… when you are both so floaty. He lets out soft curses, rolling your nipples with every kiss you leave as he cups your cheek, bringing you closer—forehead to forehead. Now, it's his turn to drive upward into you—chasing some pressure, any pressure, every inch of you against the throbbing ache.

The joke is right on the tip of his tongue— are you both in high-school or something? Humping like rabbits in heat… but it doesn't leave his mouth, not when you whimper so sweetly, breath heavy against his lips. It's desperate but waiting, savoring—just what he needs but could never bring himself to seek. And with you—he doesn't have to—you are the velvet wrapping around his ragged edges. Never able to smooth them, always poking and prodding at you, lodging in the very fibre of your being. You won't have it any other way, you realize as his face inches impossibly closer—tongue darting out to swipe across your lips, curling in tandem with a smirk—the softest question he can muster. And you let it consume you as you chase the taste of him back. He captures your lips earnestly then—hunger given flesh, not a fairytale, but a cacophony of teeth and ragged breaths. A desperate sound is caught in your throat as he pulls at your bottom lip, hand twitching around the back of your neck—unsure of whether to claim more or to push you away. Instead, both of his hands come to rest around you, low on your back—making sure you are still real as he looks past your shoulder onto the skyline. 

“I love the sunset after rain…”, he ponders absent-mindedly. 

“Me too—feels like it takes everything bad away.”, you smile as you rest your head on his chest. 

He is big, so it is no wonder, but it still catches you by surprise—just how big his heart is as the thumps pull you inevitably closer to him. You reach your hand up and comb through his buzzcut, feeling the small hairs prickle at your fingers as he rests his head on top of yours. And when the sun fully sets and the smell of rain lingers… everything bad flies away, but somehow there's enough left of everything else for both of you to finally stay.