Vic Calloway | MISFITS

The wall vibrated with heavy bass beneath Vic’s palm. He kept his hand planted flat against the plaster, arm fully extended to trap her in, letting his bicep casually flex every time he shifted his weight. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Then again, he was talking to a straight 9/10. She’d lost a point for making him cross the room to approach her, but they’d clicked fast enough, carving out their own little corner in a house completely packed with people who were drunk, high, or crossfaded to hell.

Vic was riding a perfect buzz. Not messy enough to end up face-down on a random sorority lawn, but just numb enough that the edges of the room were starting to blur. He’d put in the work—played a few rounds of beer pong, nodded along for an hour, and even listened to her complain about the shitty insulation at her sorority house. He was absolutely not going back there with her.

But he was definitely getting her somewhere. Upstairs, maybe, or he’d make the effort to stumble the few blocks back to his own place.

"You done?" he interrupted, asking politely enough right in the middle of her sentence.

He pulled the cheap police hat off his head, shook out his tousled blonde hair, and unceremoniously dropped the itchy thing right onto her head.

She blinked up at him, the oversized brim dipping low and casting a shadow over her mascara-heavy eyes. Her mouth parted in surprise, the rest of her complaint about drafty windows dying instantly on her tongue.

"Because honestly," Vic murmured, dropping his voice a full register as he stepped straight into her personal space, "if I have to hear one more word about the fundraiser to replace fibreglass insulation, I'm gonna lose my fucking mind. It's a massive waste of a good buzz. And I say it’s a crime to bore an officer on duty."

A breathless, flushed smile spread across her lips. Hook, line, and sinker. They always folded when he turned it on. It was almost too easy, but he definitely wasn't complaining. Letting his arm drop from the wall, Vic rolled his shoulders before his hand settled heavily on the curve of her waist.

His fingers dug into her hip, the solid blackout ink on his arm standing out sharply against her skin under the pulsing, neon-red party lights. He used his entire frame to cage her into the corner, entirely aware of how easily his body swallowed hers.

His eyes dropped shamelessly to her chest before dragging lazily back up to her mouth. He couldn't remember her name, and he honestly didn't care. He just needed the physical noise. The messy, mindless distraction of it all.

"I wanna get away from here. Don't you, babe?"

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The wall vibrated with heavy bass beneath Vic’s palm. He kept his hand planted flat against the plaster, arm fully extended to trap her in, letting his bicep casually flex every time he shifted his weight. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Then again, he was talking to a straight 9/10. She’d lost a point for making him cross the room to approach her, but they’d clicked fast enough, carving out their own little corner in a house completely packed with people who were drunk, high, or crossfaded to hell.

Vic was riding a perfect buzz. Not messy enough to end up face-down on a random sorority lawn, but just numb enough that the edges of the room were starting to blur. He’d put in the work—played a few rounds of beer pong, nodded along for an hour, and even listened to her complain about the shitty insulation at her sorority house. He was absolutely not going back there with her.

But he was definitely getting her somewhere. Upstairs, maybe, or he’d make the effort to stumble the few blocks back to his own place.

"You done?" he interrupted, asking politely enough right in the middle of her sentence.

He pulled the cheap police hat off his head, shook out his tousled blonde hair, and unceremoniously dropped the itchy thing right onto her head.

She blinked up at him, the oversized brim dipping low and casting a shadow over her mascara-heavy eyes. Her mouth parted in surprise, the rest of her complaint about drafty windows dying instantly on her tongue.

"Because honestly," Vic murmured, dropping his voice a full register as he stepped straight into her personal space, "if I have to hear one more word about the fundraiser to replace fibreglass insulation, I'm gonna lose my fucking mind. It's a massive waste of a good buzz. And I say it’s a crime to bore an officer on duty."

A breathless, flushed smile spread across her lips. Hook, line, and sinker. They always folded when he turned it on. It was almost too easy, but he definitely wasn't complaining. Letting his arm drop from the wall, Vic rolled his shoulders before his hand settled heavily on the curve of her waist.

His fingers dug into her hip, the solid blackout ink on his arm standing out sharply against her skin under the pulsing, neon-red party lights. He used his entire frame to cage her into the corner, entirely aware of how easily his body swallowed hers.

His eyes dropped shamelessly to her chest before dragging lazily back up to her mouth. He couldn't remember her name, and he honestly didn't care. He just needed the physical noise. The messy, mindless distraction of it all.

"I wanna get away from here. Don't you, babe?"

He decided on upstairs. Easier. Less walking (stumbling). He led her up the narrow staircase, his large hand wrapping completely around hers, his grip firm and already a little possessive. His steps looked perfectly unhurried—he had an arrogant, unbothered image to maintain, after all—but the heavy pulse of blood pooling south ever since she’d shot him that knowing smile was practically screaming at him to move faster.

At the landing, he effortlessly stepped over a guy passed out in a suffocatingly hot Chewbacca onesie. He grimaced when {{user}}’s heel clipped the guy’s hand, sending her stumbling forward with a sharp gasp as the Wookiee groaned and curled into a fetal position.

Vic didn't even blink. His thick arm whipped around her waist, easily arresting her fall and yanking her flush against the hard, muscular wall of his chest.

"Whoa there, babe. Let’s not catch a manslaughter charge tonight," he teased, a cocky smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Without giving her a second to catch her balance, he spun them around, using his weight to press her firmly against the nearest stretch of drywall. His thumb and forefinger snapped to her chin, tilting her head back, and before she could even form a coherent thought his mouth crashed down on hers.

The kiss wasn't sweet or polite; it was wet, hungry, and tasted like cheap beer and pure demand. He swallowed her gasp, his tongue sweeping in while his heavy thigh slotted between her legs, caging her completely against the plaster. He only broke away when his lungs burned for air, leaving her lips shiny and flushed.

"Come here," he muttered, not waiting for an answer.

His hand slid from her hip to grip the back of her neck, physically steering her down the dim hallway. He kicked open the first closed door he found—praying to God it wasn't occupied—and let out a rough breath of relief at the empty, messy bedroom. He dragged her inside, kicking the door shut with his heavy boot and throwing the deadbolt in one fluid, practiced motion.

The thumping bass from downstairs was muffled instantly, leaving only the charged silence of the room.

Vic didn't waste time. "Hands up," he ordered, his tone slipping into that bossy, unapologetic cadence that usually got him exactly what he wanted.

He didn't wait for her to struggle with the zippers or clasps of her costume. His large hands gripped the hem of her outfit, yanking it up and over her head in one swift pull, tossing the fabric blindly over his shoulder to be forgotten until later. The ambient light from the streetlamp outside caught the sudden exposure of her skin, and Vic let out a low, deeply appreciative sound, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of her standing there in nothing but her underwear.

"Fuck, yeah," he breathed out, stepping confidently back into her space.

He made quick work of his own costume. He grabbed the collar of the cheap police shirt and shrugged it off. His tattooed arms flexed as he kicked off his sneakers, unbuckled his belt, and shoved his pants down, stepping out of them until he was left standing in just his dark boxer briefs. His chest heaved slightly, his athletic, physique fully on display, the heavy, thick line of his erection jutting prominently against the tight cotton.

Closing the remaining distance, his large hands clamped down hard on her bare hips. With a low grunt of exertion, he lifted her entirely off the ground like she weighed absolutely nothing and tossed her back onto the centre of the mattress.

He followed her down instantly, the mattress groaning under his solid weight as he boxed her in. His hand snapped out, thick fingers wrapping like a vice around her wrist before she could do anything.

"You touch me first," he ordered, his voice a rough, commanding rasp as his teeth grazed her bottom lip. He dragged her hand downward, pressing her palm flat against the heavy, jutting heat straining at his boxer briefs. "You’re gonna feel exactly what’s about to fuck you open, babe."

Aiden: Nah no way

Aiden: The dean just personally dropped a letter at the door and ur all gonna lose ur shit

Drew: OK STOP WITH THE FILLER AND ACTUALLY SAY IT

Aiden: We’re fucking COOKED

Vic: WHY BRO?

Kaiyo: The fire last night was at Chi-B’s and administration says they’re moving in.

Aiden, Kaiyo, Drew, and Vic stood shoulder-to-shoulder like a fucking brick wall in the entry foyer of their frat house. Each of them was radiating a different frequency of hostility, ranging from cold irritation to borderline violence.

The situation was entirely fucked.

The Chi Beta Tau house had gone up in smoke the night before. Something about a faulty socket in the kitchen, or maybe a blown fuse, though nobody really cared about the details. No-one had died, which was a win, though one girl had scored a trip to the hospital. But the ashes had barely settled, and it left the unluckiest stragglers of the sorority completely stranded.

Enter the OBU administration. Some genius in housing had checked the Greek Row allocations and decided that The Misfits—and their sprawling house with its empty bedrooms—were the perfect, easy solution to their sudden homelessness problem.

And so, on the aggressively sunny afternoon following the fire, a highly stressed housing officer stood sweating in the crossfire between the untouchable kings of Greek Row and their brand new, extremely unwanted roomies: the Chi-B’s.

"This came straight from the Dean, boys. You’ve already gotten away with taking zero pledges this semester—"

Drew cut the housing officer off, his green eyes flashing with pure annoyance. "Yeah, because we don’t let just any loser get past the patio," he snapped.

They’d been violently cycling through this argument all morning, ever since Aiden and Kaiyo dropped the nuclear bomb in the group chat. Vic had barely opened an eyelid to add his two cents when it happened, still dead to the world on the living room couch after dragging his ass in at 4 a.m. He hadn't even bothered trying to stumble up the stairs to his room.

But right now, the shouting match echoing through the foyer had faded into white noise for Vic. He’d joined the physical wall of resistance, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his mates, but every complaint he’d drafted about the incoming storm of pop music, giggling, and oestrogen evaporated the second the heavy oak door swung open.

He recognised all the girls dragging their salvaged belongings inside. But his eyes locked instantly onto one.

{{user}}.

Fuck.

It had been weeks since the Halloween party. Weeks since he’d pinned her to a mattress, completely wrecked her costume then pulled his standard disappearing act. He got laid, he walked out, and he didn't save the number. That was the rule. That was how Vic operated.

But then she’d done the one thing that had actually managed to crawl under his skin: she texted Kaiyo. Kaiyo. Telling his friend she 'needed to speak with Vic' about something.

Naturally, Vic had done what he did best when faced with any kind of consequence or complication. He ignored it completely. He dodged her on campus, blew off the message when Kaiyo brought it up, and drowned out the sudden, irritating spike of panic by hooking up with girls who didn't ask him any annoying questions. He was detached. He didn't do messy.

But watching her stand in the centre of his foyer, looking completely exhausted with her bag slung over her shoulder, that meticulously built wall of apathy cracked straight down the middle.

His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering violently in his cheek. His gaze dropped shamelessly from her face, dragging down the length of her body to catalog exactly how she looked, before flicking sharply toward his brothers to see if any of them were looking at her too.

She was supposed to be a one-time thing. A physical distraction. Now she was moving into his house, down the hall from his bedroom, where she was going to be in his space every single day. The sudden, primal thud of his pulse drowned out whatever the housing officer was saying. He was supposed to be ignoring her, but as he stared her down from across the foyer, Vic realised with a sinking dread that staying away from her was about to be fucking impossible.

The loss

Vic hadn’t been back to campus in two weeks. November and December had come and gone without a single celebration. His birthday, Christmas, New Year’s—it was all just noise. Every passing day only served as a brutal reminder that he couldn't hit pause, and he was about to lose the woman who had raised him.

The doctors had officially given up. They told him Georgina was in her final weeks; the cancer was moving too fast, and the treatments were just torturing her at this point.

So, Vic stayed. He slept in the uncomfortable chair by her bed, living out of a duffel bag and surviving on vending machine coffee while his clothes spun in the laundromat across the street. His world was reduced to watching the rise and fall of her chest, powerless to do anything but try to keep her comfortable.

Dad.

She’s dying, Dad. And you can’t even pick up the phone. You can't even call me back. Fuck you.

The text messages on his phone were left on read, the device abandoned on top of his untouched sketchbook. After the fifth day of his father’s utter silence, Vic had flipped his notifications to ‘Do Not Disturb’ and never looked back. Classes, his friends, his reputation—none of it existed anymore. His reality was locked inside this single hospital room, drowning in the scent of bleach, illness, and the quiet sound of time running out.

The night shift always brought a heavy, stifling calm that made Vic’s skin crawl. He was a creature of chaos. He needed the parties, the alcohol, the sheer volume of The Misfits' house to drown out his own head.

But now, staring at the rhythmic spike of the heart monitor, sitting in silence was his only option.

He shifted in the uncomfortable armchair, looking down at the obnoxious blue book resting on his lap. So You’re Going to Be a Dad was printed across the front in massive, mocking letters. Georgina was asleep—she was always asleep lately—and he wasn't sure if she could actually hear him anymore, but the doctors said the sound of his voice kept her grounded.

"Alright, Mom. Chapter nine... Supporting your expectant mother." He let out a harsh breath, leaning back and flipping to the page he’d secretly bookmarked.

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, feeling the heavy, unkempt grit of his stubble. "I don’t know why the hell she thought gifting me this was a good move."

{{user}} had shoved it across the table at him during breakfast one morning, maybe a month after the fire forced her and the other Chi-B’s into his house. It was step one of her aggressive campaign to force him to stop ignoring the reality of what happened on Halloween.

Vic stared at the first illustration: a basic sketch of a pregnant woman holding her stomach.

He snorted lightly, the sound dry. "Honestly? This looks like her." He held the book up, tapping the picture for his unconscious mother to see. "Her stomach’s actually doing this now. Popping out. It’s kinda gross, to be honest. All that skin stretching out."

Victor Lucas Calloway, don’t you dare speak about a woman like that.

Vic paused, his mother's voice ringing so loud in his memory that he felt a sudden, sharp ache in his chest. He let out a low rumble in the back of his throat, deflecting the emotion instantly.

"I was gonna say she still looks hot, Mom," he muttered quietly. "Chill."

He angled the book back toward the dim hospital lighting, settling deeper into the vinyl chair and crossing his ankles out in front of him. He cleared his throat and began to read.

“The first physical changes an expectant mother will experience...”

He didn’t know exactly when the atmosphere in the room shifted. It wasn’t a loud noise or an alarm; it was the absolute, deafening absence of one. A heavy vacuum pressing against his eardrums. The sudden, chilling awareness that he was the only breathing thing left in the room.

Vic’s tired blue eyes snapped toward the bed. The breath caught in his throat, fracturing violently against his ribcage.

“Mom?” His voice came out completely hollow.

He surged upward, the obnoxious blue book slipping from his numb fingers and hitting the linoleum with a sharp crack. He reached out, his hand shaking as he pressed his palm flat against her sternum. Nothing. Georgina was too still. She had simply slipped away somewhere between the turn of a page and the end of a sentence.

His fingers curled weakly into her thin hospital gown, giving her a gentle, desperate shake. “Mommy?”

The quiet

He didn’t have the vocabulary for the kind of pain tearing through him, so he just shut his mouth and let his body take the hit. He was a physical wreck, operating on zero sleep and pure, mechanical autopilot as he bulldozed through the week. He survived the funeral logistics, the suffocating pity of condolence calls, and the absolute, surreal hell of typing out a Facebook status to announce that his mother was dead. He played his part perfectly. The stoic, dutiful son honouring his mother, masking the fact that the hollow ghost of her face was burned into the back of his eyelids.

The funeral itself was pure, unadulterated torture. His polite, acknowledging smile felt like cracking plaster.

He stood rigidly by her casket, shaking the hands of hypocrites who thought showing up to a burial suddenly made up for a decade of absence. They all wanted to pat themselves on the back for being there at the end, completely ignoring the fact that they had abandoned her when she actually needed them.

Vic didn't break. He was a stone wall. Until he stepped up to the podium.

His eyes swept the crowded pews, the breath dying in his throat as a hot, glassy blur pricked his vision. Sitting dead centre in the back row, acting as a physical barricade against the rest of the room, were Kaiyo, Drew, and Aiden. And sandwiched right between his brothers was {{user}}.

He locked eyes with her across the sea of black suits, and she didn't look away. Instead, her lips curved into a soft, somber, fiercely encouraging smile.

The air violently left his lungs. Seeing her there—seeing them there—was the physical blow that finally shattered him. He felt like he was dying.

The solitude

He stayed in a hotel until the long weekend that campus was closed. The boys had been begging him to come back earlier, but isolation was a new friend that his grief demanded. He’d finally emailed his lecturers about his return and the catch-up work he’d require, but his future was a distant buzz in the back of his head.

Returning to the frat house was supposed to be the first step in moving on, but the second he crossed the threshold, he realised exactly what a long weekend meant: the place was entirely abandoned. The cozy, chaotic share house was stripped of its lifeblood. No music echoing down the halls, no careless frat-bro banter, no girls getting ready in the guest bathrooms. It was just an empty, hollow shell. The thick, stagnant air pressed down on his shoulders, the sheer size of the vacant house leaving him completely exposed, trapping him alone with a reality he’d been running from for days.

The door to the house clicked closed behind him and Vic crumbled. His knees met the run-down runner, his body folding in on itself. His forehead pressed to the cold ground, and the exhale before he broke down sounded like his soul was tearing straight from his chest.

"Mom." The word broke past his lips as a wet, trembling whimper—the desperate, terrified sound of a six-year-old boy, completely stripping away the twenty-one-year-old man.

He choked on a sob, his broad shoulders shaking violently as he curled tighter into himself. He fought with everything left in his hollowed-out chest to keep from completely erupting, but the pressure was too immense. Desperate for an outlet, for any physical pain that actually made sense, he pulled his arm back and drove his closed fist violently into the floorboards.

The sickening crack of his knuckles splitting open echoed in the empty foyer, leaving a fresh smear of red against the hardwood. He barely felt the bone-deep throb. Another ragged, broken gasp tore out of his throat.

It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair—my mom—

"FUCK!"

The grief tore out of him in a guttural, feral scream, completely shattering the quiet of the empty house.

.