#beautiful *filthy* motherfucking goal

[ploridafanthers]

brandon montour serving up hot dickings to the worst team in the west

[xyfanficarchive]

self ship fic that is way too long. jimmy picks a fight with my dad.

It didn’t take much convincing to get Jim to leave, when I finally broke and asked.

Dad could be a real asshole. Jimmy, too, could be a real asshole. Put two assholes together, and what do you get? Two ways about it; either they get on like a house on fire, or like a match to gasoline. They were different flavours of asshole, so this was the latter. Jimmy was the spark inching ever closer to my dad’s powder keg temper.

I didn’t even want to come over. I hadn’t even told my parents about my relationship. I didn’t talk to them except for when it was completely necessary. But we ran into them, it wasn’t even a special outing or a date or anything, caught completely fucking unaware at the fucking grocery store and, oh how they insisted we come for dinner that very evening. Their scrutiny crawling over us, over him like a worm. I knew exactly what it looked like; some aging creepy piece of shit 13 years my senior, unshaven and stinking of cigarettes, had his filthy paws on their precious fresh-faced beautiful young daughter. Maybe it was even true.

But I could never just say no to them. No. The famed complete sentence. No. No! En. Oh. I tried to slip out of their grasp, giving excuses, encouraging them to loosen their vice grip without ever daring to defy them so with that two letter word. But I could see it in Jimmy’s face, a glint in his eye that filled me with dread; my dad’s interrogation lamp gaze was a challenge to his ego.

Serpent smile, he opened his stupid mouth. “We’re free tonight. I would love to come for dinner. I’ve been dying to meet you two, I’ve heard so much about you.” Dripping venomous emphasis off the last words, sweet in the way antifreeze was sweet, or lead. Deadly. My parents were to drink it, but I was the one who would be poisoned.

Bastard!!! BASTARD MOTHERFUCKER!!! BASTARD PIECE OF SHIT MOTHERFUCKER!!!!

“Don’t sweat it, dollface,” he said in the car after I had asked him what the fuck he was thinking, lighting the cigarette between his teeth. “I wanna see this show in action. Anyways, you were the one who told me that they only let loose on you when there’s no witnesses around, right? So they should be on their best behaviour.”

“Yeah, but you’re not a stranger or a family friend who’s gonna see what’s really behind their facade of being good parents and threaten their image. They don’t respect you like that. You’re the wolf preying on their precious little lamb. You’ve just put yourself on the hot seat… And I’m gonna get burned.”

“I’ve been on the hot seat my whole life. I can handle it. I won’t let you get burned, I promise,” he exhaled a puff of smoke and leaned over to me in the passenger seat, planting a wet tobacco-smelling kiss on my cheek. I turned to him. “Trust me? That guy looked at me like I was shit on the bottom of his shoe, but I bet I can get him to like me, then he’ll feel like a fucking idiot for passing judgement so fast. We can find some common ground. You said he was only 42, right? He’s only six years older than me, we’re practically the same age at this point in life.”

He was grinning, but I grimaced. “Do you even know how much worse that makes it?”

And when, sitting at that dinner table, my dad proved to be quite hardened in his preconceptions, Jimmy all but abandoned his goal of getting my dad to like him, but not his goal of making him feel stupid. Now, it was a battle of wits, two men who were equally absorbed with themselves and their image, Jimmy playing shit disturber against my dad’s steely father-with-a-shotgun stay-away-from-my-daughter mask. (It was always embarrassing. I knew how much of a shit disturbing clown he was himself, beneath it all.)

Forget cutting the tension with a knife. The tension was so thick you could drown in it, struggling sluggishly as the tension displaced the air in your lungs. But part of me felt vindicated hearing Jimmy duke it out with my dad, who had always left me tongue tied, twisted around, frozen, silent. There was nothing he could say to Jim that Jim didn’t have some kind of response or retort to.

I didn’t remember most of it. In listening so intently, so ready to jump in and defuse the situation, I didn’t really hear any words at all. Until I heard the dangerous low edge in my dad’s tone, zipped back into reality with frightening clarity from where I was staring at my empty plate. Looked between my mom, my dad, and Jimmy beside me, back to my dad, where he was in a staring contest with my boyfriend, rage burning behind his eyes. The kind of rage where he threatened to kill someone, and he never escalated it that far, but I wouldn’t put it past Jimmy to provoke him to throwing fists, and trying to murder him in earnest.

I tugged at the sleeve of Jimmy’s shirt (the nicest he had, which still wasn’t particularly nice,) though he didn’t break eye contact with my dad. “Jim… I think it’s time we left…” I said, low and hushed. He was the first to break away, he turned to me and his eyes softened ever so slightly.

“You know, sweetheart, I think you’re right,” he said, and stood up, I followed a little too eagerly and rattled the table with my thighs.

“Yeah, you better get this stale cigarette smelling fuckin’ bum out of my house,” my mom chimed in. I still flinched, though the insult wasn’t directed at me.

“It was lovely to meet you, too,” Jimmy retorted coldly, and I clung to his arm as we retreated to the door.

I laced my boots up fast and loose in the doorway, and turned to find Jimmy already had his jacket and shoes on, a cigarette preemptively dangling from his lips, and to my surprise, he was holding my jacket out by the shoulders like a gentleman, awaiting me to slip my arms in so we could go. He had never done that before. We opened the door to a frigid, snowy, dark night.

“I had better not ever fucking see you again,” said my dad, looming in the doorway as I made my way down the steps.

“Don’t worry. I’m in no rush to come back anytime soon,” Jimmy retorted, casually as ever, and lit his cigarette.

“I mean it. Worthless fuckin’ junky criminal looking loser.”

Jimmy turned back to challenge him further even as I protested. “For the record, I’m eight years clean, and I’ve been straight and narrow since I got out of prison four years ago,” he was glib, relishing the way he disturbed and angered my dad with his honesty, knowing full well that he hadn’t known anything about his past before slinging that insult.

“Come on, Jimmy-”

My dad advanced out the door, slip on sneakers contrasting with his slacks and dress shirt.

“You have no fucking business being anywhere near my daughter, do you understand, you piece of shit? You fucking predator, fucking around with girls almost 15 years younger than you. You’re worthless. You’re fucking scum,” he spat.

Jimmy’s eyebrows twisted up a pain-filled expression, he clutched at his chest, putting on a show. “I’m so wounded,” he broke up into false laughter, then fell flat. “Maybe try an insult that I haven’t heard since I was six years old.” He took a long drag off his smoke. I climbed back up the steps, tugged at his sleeve again.

“Fucking stop, Jim-”

My dad opened his mouth to speak, but Jimmy cut him off right after his inhale: “And anyways, your daughter pursued me. She chased me.” He jabbed his finger back at me for emphasis, took another drag, and I flushed with embarrassment. “So riddle me this, Daddy,” his eyes narrowed, “you were supposed to be the one who showed her how love is supposed to look, weren’t you? So if you were her model for how men are supposed to love, and she was the one who wanted me, the piece of shit scumbag,” Jimmy tilted his head, laying the patronization on thick, “then what exactly does that say about you?”

I was shocked. Looking at him in slack jawed awe, and then to my dad, blazing white hot with fury for a beat before he reeled his fist back and threw a punch with full force, and I shrieked in abject terror heart racing like it was struggling to break out from behind my sternum. But Jimmy was fast, swung out of the way with ease, his cigarette flying and landing somewhere in the snow as he raised his fists in defence. I scrambled back down the stairs as they arced around each other, as my mom appeared in the doorway, shouting my dad’s name: “That’s enough!!”

“Jim, Jesus Christ, let’s just fucking go!” I pleaded from below as my mom moved to stop my dad.

“That’s enough! I mean it, right now! I can’t have you going to fucking prison, too!”

“I’ll fucking go to prison, I don’t give a fuck!”

But there was a break in the tension, in their posture, and Jimmy grabbed hold of the opportunity to follow me down the stairs. I turned to leave while he was still approaching, hurrying up the walkway to the streets, and he caught up, arm around my shoulder to usher me hastily to the car.

“Don’t ever show your fucking face here again! I’ll punch your fucking lights out! I’ll fucking kill you, do you hear me?! You’re lucky I didn’t bash your fucking skull in!” I heard my dad call out from the landing, as Jimmy unlocked the car, as I opened the door and slipped inside. Now in the car’s protective shell, I broke out sobbing, fastening my seatbelt before I put my head in my hands, feeling the car start, feeling Jimmy pull out of the street parking in a rush, cursing. And we were on our way. And I kept crying.

“Hey, stop that… Stop it, okay?” He said after some time, and I knew there was an attempt at softness and comfort in his voice. But all I could see was my dad’s face, the madness and blind fury, the motion of his punch, all I could hear was his voice screaming “I’ll fucking kill you, do you hear me?!” and I wept uncontrollably into my palms.

“Aw, shit…” He muttered beside me, and said nothing more, turned the radio on low volume and kept driving.

It was only a short while until we stopped. I looked up through teary eyes and smudged makeup, still weeping, to find we were in an empty parking lot blanketed with white.

“Hey…” Jimmy said, and I turned my head thinking ‘why?’ as the tears kept coming. Why do all of that? I knew this whole affair was a terrible idea from the beginning. “Shit,” he said, shifted into park, opened the door and got out. He crossed over around the front to the passenger side, and opened my door, a flood of cold air engulfing me. “C’mon,” he said, and held out his hand. “Come here,” he compelled, gesturing for me to take his hand, and I unbuckled, getting out slowly and weakly.

He pulled me into his arms, held me close, tight to him. He was warm, and I was engulfed in his smell. The pressure of his arms crushing me into his body was a beautiful relief. I wrapped my arms around him, clutching him tight, buried my face into the warmth underneath the open edge of his jacket, and cried more, shoulders heaving with every whine and gasp.

My dad’s anger terrified me. But for a moment, I was also terrified that he would kill Jimmy, kill him for real, threats I had heard only on petrifying occasion through my childhood made reality at last, and I would have to watch, powerless to stop it.

But now I was safe, and he was safe. It was silent. The echoes in my head escaped slowly, and died muted against the snow as Jimmy shushed me above my head, as I heard his steady breath in his chest. My cries calmed as he reassured me: “He’s no good, y’know? He’s no good…”

[wemultitudinous]

@kingofdirtandnothing​ asked: hands off. our muses attempting bondage for the first time (light).

NSFW PROMPTS // ACCEPTING

Alex has always been remarkably easygoing when it comes to people’s kinks.

He might joke that his own kink is getting other people off, whatever that might involve, but when it comes down to it, it’s not all that far off the truth. He wants to be what people want, to be the thing that gets them off, to be good at it. 

(More importantly, to be praised for being good at it, but that’s something he doesn’t examine all too closely if he can help it.)

So when John breaks out some scarves and waggles his eyebrows and says “let’s do something kinky,” in what is—for him—a strikingly bold and open invitation, Alex is all too willing to lift his arms above his head and let John knot the scarves around his wrist and the headboard. John kisses him, too brief, and Alex whines as he tries to chase John’s mouth when he pulls away, kept in place by the scarves.

Alex can feel that champagne-fizz feeling spreading through his blood, the heat already building beneath his skin, and his dark eyes watch John with an intent and heavy focus, hungry. He’s already half-hard, just with the anticipation.

And then John picks up his phone and begins scrolling, which really ought to have been Alex’s first warning sign.

“Are you googling for instructions?” Alex asks, wryly. “I’m pretty sure you don’t need them. You’ve proven yourself plenty proficient in the past.”

“Hm?” John says, and then glances up. “Nah, I’m on Twitter.”

“Well don’t ask Twitter for instructions,” Alex snorts. “They’re a bunch of weirdos. C’mon, John, get back over here.”

John grins.

“Real sadism is you not being allowed on your phone,” he says, smug and wicked. Alex stares at him in disbelief, feeling cheated in more ways than one. “Oh look. Jefferson just tweeted something stupid about the economy, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“You absolute fucking monster,” Alex intones, with very real feeling. He pulls against his restraints, but John made the knots good and tight, and there’s nothing he can do except wriggle and struggle against them. “I swear to god next time your dick is in my mouth, I’m gonna bite it.”

“It’s already got like fifty likes,” John says. “And nobody is contradicting him.”

Alex practically howls in frustration, and the champagne-fizz has gone entirely flat, any arousal chased away by John’s laughter and Alex’s own mad frustration. John lets it go on for about ten minutes he relents and frees Alex’s wrists; Alex smacks him, open-palmed, on the chest a couple of times before he pushes John over onto his back and loops the scarves around his wrists, instead.

John doesn’t seem particularly displeased by this development. Alex tugs on them a few times, making sure the scarves are secure but not too tight, and then sits himself across John’s middle, looking down at him.

“You’re the worst,” Alex says, gravely.

“Is this your revenge?” John asks, sounding more hopeful than otherwise. There’s a moment of hesitation, and then Alex smiles. Innocent, beatific, and that should have been John’s first warning sign. 

“Absolutely,” he says, and kisses John with a filthy, searching focus that leaves him gasping, fingers flexing and straining and completely unable to touch. Alex pushes John’s shirt up, rakes blunt fingernails down his chest and follows the path with lips and teeth and tongue. He sucks and bites a few marks against John’s skin, knowing how he feels about them, and shuffles his way further down John’s body as he goes. Wriggles his ass deliberately against John’s hard-on and grins at the groan it rips from John’s chest.

He divests John of his pants and his boxers briskly, efficiently, and sets to work with his mouth and hands with a dedicated fervour that has John writhing underneath him. John’s no stranger, by this point, to any of this—but now Alex sets to his task with a purpose and a focused dedication that he’s never utilised before, his only goal getting John right to the edge just as quickly as he can. Above him, John curses up a storm, moaning and gasping and tugging his arms against their restraints. And just when he’s digging in his heels and his breath is dancing in his chest, muscles starting to lock and release—

—Alex pulls away. He works his jaw a little, hums in satisfaction, and retreats to the end of the bed, where John had left his phone. Picks it up. Starts scrolling. John, breathless, lets his head fall back against the pillows.

“C’mon baby,” he pleads. “I get it. I’m sorry. Please.”

“Please what?” Alex asks, mildly.

“Please come back here and touch me some more,” John asks, voice all husky and rough and beautiful. “Put your mouth back on me?”

It’s all syrup and sex and when Alex looks up, John’s got those beautiful hazel eyes, half-hooded, fixed on him. There’s colour high on his cheeks and his hair is a wild mess. It’s quite the picture.

“Sorry,” Alex says. “I’ve got to catch up on Twitter.”

He gives it ten minutes. Seems fair. John runs his mouth when Alex slides his hands up John’s thighs, settles his thumbs into the divots above his hips, and licks a delicate stripe up John’s dick, all gratitude and relief and stumbling words. Once again, he sets to work, keeping a careful eye on John and the way his eyes flutter shut, the way his teeth dig hard into his pretty bottom lip, the way he’s got his fingers hooked around the scarves and clinging on for dear life. 

Clever tongue puts itself to good use, teasing and testing, and he quickly abandons his grip on John’s thighs to far more useful tasks. 

The second time he backs off suddenly, John growls. 

“Damn it, Alex,” he says, voice even more wrecked than it had been before, feet planted on the bed and hips pushing upward in the hope of finding that last bit of friction, a final touch that will let him come. 

“I just have so much to catch up on,” Alex says, all angelic. “If only I hadn’t been kept away from Twitter earlier, I’d have more time to finish what I was doing.”

“I think I’d rather you’d just bitten my dick,” John says bleakly, twisting his wrists to no avail. Alex, who usually doesn’t have the patience or self-control for these kind of games but is nothing if not petty and spiteful, presses the heel of his palm idly against his own hardness, shuddering at the pressure, and keeps scrolling.

The third time, John is a mess of incoherent curses, practically thrashing in place.

“Motherfucker,” he rasps out. “Bastard son of a whore, vete al demonio, motherbitch.”

“That’s a new one,” Alex observes.

“Fuck,” John whines, tortured and desperate.

This time, though, Alex doesn’t pick up the phone. Instead, with the same brisk efficiency with which he’d set upon John earlier, he begins to work himself open on his fingers. He holds John’s hungry gaze unabashedly as he does so, smirk nestled against his lips at the heavy rise-and-fall of John’s chest, the openly pleading look on his face.

It’s not long before he’s bracing one hand on John’s chest and using the other to guide John into him, sinking down slow and steady until he’s bottomed out and the same sharp breath is punched both from him and from John. And then, he waits.

“Alex,” John begs.

“Do you promise never to misuse Twitter during sex again?” Alex asks.

“I would promise you literally anything right now to get you to move,” John says, voice tense and taut.

“So promise,” Alex demands.

“Fuck, I promise, okay?”

Alex closes his eyes and circles his hips, tight and dirty, and revels in the whining mess of a noise that spills from John’s hips. Finally, Alex lets himself just give into his own wants, and takes the strain in his hips as he pushes up and lets himself back down, head tipped back and only half-missing John’s hands at his hips because the thankful praise rolling over him like a tide is replacement enough.

[zombizombi]

hummingbird heartbeat pt44

Nothing really changed, with Jeff and Kent. At least, it didn’t seem like it. Had Bitty expected things to change? Sort of. How was a more nebulous concept, it was just -- Kent and Jeff were boyfriends, now.

He thought.

He was like, 99% sure, anyway. Kent hadn’t given him many more details, even though an entire month had passed, and Jeff -- well, Jeff wasn’t interested in talking to Bitty about Kent. Bitty knew, at least, that they hadn’t been… intimate, knew that Kent hadn’t slept with Jeff yet. To hear Kent tell it, they barely touched each other. On Skype calls where Bitty saw them together, Jeff and Kent seemed the same as ever. They weren’t even sitting closer on the sofa or anything.

It was weird. 

And honestly, Bitty didn’t even know why he cared so much, it was not his business. Moo Maw always said people ought to mind their own business. Except, well… Kent was Bitty’s business, so by extension, his relationship with Jeff was, too. Kind of. Right? Which meant minding it was a little more acceptable. Reasonable, even.

“I guess I thought something would happen?” Bitty said to Jack, curled up in bed one night. Their nights together were becoming more rare, would be rarer still. Jack’s season was upon them.

“Something happened. You said they talked.” Jack turned on his side a little more, tucked closer to Bitty. He ran hot fingers down Bitty’s side, tucking them up under the hem of his shirt. “Maybe they’re just still figuring things out.”

“I don’t even know if they’re dating,” said Bitty. He shivered.

“You know you have to be patient with Kent.” Jack pressed a kiss to Bitty’s neck. “Why is this bothering you so much?”

“I don’t know, I --” Bitty sucked in a quick breath as Jack’s teeth closed on his earlobe. Jack was right, he should worry about something else. It was just so hard to stop thinking. He’d never been good at that, not really, because Bitty’s mind was always sort of going, worrying about something. It was -- “Honey,” he said, as a little shiver ran down his spine.

“Maybe you need a distraction.” Pushing Bitty’s shirt up further, Jack pressed his hand flat against the small of Bitty’s back and brought his lips down to Bitty’s collarbone.

Bitty’s breath caught. “Oh?” This was probably going… good places.

“Mhm.” Jack’s breath was hot against the hollow of Bitty’s throat.

Jack was a very good distraction.

Bitty spent the rest of his time in Providence trying not to worry too much about Kent and Jeff. He had enough on his plate, anyway. It helped to pick Jack’s brain about captaining a hockey team -- the NHL season would be starting soon enough that if he wanted to really get Jack’s full laser focus, Bitty had to do it then. And he really, really wanted Jack’s full attention. Jack and Kent were different in a lot of ways, including the way they played hockey, and the advantages that could come from being able to talk to not just one, but two NHL players in leadership roles weren’t something Bitty could pass up. Advice from different perspectives and leadership styles would come in handy, was worth spending some precious boyfriend time on.

And it was apparent, several games in, that Bitty’s extra attention and work was paying off. Samwell’s season was going well -- really well, actually. A brand new first line meant big changes in play, new hurdles to overcome. The new guys were fast, good skaters, but sometimes lines took chemistry, and sometimes chemistry took a few months to build. They didn’t really have months, though, and if running drills on passing was what Samwell needed to make it to the Frozen Four, well.

Bitty spent extra time going over tape with the coaches. He worked with the boys on passing and drills, organized a couple of game nights for team bonding, tried to ensure that he was available to any of the guys if they needed him. It was great. The guys were really getting it together, and Whiskey was honestly amazing. He was really focused, really talented, and really… intense. He was the best player they’d had since Jack, and so far, they’d even managed to avoid any real injuries. Bitty allowed himself to hope for the Frozen Four.

Stirring the custard ingredients together, Bitty balanced his phone on his shoulder with his chin. “I think it might not be completely out of reach?”

Kent laughed. “Why did you say that like a question?”

“I don’t want to jinx it,” Bitty said. “You know, it’s like -- if you say too much about it, it’ll definitely end up not happening?”

“You guys are having a good season so far, though.”

Even though Kent couldn’t see him, Bitty nodded. “We are!”

“And you’re, like, working on your thesis, right?”

Bitty sighed. “Baby, that’s not until Spring. School’s barely started!” And his thesis was kind of not his highest priority at the moment. Or like, ever, but definitely not now.

“Well yeah,” Kent said, “but you’ve, like, thought about it. Right?”

Right. How did he end up dating two insane overachievers, again? Bitty poured the vanilla buttermilk custard filling into the blind-baked pie crust. “I’ll get it done! Worry about your own dang GPA!”

“Mine’s really good,” Kent said, smug and satisfied in a way that was both irritating and adorable at the same time.

“Yes, your brain is very sexy, dear,” said Bitty. “Isn’t it your bedtime?”

Kent gasped. “Not for another, like, two hours!”

Bitty opened the oven. “You are absolutely ridiculous, and I --”

“Oh my god, Eric, don’t you want to talk to me?” Kent’s voice sounded farther away, and the sound of running water filtered through the line. “What kind of pie are you making?”

“Mr. Parson,” Bitty said. “Am I on speaker phone?”

“Yes,” said Kent, after a small silence. Bitty heard the sound of a door shutting in the background.

“It’s chess pie,” Bitty said. “Who’s there?”

“What the fuck is a chess pie?” Jeff asked, and Bitty sighed. Why didn’t anyone know this?

“Y’all really need to come visit.”

“It’s good,” Kent supplied.

“All right, super chief. We play Boston on our first roadie, I think.” Jeff’s voice was closer. “Make one then.”

“We do,” Kent said. The water in the background shut off and, after a minute, Kent picked the phone back up. “I was gonna get you seats, if you wanted. And maybe you could, um.”

“Stay?” Bitty finished for him, smiling a little.

“Yeah,” Kent said. “And you can tell me all about your boys in person, so I can see how cute you look when you’re all focused.”

“Gross,” said Jeff, and Bitty laughed.

Those fuzzy, warm feelings of confidence about their season couldn’t last. Bitty should’ve known that, but everything was just going so well. The new lines were starting to gel, plays were making sense -- they could do it. They could totally do it.

At least, that’s what Bitty thought until Derek Nurse gave himself the most idiotic hockey injury ever. The game was beautiful otherwise, honestly. Everyone was playing gorgeous hockey, and Bitty was really, really proud of their progress.

In the third, Nursey slapped the puck on a rebound, sending it careening into the net over the unprepared goalie’s shoulder. It was a filthy goal. Grinning, he returned to the bench, bumping gloves with the guys as he came within reach.

“Nice goal!”

“Top shelf, Nurse!”

“Fuckin’ s’wawes--”

“Hey, thanks for the assist, Poindexter!” Nursey grinned over his shoulder.

Dex rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck crashing across the boards like that, Nursey.”

“Jeez, Dex,” Nursey said, “I’ll interpret that as ‘you’re welcome, keep it u--’” the door clicked open just as Nurse was about to swing over, and somehow, despite literal years of playing hockey, he fell. As luck would have it, he broke a bone with that foolishness, which would not only screw up everything about their game but also serve as the catalyst for the Haus becoming ground zero in a not so cold war.

Honestly, this was the universe’s way of paying Bitty back for thinking that they were doing well that season when it came to injuries. He should’ve knocked on wood.

Dex and Nursey were absolutely ridiculous -- everything one of them did irritated the other, and they weren’t, apparently, able to be reasonable in any way whatsoever. Bitty probably should’ve anticipated it, as they’d always nitpicked each other, but after the injury their feuding was on a completely different level. Slytherin and Gryffindor level, even. Everyone had assumed there’d be some nonsense with them moving in to the Haus, of course they had, it was just -- it was so, so much worse than anyone imagined. Complaining about a lack of privacy, Dex attempted to turn his bunk bed into a private oasis. When that didn’t work, he vanished into the basement, accompanied by some power tools. Bitty wasn’t sure what was going on down there. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, truth be told.

When Shitty invited Bitty and Jack to come up to Cambridge to see their new place, Bitty leapt at the chance to escape the Haus for a visit with old friends. It would be great to get away from the world’s most annoying d-pair, and it’d be good for Jack to take a quick trip before his season really got going. It was their last chance.

“Welcome,” said Lardo. “To Haus 2.0.”

“This is interesting,” Bitty said, looking around the house. It definitely had the same feel the Haus used to have. Messy, lived in, vaguely gross. Rent had to be insane.

“Right on,” Jack said, accepting a beer from Shitty as he looked around. “Samwell after Samwell. I’m jealous.”

“Ahem! Allow me to give you a tour of our buckwild best friend abode,” said Shitty. He waved an arm. “It’s several degrees of dece!”

“And pancakes every Saturday,” Ransom added.

“You guys have another roommate?” Jack asked, talking around a mouthful of pie.

“Yeah,” Holster said. “She hates us.”

“Like legitimately wants us to die,” Ransom added.

“Hey, not our fault!” Shitty shoved his shades up on the bridge of his nose. “The Craigslist ad said, and I quote: must be motherfucking down to motherfucking clown.”

“That’s kind of a big ask,” said Jack.

“Oh yeah, how’s my old room at the Haus, Bits?” Lardo asked.

Bitty sighed. “Well, Dex now lives in the basement. So.”

Lardo raised a single brow.

“It’s a long story,” Bitty said.

“To rooming situations from haus to shining haus!” Shitty raised his beer, and everyone else followed suit.

“Hear, hear!”

Hanging out in Cambridge felt like old times, complete with Lardo slaughtering them all in Mario Kart. She was gracious enough to let Bitty be Peach, but the niceties ended there. They were taking a break from the game, Shitty and Rans and Holster and Jack all occupied with a board game, when Lardo leaned over a bit, bumping shoulders with Bitty.

“How’s Kent?” Lardo asked. “Are you guys still…?”

“Yes, we are.” Bitty drained the last of his beer. “He’s doing really well. Season starts soon, so he’s just been busy.”

Lardo nodded. “How many years is it, now?”

“Oh my Lord,” said Bitty. “It’s -- I don’t know. Three? Isn’t that crazy?”

“Yes,” Lardo said, passing him another beer. “Being in an LDR that long is pretty intense, bro.”

“It’s almost over,” Bitty said.

Lardo glanced at Jack, laughing about something with Shitty. “Is it?”

Ah. “Well -- no. I guess it isn’t.” Bitty rubbed the back of his neck. “But I’m going to Vegas after I graduate so it’ll just be… different.”

Lardo nodded. “Been planning that a while,” she said.

Bitty chewed his lower lip. He had been. He’d been thinking about it for a long time, actually, worried about logistics and appearances. Kent’s coming out had helped a little, but there was still no telling how the Bittles would handle their baby boy moving to Vegas to live with his boyfriend.

His boyfriend and his boyfriend, really.

Bitty spent his last night with Jack in Jack’s apartment, both of them snuggled up on the sofa with television and Jack’s favorite pie. Bitty ran fingers through Jack’s hair, smiled a little. “I’ll miss you, honey,” he said.

“I’ll miss you, too,” said Jack, curving gentle fingers around the back of Bitty’s neck.

“Yeah?” Pressing a hand to Jack’s chest, Bitty pushed up off the sofa a little. “Wanna give me something to remember you by?”

Jack laughed.

Kent put a new video up, and Bitty waited to watch it until he was home in his room, able to give it his full attention. Kent was in Jeff’s living room, sitting on the sofa wearing a faded Boston University hoodie that Bitty didn’t remember seeing before. Kent still didn’t put his face into the view of the camera, even though with Bitty out, it was truly only a matter of time before someone found the channel for real. There were a smattering of jumbled comments, a few coherently asking “IS THIS KENT PARSON?!?!?!!?!?!”, but nothing concrete. Yet.

In the video, golden sunlight streamed through the window behind Kent and Kevin curled up next to his side, her head resting on a little toy teddy bear. He scrubbed behind her ears with one hand before he began to play. The melody was sweet and familiar.

It was Rainbow Connection, the song from the Muppets.

Behind him, Jeff walked by, pausing for a moment. He laid a hand on Kent’s shoulder, for a moment, bent down, the ends of his dark hair falling into view, but the rest of him wasn’t visible on camera. His voice could be heard, just barely, murmuring something quiet — but Bitty couldn’t understand what he said. After pressing a kiss to the top of Kent’s head, Jeff wandered out of view of the camera. Kent played and sang without interruption, though Kevin had shifted, wagging her tail and staring up. Halfway through the song she laid her head back down, using the teddy bear as a pillow.

It was a serene little video, everything about it warm and soft. Domestic. Bitty’s stomach hurt a bit looking at it, and he took a deep breath. It was okay to be a little jealous, right? Surely Kent was a little jealous sometimes. Bitty was just used to having Kent all to himself, but it wasn’t bad for Kent to be with Jeff, too. He’d kind of been with Jeff the whole time they’d been together anyway, hadn’t he? And they’d had such a great summer.

It made him feel a tiny bit better to see a couple of comments asking where Sweetie’s boyfriend was, several of them decrying the lack of “cute baker” in the video.

When Bitty called on Skype that night, Kent answered from his own bedroom.

“Oh,” Bitty said. “You’re not at Jeff’s?”

Kent blinked. “No? Why would I be?”

“Well, I saw your video today and just thought --” Bitty squeezed Señor Bun. “It was really good, sweetie.”

Kent shrugged one shoulder. “You know I like to sleep in our bed.” Kit crawled into his lap and he buried one hand in soft fur. The purring was loud enough that Bitty could hear it through the computer. “Jeff’s downstairs, though.”

Of course he was. Jeff practically lived at Kent’s house. Bitty nodded.

Kent frowned. “Babe,” he said, after a moment. “Are you okay?”

“I just miss you,” Bitty said.

Kent softened all over, eyes warm and gold in the lamplight. “I miss you too, Eric,” he said. “I miss you all the time.”

“Even with Jeff there?” Bitty asked, hating how small his voice sounded.

“Yeah.” Kent slid his tongue along his lower lip before sucking it in under his teeth for a minute. His eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Eric,” he said. “Are you sure you’re okay with this --” he waved a hand -- “whole thing?”

“Yes,” said Bitty.

Kent tilted his head, and the light flashed on the lenses of his glasses. “We don’t have to do this,” he said, after a bit of quiet. “Me and Jeff, I mean.”

“Yes, you do,” said Bitty. Even if Kent thought they could go back, they couldn’t. Shouldn’t. “You belong together. Just like you and me.”

“Eric.” Kent rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away from the camera. “C’mon.”

“It’s fine,” Bitty said. “I mean, it’s different. I’m getting used to it. But it’s -- it isn’t bad, honey.”

“Really? ’Cause you don’t seem, like, thrilled about it,” Kent said. “You’re being weird.”

“It’s fine,” Bitty said, again. Because honestly, it was fine. And he’d be there when school was over, he’d already been looking at the job market in Vegas. “I’m not being weird. I want you to be together. Besides, it’s not like --” he cut himself off, shutting his mouth before he finished that sentence. What Jeff and Kent did was only marginally Bitty’s business, even if he could not stop thinking about it.

“It’s not like what?”

“It’s not like it’s a whole lot different from how you’ve been the entire time I’ve known you,” Bitty said, voice soft, “is what I was gonna say. Is it?”

Kent flushed. “It’s different,” he said.

Holy shit. Bitty sat up straighter, ignoring the twist in his stomach. “Kent Valeray Parson,” he said. “Did you sleep with him?”

Kent’s blush deepened. “I --”

“Oh my god,” said Bitty.

“Not yet,” Kent said.

“Oh my god,” said Bitty. But it had been so long! And Jeff was so, so hot. “Why not?”

Kent rubbed his face with both hands. “Just -- because, okay? We just haven’t.”

“If it’s because of me,” Bitty said, “I --”

“It’s not.” Kent stared down at his hands for a minute. “It’s not you.”

Bitty frowned. Did -- did Jeff not want to, or something? Oh, Lord. Maybe it was some kind of like, ‘I love you but I don’t want to sleep with you’ thing. Jeff was kind of known for fucking around. With women, granted, but still. Surely it wasn’t that Kent didn’t want to. “Honey,” he said. “Do you not want to?”

“Oh my god, Eric,” Kent said, “you have eyes, are you serious? It’s just not -- we’re not there yet, okay? Fuck.”

“Well --”

“Can we not do this?” Kent pushed Kit off his lap. “I don’t ask you about Jack, do I?”

Oh. “Okay,” said Bitty, squeezing Señor Bun. Kent was right, of course. He didn’t ask for details about Jack like that, never had. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked, it’s not really my business --”

Kent was quiet for a minute, picking at a thread on his comforter. “I just don’t know if he, like. Wants to?” he said.

“Sweetie,” Bitty said. “It’s Jeff.” Jeff Troy’s reputation was well-deserved, he was pretty sure. The way he looked at Kent? Bitty was pretty sure that wasn’t the case.

“I know,” said Kent.

“He’s, um.” Bitty rubbed the back of his neck, trying to think of the word. He was not going to call Jeff a fuckboy. Even though he was, according to internet message boards. “He, like, you know.” Liked to fuck. Oh, Lord. That meant -- surely Kent would ask Jeff to get tested. Bitty didn’t need to worry about that, too, did he?

“But I don’t think he’s picked up in a while?” Kent said. He chewed on his lower lip. “So, like. Maybe he’s not?”

“Or maybe he’s just saving himself for you?” Bitty countered.

That sentence was too ridiculous to bear, and after a moment, both of them laughed.

“So,” said Kent, “how ’bout them Dodgers?”

“Smooth,” Bitty said. “Real smooth.”

He missed Kent more than ever over the following few days. It wasn’t that he didn’t have enough to do. Bitty had more than enough to do, and he worried, going to bed at night, about not having enough energy to do it all. Kent sounded relaxed on the phone. Happy. Their calls were the same as ever, sweet and warm and faithful. Bitty could almost forget, sometimes, that Jeff was there -- except that Jeff was always there, always had been, and it was… hard, maybe, to think about him watching Bitty and Kent together all that time.

There was so much Bitty wanted to ask him, so much he knew Jeff wouldn’t say.

Bitty couldn’t really devote his time to cross-examining Jeff, anyway. At the Haus, Dex living in the basement was turning out not to be so bad. He was handy enough to fix the place up himself, and Bitty was certainly not going to complain about someone doing work. It needed it, and having Dex fix things kind of took some financial pressure off of everyone else -- as well as giving him something to do. It kept a little peace.

The Haus wasn’t entirely harmonious, though. Whiskey still hadn’t come around, Bitty noticed, preferring to spend most of his time elsewhere with other friends. He wasn’t being team. And as Captain, it felt like Bitty’s job to make sure all the boys were team.

All of his efforts to do so, however, fell flat. Repeatedly. On Skype with Kent, Bitty sighed a little, flopping down on his bed.

“What is wrong?”

“It’s nothing, Kent. It’s just been on my mind,” Bitty said. It was probably stupid to be so uptight about it, anyway. Kent wasn’t the most popular guy in his dressing room, either, and he did fine. Right?

“So it’s something, then,” Kent said, voice about as placid as Kent’s voice ever got.

“At the end of the day,” Bitty said, “I don’t care. I just can’t stop thinking about it and it bothers me.” Kent would know what he meant. They’d talked about it before.

“That’s, like, the definition of caring, Eric,” said Kent, voice warm.

“His high school girlfriend came into town and he didn’t even show her the Haus --”

“You mean he didn’t introduce her to you.” Kent’s voice was a little softer. “Eric --”

Bitty sighed. “That is what I meant,” he admitted. “It hurts. What am I doing wrong?”

“Not everybody is going to like you, babe,” Kent said. “Doesn’t matter what you do. I mean, I know you hate that, but Brian says that’s life or whatever.”

“I know that.” Bitty sighed again. It didn’t make him feel better, though, knowing. It didn’t help at all.

What was he going to do? He’d tried basically everything he could think of, and Whiskey still spent more time with the lacrosse team than he did at the Haus.

“It’s okay if he doesn’t want to, like, experience college the way you do,” said Kent, slowly, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with one finger. “You know that.”

“But I’m his Captain,” Bitty said. “And I can’t seem to get him involved in the team, you know? Team spirit?”

“Some dudes just, like, aren’t into that,” said Kent. He shrugged. “There’s always one or two in a room. It’s no big deal, guy’s good at hockey. You’ll be fine.”

“I just want --” Bitty chewed his lower lip. What did he want? A perfect senior year? Harmony across the Haus and the best team Samwell ever had?

Jeff pushed Kent’s door open. “Your phone’s ringing,” he said.

“Aw, fuck,” said Kent, “that’s the GM’s ringtone. I gotta take this, here --” he traded the laptop for his phone, leaving Jeff on screen. “Talk amongst yourselves.”

“I --”

Kent was gone before Bitty or Jeff could protest, and Bitty rubbed the back of his neck as Jeff chewed his lower lip.

“So,” said Jeff.

“So,” Bitty said. “You, uh. Y’all --”

“What did you say you wanted there, bro?” Jeff asked, interrupting Bitty’s question.

“Nothing,” Bitty said. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair as Jeff raised a brow, clearly unconvinced. “I don’t know. There’s just one guy on my team, y’know, I just. He’s not like, a part of the team?”

“Ah,” said Jeff. He sat, then, just quietly waiting. After a few minutes, Bitty somehow ended up ranting to him, too. When he paused to breathe, Jeff cleared his throat.

“Why don’t you go ahead and take about twenty percent off ’er there, bud,” Jeff said. “Nobody’s perfect, fuck.”

“But --”

“Some guys just don’t wanna do the whole, like, thing,” said Jeff. “It’s fine. If it’s not on the ice, it’s not important. I mean, like. You said he’s playing well. So stop trying to force everybody to be all Happy Days with you.”

Bitty sighed. “I am not,” he said, “forcing anybody to --”

“Just let the guy live, damn,” said Jeff.

What sucked was that Jeff was right, and Bitty knew it. He was trying to think of a decent comeback when Kent returned, the sound of the door interrupting Bitty’s train of thought.

“Jeff, stop antagonizing Eric,” Kent said.

“Oh my god,” said Jeff, “I wasn’t even doing anythi--”

“Yeah,” Bitty said, “stop antagonizing your boyfriend’s boyfriend.”

“Hey!” Jeff ran a hand through his hair, pulling it out of his face. “I’m just being honest, man!”

“Horizontal violence,” said Bitty, and Jeff rolled his eyes.

Climbing back into bed, Kent had to crawl over Jeff. They paused for a moment, Kent half in Jeff’s lap, and Jeff leaned in to press a kiss to Kent’s mouth. When they parted he was grinning, and Kent swatted at him before pushing away to settle on the bed again.

“I miss you,” Bitty said, and he felt it with his whole heart, wasn’t sure if he meant just Kent or both of them. Watching them, Bitty realized that together they felt like home.

His chest felt tight. He missed the warmth of their Canadian summer, laughing in a rental house and sharing ice cream. Leaning his cheek in one hand, Bitty smiled softly, just looking at them on camera.

Looking back, something in Jeff’s face softened a little, and he turned to look at Kent.

“I miss you, too,” Kent said, and when Jeff reached out to run his thumb over Kent’s cheekbone, he closed his eyes for a moment. “Wish you were here.”

“Soon,” said Jeff. He glanced at Bitty on the screen, smiled softly.

“Soon,” Bitty agreed. Soon they wouldn’t have to rely on Skype at all.

( the whole fic is here on AO3 )

[harukapetals]

Strawberries and Cream

You’re baking on a Sunday, and when Harry sees you, he can’t hold back.

(I was bored and wrote some smut  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  enjoy)

It was a quiet Sunday, both you and Harry were free the entire day, which with your busy schedules was a miracle. Because you were free, Harry saw it as an opportunity to sleep in and cuddle all day, but you were restless, aching for something, anything to do. You remembered a carton of strawberries that you had bought, and smiled at the thought of waking Harry with homemade strawberry cupcakes from scratch. You debated for a moment whether or not to get dressed fully, your body only clad in one of Harry’s t-shirts and your underwear underneath, and decided against it, feeling like the opening and closing of drawers would disturb the sleeping beauty in your bed.

You slowly pried yourself from his suffocating grasp, and crept to the kitchen, where you unloaded all of the supplies needed for your sweet concoction. As you were pulling out ingredients, you called out to your Google Home to play the Weeknd, singing along to the silky vocals while you worked. You began to mix together your ingredients, mashing the strawberries in one bowl, and combining the dry ingredients in another. You began to whip the cream for the top when you saw an Adonis leave your bedroom, his eyes drooping with fatigue. Your Harry.

He looked so lovely in the morning, his hair messy, his cheeks a bit flushed, and most importantly, his sweatpants hanging loosely from his hips, exposing the lovely v-shape that lead into his boxers. He looked like pure sex, though that could be said at any time and it would still be true.

“Mm, that smells lovely. Though the bed got cold without you.” He mumbled, his voice rough, as it always was when he just woke up. His arms wrapped around you as you whipped the cream, adding sugar to the mixture and trying not to think about the erection that was pressing into your back. You decided to play dumb, swaying your hips to the rhythm of “Wicked Games” by the Weeknd, lowly singing along.

“I got my heart right here, I got my scars right here.” You continued singing along, your movements getting more and more heated as the song went on. Harry’s large hands began to roam, taking in your body fully as he roughly grabbed your hips, spinning you to face him.

“Just let me motherfucking love you.” He whispered the lyrics, a sinful look in his eyes as he leaned down to kiss you. His soft lips brushed yours for a moment, before fully delving into his lust. His hands grabbed desperately at your thighs, squeezing them before lifting you onto the counter, moving his body forward so that he was stood between your legs. His teeth nipped at your lower lip, growling playfully before slipping his tongue in your mouth, the flavor of mint bursting on your tongue.

His fingers moved south, trailing painfully lightly on your inner thigh, knowing fully well that the gentle touches weren’t going to cut it. The tips of his fingers brushed over your clothed center, which was practically dripping onto the marble countertop. The slight touch made you whine, as your body desperately craved something a bit rougher. He chuckled at your piteous sounds, a devilish grin spreading over his lips. He pulled the t-shirt over your head, and took in your barely clothed form. His eyes went to the bowl of cream that you had whipped, and suddenly, his eyes were filled with desire. He took a dollop on his fingers, and messily smeared it on your breasts, causing you to gasp, both from his fingers and the cold temperature of the cream. He maintained eye contact with you, dipping his head to your cream covered tits before taking the sweet substance into his willing mouth, causing you to moan out, your head rolling back on the counter. Harry tutted, bringing your head back up.

“I want you to watch.” The words were filthy, and you were more than willing to please him. “You know how much I love your cooking.” He mumbled against your skin, sucking on your pink nipple. Your tiny fingers weaved their way into his long locks, tugging gently to keep him in place. His hands surprised you by finding the place that you needed him most, which, at that point, was soaking wet. He pulled your soiled panties to the side, smirking when you gasped at the cold air hitting you.

“You’re absolutely wrecked, aren’t you, baby girl? Is this what you wanted? Why else would you be out here half naked?” Harry cooed, hungry lips attacking your neck as you nodded quickly, whining and whimpering when his long middle finger teased your entrance before slowly pushing in.

The relief of the fullness was euphoric, and you had to stop yourself from writhing to gain some friction. Your clit was left painfully neglected, though Harry knew that, and planned to keep it that way for at least a couple moments. The speed of his finger, which was pumping in and out of your center, was slow, so slow. He was teasing you, and this was evident in  every move he made.

“Harry, please… please I can’t…” You begged, writhing beneath him. “I need you.”

“Mm… I think we can beg a bit better than that, can’t we?” He whispered sweetly in your ear, curling his finger inside you to meet your g-spot, changing his pace to be a bit faster.

“P-Please, please daddy, I need you, please fill me up.” Your cheeks were burning, both from the gentle finger-fucking that you were receiving and from the embarrassment from your words.

“That’s much better.” He removed his finger, causing you to gasp at the loss. He tugged his sweatpants and boxers down, and you spread your legs as far as you could manage, your body begging for his cock.

He may have agreed to fuck you, but the teasing wasn’t over. He loved to tease you until you were a dripping, begging mess for him. And you loved to be defiant until you couldn’t take it anymore. It was your favorite game of cat and mouse.

He ran the tip of his cock over your core, slowly swirling it around your clit, which was left alone until that moment. Your hips bucked involuntarily at the contact, causing Harry to grab your waist, pushing you back down.

“Ah, ah, ah.” A smirk crept onto Harry’s face, his eyes glazed over with lust. He slowly pushed into you, causing all of the breath to leave your lungs. The pleasure was indescribable, and you felt your arousal trickle down your thigh and onto the counter. This was the effect that Harry had on you. Once he was fully inside, you were practically at the point of tears, needing him to move. “What do we say?” Harry asked before pulling his full lower lip between his teeth.

“Really?” You asked, annoyed with his patience and your lack thereof. He raised an eyebrow at you, showing that he was one hundred percent serious. You took a deep breath before saying, “Please, please fuck me, I can’t take it.” Your legs were wrapped so tightly around Harry’s waist you thought he must have lost blood circulation. He pulled your body up, kissing your lips feverishly before thrusting quickly in you, causing you to melt, the pleasure overwhelming your body. Harry had a way of turning you primal, making pleasure your only goal, and the only thing on your mind. You dragged your nails down Harry’s back, causing him to groan with pleasure. He left hickeys all over your skin, but mostly on your breasts, which still had the sticky remains of whipped cream on them.

“B-Baby, I’m gonna cum…” He whispered to you, and you nodded, feeling your own release building. His willing fingers found your clitorus, which he massaged to the rhythm of his thrusts, urging you closer and closer to your orgasm. Your body twitched with your orgasm, each wave of pleasure racking your body and lifting your hips off of the counter. You gasped, breathless as Harry continued thrusting through your orgasm until he met his own, releasing deep inside you. You cried out at the unique pleasure, your ankles locking behind his back. His clammy body collapsed on yours, both of you left heavily breathing and with pink cheeks.

“You should bake every Sunday.” Harry mumbled into your skin, which reminded you and caused you to jump up.

“Shit! The cupcakes.”

[solomonfiore]

Pigs

We’d been corralled into a muddy pen from out of the back of a truck. The pig next to me led by example on what not to do. He stood up on two legs to announce that a mistake had been made. He was not a pig at all, he said, but a human being.

This behavior was unsettling to the pigs around him. A few of them approached him nervously. They comforted him with fake smiles, wiggling their snouts against his cheeks. He was just confused, they assured him. He’d adjust to his new quarters and soon accept that he was a pig after all. He’d just been traumatized from being so suddenly relocated.

This coddling was squelched the instant the more hardened hams came to address the new arrivals. Flaunting their bigotry and ethnocentrism like trophies, these alpha pigs went down a list of rules to us, shouting them in our faces.

As we were being grilled about the do’s and dont’s of the pigpen, one of the lady pigs snuck away from the crowd to report to her superiors. A newcomer was already trying to incite panic at the campsite, she told them. He had the gall to tell everyone there that he wasn’t a pig at all, but a human being!

It wasn't the first time this offense had been committed. Numerous pigs had tried to get away with disguising their true identities in the past, inciting discontent within the male ranks, anxiety amongst the females. Gang activity was associated with this misconduct. In other words, it was intolerable. It had to be dealt with swiftly and harshly if order were to be maintained. To curb this rising epidemic, a rule strictly forbidding the use of species’ aliases was enforced.

Death would be the penalty for the malefactor who’d transgressed this rule within merely ten minutes of our arrival.

Some of the pigs wore uniforms. They were the only pigs permitted to speak to our corporate captors. The man who’d spoken out of turn was led away by these pigs. The buzz of a circular saw was heard shortly thereafter, the horrid bellows of a freshly slaughtered prisoner groaning beneath the sparks of the enormous blade.

As the screams from the execution simmered down to a gurgle, a clove of cabbage bounced off my cheek. I was pelted with carrots seconds later.

From the other side of the fence, a man in a suit and tie had thrown some rotten food at me.

“Look at that filthy pig grunting in the mud,” he said to his followers behind him, all of them tall, white, upstanding citizens like himself. With their heels and shoulders pressed close together, the crowd formed a wall that towered high above us in the sky, blotting us out as we stood around in our own waste.

The asshole in the suit directed his entourage back to the farmhouse to complete some business transactions.

While sitting atop a hill of feces below the sunny window of the family farmhouse, I heard the tip of a pen scraping across a sheet of paper on a desk. The chief executive had just signed our lives away. For the week to follow, we’d be taken away one by one, being told we just had to go over some minor preliminary or other with the boss to keep everyone calm. Inquiries were never made as to why he or she had never returned after having been taken away. No one seemed to know or care about the absence of their fellows and the dwindling population. I knew we were being exterminated. Unfortunately, everyone else had been brainwashed. It was inexcusable to question the superiority of the human beings and the uniformed pigs. Every indication had been given to the pigs that their best interests were always being kept in mind by administration. I knew this was complete bullshit. But I’d be assassinated on the spot if I said this.

I kept my jaws clenched tight together, clamped around my churning mind as I sketched out a course of action.

‘You cannot tell them,’ said a voice in my head. ‘You must show them.’

A scuffle in the mud distracted me. A female pig was being harassed by some male pigs. I wanted to intervene but felt so helpless at the time. I’d become hopelessly disgusted with this entire dump. I hated myself for having gotten caught up in this mess and not knowing what to do.

Though losing more and more belief in myself as time went on, I still stuck to my plan of sneaking out of our pen at night when the moon was at its highest point in the sky. From the farmer’s shed, I’d pilfer one tool a night and hide it near the main gate. I prepared myself to get at least one cold konk in before they dragged me away, choosing equipment I thought would do the most damage.

While returning from the shed on the third night, a shadow in the twilight cast itself on me - a great female figure. The lining of my belly froze. My scheme had surely been implicated by a farmhand or one of the other pigs.

“You too?” came a voice from out of the darkness, instantly calming in the sweetness of its cadence. I recognized it as Vita’s, the only pig I hadn’t written off as full of shit. Indeed, she’d been the only one to extend a non-judgmental word to me since I’d arrived. She’d caught me standing on two feet - a violation that held the same penalty as using the “h” word. But what was this? She’d also risen up from off all fours. Standing quietly by the fence beside me, she wiped the mud away from her face to reveal that, not only was she a human being like me, but a strikingly beautiful one at that.

Our predicaments were the same. Both of us knew perfectly well we weren’t pigs but couldn’t share this secret for fear of being implicated for treason. The plot had thickened. Now I had an ally.

We came up with a plan. This is how it all went down:

I got around behind one of the pigs in uniform when two of them came for Vita. They weren’t used to insubordination. It was easy to get the copper’s revolver out of his holster. Before the other one could even think of drawing his piece, I’d shot him in the stomach. As his intestines poured out of his ruptured gut, I emptied two more shots into his face. The thick skull of his partner retained the remainder of the clip. He’d still been absentmindedly patting down the empty holster on his belt as his buddy was being dispatched.

The farmer arrived to discover the bluecoats laid out in the dirt, the gate to the stable left wide open. He didn’t see me hiding behind it. From my secret stockpile I’d withdrawn a metal rake. It glinted in the sun before descending, its rusty teeth penetrating the denim of the farmer’s overalls to sink into his breastplate. His lungs and heart pierced, his final breaths dribbled out of his mouth and into a ravine of dung.

Vita had managed to exit the open gate during this commotion. Distracted by the massacre of their masters, the others failed to notice her escape. We bid each other ado and she fled across the cornfield.

Her escape would prove successful. I wish I could’ve joined her. Were it not for her I might have died in this world believing I truly was a pig, laid out on a chopping block as the circular saw cut its lethal grooves into the back of my head.

I’d been throwing pearls before swine, she’d said. Just because we’d refused to bow down to the will of the ignorant oinkers surrounding us didn’t mean that they were in the right by insisting we weren’t human. They were the pigs, not us.

My end of the strategy would also prove successful. The goal?

Let’s just say that none of those motherfuckers had bacon that day.

Investigators would later find the blood of the deceased farmer’s wife splattered all over the kitchen walls. I’d bludgeoned the fat cunt to death with a shovel.

Sliced, diced, and hacked up with an axe, all three of their children’s bodies would be deemed too unrecognizable for open caskets at the funeral.

I’d be shot down by police on the porch an hour later. What mattered was that I hadn’t died on all fours at the hands of my captors.

I’d been forbidden from telling everybody I wasn’t a pig.

So I had to show them I wasn’t.

Solomon Fiore - July 2, 2018