#folding dogears

[gentrigger]

My dad used to be a skater and the hobby was passed down to me. He'd collect skateboards and we'd both set them up and ride them. From the perspective of the usual sort of collector this might seem harrowing. It's like saying I open up collectible figures and play with them by throwing them down stairs as a kid would.

There's a concept I learned from that though, that was reinforced by a book called Disposable : A History of Skateboard Art. It's the idea that art can be disposable. A skateboard is scratched, scraped, chipped, and one day breaks. To apply art to that sort of item gives it an initial character. It's a canvas that you express yourself on by not only getting a deck that has art that speaks to you, but also by expressing yourself physically on it by riding.

Stickers, pins, charms, patches, clothing, books, they all wear down as they're used, and that sort of use applies an earnest sort of love to them.

[wizzdot]

The Patron Saint of One Way Trips

Ch6

Description: another slow burn chapter. I did warn y’all. Don’t think Y/N /Laika can quite grasp that she isn’t a monster. She might realise eventually!! Progress with Soap and Gaz - think they might have a soft spot for her already!!

Laika's (Y/N's) POV*

I eventually recover from Soap's - well - whatever the hell that was.

"Thirty minutes till we load the car and go to the Heli. Let's not keep Kate waiting" the Captain rumbles from the kitchen. I must have put him in a bad mood..

"I have nothing to pack.. should I just" - "you can help me pack, the room is a mess. Need to leave it clean and ready to be used in emergencies again" Gaz interrupts. I nod and follow him back upstairs. I seem to be doing this a lot. Just following Gaz around like a stray mutt. God, they must find me so annoying.

Gaz strides into the large room to the right hand side of the upper landing. I stop at the door. The strong scent of Alpha phermones almost knocks me back a step. I'm not usually overly bothered by scents however I put it down to the fact I've been in the facility for so long, the guards were probably taking blockers anyway. That's what I settle on to explain my new found ability.. if you can even call it that. It's because I've not been exposed to any scents.

"Just come in, we don't do the traditional 'permission to enter the nest' bullshit. We ain't exactly a traditional pack as it is" Gaz says, motioning me further into the Alpha's nest. I try not to look at the worn clothes scattered around the room. It looks so.. lived in. There are reading glasses on the bedside table. I wonder who wears reading glasses..? Two books stacked, one bookmarked, the other dog eared. I bet the dogeared one is Soap's. There is a journal on the floor with a pen resting in the central valley between pages. There is a beautiful drawing on one page, the next page is filled with messy disorganised writing which is, in a strange backwards sense, very pretty. Intruder! Intruder! Get out of their space! You don't belong here! My brain starts to shout at me.

"C'mere" Gaz stops my inner thoughts from running rampage. I obediently move towards Gaz and await instruction. Obedient little mutt, indeed. SHUT UP! I wish I could turn my brain off for a few minutes. Or longer..

"We can start with my stuff. Just check labels for names.. Are you warm enough? You'll probably want a hoodie for the ride home, right?" - "Oh uhm, are you sure you want me rooting through your belongings...?" - "You're not rooting through anything, you're helping, I asked, didn't I?" he reassures "ok, yeah.. ok.. sorry.." - "here, that's my bag" he places his bag on the large bed. The bed they all share. The pack bed.. You shouldn't be in here... QUIET! My damned brain and its self sabotaging tendencies.

I start by collecting the things that Gaz has piled in a seperate stack of all of his things. Fold, place in the bag. Fold, place in the bag, Fold, place in the bag.. it becomes quite relaxing. I enjoy the scent of his clothes wafting past my nose as I fold them. I shouldn't be enjoying it, should I.. Snap out of it.. They are literally taking me to be interrigated later today, why am I acting as if I'm welcome? Stop it, stupid girl!

I make it to the end of the pile and he claps his hands together once as the last piece of clothing gets zipped inside the bag. "Done and dusted! Here, I kept this out for you to wear on the ride back to base." He presents a navy hoodie, a Union flag on the upper sleeve, 'Sgt. K Garrick' embroidered over the chest, below a larger fonted 'SAS - TF141'. I take it from his hold. "Thank you..." I say softly. He smiles brightly at me as I pull it over my head. I must look ridiculous wearing all these clothes that are far too big for me..

*Gaz's POV*

She pulls my hoodie over her head. YES! Mission accomplished.. She will be warm *and* be covered in my scent. I shouldn't care but seeing her in my clothes again wakes something up in me. Like when she wore my jacket.. and how Johnny must have felt when she walked down this morning in his clothes. I knew he'd enjoy the sight.. led her down the stairs trying to wipe the smirk from my fuckin' face. I could see how effected Cap was from the showergel scent too. That fuckin' tobacco smell drives him mad. Could tell it caught him off guard when she turned the corner dressed in his pack Alpha's clothes and scented up to high heavens.

*Laika's (Y/N's) POV*

Gaz is looking me up and down, I shrink under his gaze, embarrassed. He definetly thinks I look ridiculous. "C'mon, love, downstairs.. looks like we are ready to. You got your hanky bandana thing?" He asks. I pat my pocket for the shape of it, before nodding, confirming that I haven't lost it. "Good, let's go then. The others will only be five minutes".

I trail after him towards the front door of the house. He holds his hand out, stopping me in my tracks. "You wait here, I'll go and check the perimeter and bring the car round to the door. You'll be alright waiting, won't you?" God he thinks I'm useless, such a burden. The floor is suddenly all too interesting. "I'll be ok" I confirm. He nods and pats my arm before turning and leaving through the door. I get a brief blast of cold air. I'm thankful that I'm no longer in my cell - the snow fell heavily last night. I'm thankful for the hoodie Gaz had let me borrow.

I flinch when two big hands suddenly grab my shoulders from behind. "What's the matter, lass? Planning your escape?" - "No - no Ky-Gaz went to get the car... I was told to stay.." - "Awkt, I'm sure he didnae mean stand and stare at the door. C'mere, come sit with me" - "I..I -"

Soap practically herds me to the sofa and directs me, by my shoulders, to sit. He sits right next to me. "Nice hoodie, you smell like one of us, eh?" he inhales, obnoxiosly loudly and groans. I resist the need to roll my eyes at his light-hearted joking, still not quite ready to leave the sad, anxious corner of the depths of my brain but the fact I was even considering must be progress though, right. It just upsets me, that every single time I feel like I could feel a tiny better, I am reminded that I don't belong here - or anywhere for that matter - and that I am following along with these deadly Alphas, like a stupid mouse right into a trap. It was inevitable.

"Where've you gone.. hey! Laika..?" I feel him tapping on my knee, trying to snap me out of it. Looking at him, with watery eyes, he practically engulfs me. "What's the matter? Tell me.." he pleads, with the softest voice I'd heard from him, right next to my ear. I just sniffle into his chest, still frozen, not reciprocating his embrace , instead, finding warmth and seclusion in his arms. I finally feel like I have some privacy, which is strange, isn't it?

"Whatever it is, it willnae go away if you bottle it up, lass. Tell me, we might be able to help.." - I lean away from him, wiping my face messily with the too-long sleeves of my - I mean Gaz's - hoodie. "I just - I am going to be interrogated.. and I've done so much, so many lives.. so much blood on my hands, all my doing.. I deserve whatever I get, but - but - I'm scared.."

"Lass, this isn't how it's going to happen. We just want to find out more about you. You've been drugged right? You've been forced into submission.. like a puppet on a string. Laswell - she's understanding of circumstances. Hell - L.T's got a few skeletons in his closet - pardon the pun" he laughs. "S'not funny" I whisper, "Look, we dinnae even know what you are going to present as when the drugs leave your system, it's illegal to alter presentations and designations without consent, so you've already got that on your side" he tries to reassure me. "I'm probably Beta.. my parents.. they were Beta's".

"The Cap said you were in there for, what, six years? fuckin' hell. So .. you're twenty six-ish then? That's awful late to be undesignated, lass. Those bastards." he rants on, I just sit quietly and listen. "What other tests and bullshit did you have done to you?" - "lost track, it'll be on my file somewhere. They recorded everything.. They changed it up when I did'nt cooperate to a satisfactory level.." - "what the fuck does that mean?" he scoffs, angrily "well, there was one mission, where I was sent to kill two cartel members.. they were a bonded pair..." my voice breaks and my eyes start to water again. "C'mon lass, you're doing so well telling me all about it.. keep going for me" he rubs my knee reassuringly.

I continue "They were a bonded pair.. I-I had lost my drugs that I was ordered to take three times a day to keep me complient. They must have been fading from my system, because I started to-to question the information I had been given. My own conciousness sort of kept fading in and out at that point. It's sort of blurry.. I- I had the shot lined up on the leader - an Alpha - and just as I was about to pull the trigger.." I stop suddenly and turn away.

"Shhh, lass, shhhh, it's ok.." - C'mon, tell him - "the trigger, a kid pulled my leg.. he needed help, he'd been caught in the fire and was all hurt and scared.. I don't know why.. I shouldn't have done it.. it was stupid of me.. I shouldn't have.." I wipe my tears again, reliving the trauma. My heart hurt. "Shouldn't have what, Lass, what did you do to the wee boy?" he asks, I swear I can hear suspicion or tentative anger in his voice.

"I got him killed. Walked him straight to his execution. Delivered him to his death.." I weep.

"whoa, whoa - what d'ya mean? You've lost me, lass. Slow down, take deep breaths, aye?"

"I - I took him and hid him under my elbow, I lined up the shot again, trying to keep the boy quiet.. but he was scared. He was so scared.. Something got in the way of the shot.. it was - was one of the guards from the facility. They'd come to finish the job, probably thought I was dead because I was late returning or something like that, but when I saw him in my scope I took the shot.."

"Good lass, you were fighting the drugs! You clever girl!" - "no- no not clever.. I tried to run back to the spot they said they'd pick me up from.. I don't know why but my brain wasn't - wasn't completely cleared from the drugs. I don't know why I thought they'd be pleased. Pleased that I'd saved the kid. All they cared about was the success of the mission. The cartel leader. And his mate, a male omega. I think he was killed.. because they were never apart but when I had my shot, it was just the Alpha.. I think - I think he saw me, when I took the shot at the guard, I swear he caught my eye as I ran.."

"Did you make it back to where you were supposed to meet?"

"Yeah, they shot the boy. Right between the eyes. It was like slowmotion. I don't remember what happened, but I woke up attached to machines and my brain went back into the controlled state again.. they developed a new drug that lasted longer, so it didn't risk running out on missions.."

"Bastards.. fucking BASTARDS" Soap rages. I look at my lap, shaking and weeping. "Pieces of shit, I'll fucking kill the lot of them slowly and" - "Johnny, that's enough!" he is interupted by a gruff voive.

I look up from my, lap my eyes widening. I obviously didn't notice the arrival of the rest of the pack. The Captain was leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed and a reserved anger soured his face and crinkled his brow. Slightly behind him was Gaz. How hadn't I noticed Gaz come back from outside..? Then behind both of them, I see the masked Ghost, sitting on the bottom of the stairs, his elbows resting on his knees, while he cracked his knuckles.

I had just signed my death sentence. They'd heard everything. How I killed the boy.. Fuck.

FUCK!

[kybercrystals94]

I Miss You

By KyberCrystals94

Read on Ao3 here!

Whumptober 2023|Day 5|Alternative Prompt: Playing Cards

Bad Things Happen Bingo|Prompt: Crying Themselves to Sleep

Rating: G

Words: 785

Summary: Echo discovers a message from a brother.

“Those look so old!” Wrecker declares, leaning on the upper bunk to scrutinize the playing cards Echo is sorting through.

Echo smiles. “That’s because they are old. I pilfered them off a graduated trooper when I was a cadet.”

“You stole them?” Wrecker sounds as impressed as he is surprised. “I thought you never broke a rule in your life.”

“With the right motivation, I’ve been persuaded to bend a few.” Echo chuckles. “Technically, they were contraband for the guy I stole them from. So, really, I was doing him a favor.”

Wrecker grins. “That’s neat you still have them even after they thought you were blown up.”

Echo’s smile falls slightly as he continues to set the cards out, dividing them into suits. “Yeah, when they thought I died, they went to my old batch mate, Fives. After Fives, they went to Rex, and then Rex gave them back to me when I-"

"Came back to life?” Wrecker offers.

“Sure,” Echo says. “When that happened.”

“I don’t think you could even shuffle them if you tried.” Wrecker laughs.

“They’ve definitely seen better days.”

The cards are dogeared, and every one of them has been folded into quarters because of the time Cutup tried to cheat at Sabaac. He folded a few of them so he could identify them in someone’s hand. When the other Dominos found out, they had painstakingly copied the folds on every single card so they all matched. Echo had been so angry at his squad mate, but he desperately wishes he could take back the harsh words that came out of his mouth. After all, they were just cards. A toy. Nowhere near as important as the individuals that played with them.

Echo finds the card he is looking for, the one that had made this deck obsolete. He had accidentally dropped the card in his cup of caf, discoloring it. Fives had suggested they stain all the cards in caf to match; however, Echo decided to retire the deck and get a new one. The old deck was tucked away in his storage bin in the barracks on Kamino, carrying too many memories in its deteriorated fibers to throw away.

Echo holds up the stained card for Wrecker's inspection. “I dropped it in my caf. It’s the reason we didn’t play with this deck anymore,” he explains.

“What does it say?” Wrecker asks.

“What does what say?”

Wrecker points to the back of the card. “On the back. There’s writing.”

Echo flips the card around, squinting to make out the ink of a pen on the intricately designed backing.

I miss you.

Echo feels like the air has been stolen from his lungs.

Fives wrote those words. There is no doubt in Echo’s mind. Not before the Citadel mission. After. After Echo died. After Fives went back to Kamino. Echo can see him. Sitting in their barracks, sorting through Echo’s meager collection of personal effects. He’s searching for a playing card stained in caf. He writes the three words, handwriting ragged by a trembling hand. A note for the brother he lost. That he'd never get back. I miss you.

“Echo!”

Echo blinks and finds that Wrecker has half climbed into the bunk with him, a hand on each of his shoulders. “You with me, buddy?” Wrecker asks.

“Yeah,” Echo croaks. He clears his throat. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Wrecker’s good eye searches Echo’s face, trying to understand. “You scared me there for a second. You sorta zoned out, and then your breathing got weird.”

“Sorry,” Echo says again. Emotions bubble up, threaten to burst out of him, card still gripped in his flesh hand. Dark, inky, familiar script carving into his mind. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

“Did I do something?” Wrecker asks, climbing down from his precarious perch.

Echo shakes his head and tries to reassure the man with a thin smile. “No, you didn’t do anything. It’s just…” Echo holds up the card. “The writing. It’s a note from my batch mate, Fives.”

He leaves it at that, and Wrecker doesn’t ask for more. Instead, he offers Echo a kind smile. “I'm gonna go start my watch but let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Wreck, I will,” Echo says, and he means it.

Wrecker leaves the bunk room, and Echo gathers up the cards, tucking them in their tin. He keeps the caf stained card out. He lies down, back to the room, facing the wall, and holds the note in front of him. The last words his oldest brother ever gave him blurs in his watery vision.

“I miss you too,” Echo whispers, and silently cries until sleep claims him.

END

Read the prequel, You Promised, here!

[dreamofbecoming]

yeah alright this got away from me. posting in pieces, part one is just stobin, no shippy stuff. steddie and rockie to follow. i'll drop it on ao3 once all 3 parts are done

now on ao3!

platonic stobin

rating: t

wc: 3.5k

---

Robin stopped being surprised by Steve Harrington showing up at her bedroom window months ago. Jesus, there's a sentence her 16 year old self wouldn't fucking believe for a second. The Hair, climbing up the trellis her dad built for the roses her mom planted and then forgot about three months later? Yeah right, as if. But it turns out alternate dimensions and sci-fi movie monsters and Russian conspiracies in Bumfuck, Nowhere, USA are all real, so how surprising really is The King himself, collapsing through her window with all the grace of a baby giraffe, out of breath like he- holy shit, did he fucking run here?

"Dingus, did you run here? What the hell?"

"Had to- hang on, Jesus. Holy shit." He bends over, hands on his knees, panting like he just ran a marathon. Which, she guesses, he almost did.

"You have a car, you lunatic, what could possibly be so important?"

"Didn't think about it. Had to get here."

"Is someone dead?!" Oh fuck, Is the Upside Down back? Oh shit, oh no, it can't be back, right? Superhero girl closed the gates! Right?! Oh god, oh no, oh fuck, it's back, the Russians are back, they realized they couldn't let her live after what she's seen, her parents will never even know what happened to her, and they'll kill Dingus too, and dorky little Henderson, and that menace Erica, oh god, they're gonna die, and Hopper's gone and superhero girl is far away and she doesn't have superpowers anymore anyway, which is frankly bogus because what the hell, Robin never even got to hang out with a real live magic person before, which, ok, that's a selfish thought, but that's ok, we can think selfish thoughts and then set them aside and not act on them, thoughts are not actions, thoughts happen all the time without our consent, they don't determine our character-

"Bobs, you're spiraling. Nothing bad happened, I just realized something and I freaked out and I had to talk to you right away. Forgot to call. Sorry, I should have called. Ran straight out of the house. I don't even think my shoes match, what the fuck?"

She's gonna kill him, she really is.

She loves him so much.

"Jesus, you're insane. Sit, you absolute dweeb. I'm getting you some water, when I get back you can tell me what the hell is going on."

He's sitting on her bed when she gets back upstairs, staring at something in his hands. Christ, his hands are shaking. What the fuck, Dingus?

He takes the water and downs it in one go- ugh, sports guys- then flops onto his back and covers his eyes with a miserable groan.

"I know we've got the whole twin telepathy thing going on, bubba, but I'm gonna need at least a little bit to work with here. Give me something. Is it your parents? The kids? Uh, what was her name? From Thursday? Janice?"

"Janine, and no. Ugh. Here." The arm not covering his eyes flops out towards her, holding- ah. A zine. He had promised to drive up to Indy last weekend to the secret bookshop she told him about and get her some new ones, even though she couldn't go with him because her cousin Randy got caught cheating on his fiancée and her parents made her come with the rest of the family to help him move. Fucking Randy. Maybe he should make better choices, so the rest of them wouldn't have to clean up his messes. Jerk.

Anyway.

"Marked the page." Which, yep, there's a purple paper clip stuck to a page near the middle, because Steve knows how much she hates people who dogear books, even books that aren't really books at all, so he's been training himself out of it, because he's sort of the best. Again, 16 year old Robin would have her committed for thinking that, but here we are.

The pamphlet isn't one of the periodicals she sent him for, so he must have picked it up on his own. It looks handmade, just some folded sheets that look like they came out of a typewriter, bound with the kind of twine you can buy at the hardware store. It's called Awakenings. The page he's marked looks like a personal essay, no title, no real signature, just a pair of initials at the end of the page and a half of writing. She starts reading, trying to figure out what the hell spooked Steve so bad.

"I've always been normal. I've always had crushes on men, just like the other girls. There was never a feeling of "I'm different," or "Oh, this is wrong." There was never anything to think very hard about. I'd giggle and blush when the boys looked over at us on the playground, same as everyone else. Later on when I was older I looked at my poster of Harrison Ford, shirtless and hairy and sweating, and I touched myself, and it felt good, just like it was supposed to. I didn't mind thinking of my future husband, and our future kids, and the pretty house with the pretty garden we'd have, just like my parents have, just like they wanted for me. I was normal. Everything was fine.

I thought everything about me was normal. So I didn't understand why the other girls at sleepover parties would giggle and stop and say "Ew, gross!" when we practiced kissing. It felt nice! I wanted to keep going! But it seemed like no one else did. I didn't understand why none of them talked about getting butterflies in their stomach when Laura, who was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen, transferred in our senior year, why they seemed so angry at her. Those butterflies were what jealousy felt like, right? So why did the other girls seem to feel so different?

I made my first lesbian friend in college, on the very first day, right across the hall in my dorm. We sat next to each other at Orientation and I thought I'd never have another best friend that wonderful in my whole life, so I'd hold on to her with everything I had. She came out to me the night before Christmas break, hiding under the blankets in my dorm room with the twinkling lights glowing. She was so scared. I held her and told her I loved her no matter what, and she seemed so glad, to have someone to talk to.

When she talked about falling in love with girls, I was so confused. The way she described it sounded like what it felt like to have girlfriends, I was sure. I felt that all the time. I asked her if she was sure she was gay, and she looked so shocked and angry and hurt, and I didn't know how to fix it, so I tried to explain. That what she felt couldn't be liking girls, because I felt that too, and I was normal. I liked boys, so I couldn't be gay. I couldn't be.

I'm glad it was her I said all that to. If someone else had told me about being bisexual, I think I would have hated them. I would have cried, and screamed, and said horrible things. Because I wasn't gay, I was normal, and it was so scary to think that might be a lie. Thank God it was her, my best friend in the world, who I never want to lose. Thank God I listened.

Because I'm not normal. I'm queer. I like men, and I like women. I can love them both the same, but it doesn't matter anymore, because I love her. I love her, and she loves me, and I don't need to be normal anymore."

Robin's face feels wet, which probably means she's crying. She cries a lot, reading these sorts of stories, in the zines she has to keep hidden under her bed, or, these days, at Steve's house. It's never going to be her, she knows. Not here in Hawkins, but it still makes something ache deep inside her, like pressing on a bruise, but in a good way, seeing love happen to other people. People like her. Seeing that it can.

"So?"

Oh shit. Right, Dingus. They're about him right now. Something about this essay in particular freaked him out.

"Uh. It's. A nice essay? I'm glad things worked out for them?"

Stevie lets out a pathetic whine, sort of like back at Scoops when he earned a particularly bad tally on the You Suck board. "Robbiiiiiiieeeee!"

"I'm sorry! I think I'm missing something, what's wrong with this essay? I don't get it, bubba, I'm sorry. I need some context." She does feel bad. Usually she can pluck whatever's bothering him right out of his brain and into the light, where it almost never looks as bad, but she's at a loss right now.

He's got both hands over his face again, and his response is so muffled she can't make out a word.

"Try again in human sounds, please."

"Ugh! I thought everyone felt like that!"

Huh? "Felt like...what, exactly?"

"Like that!" He flails wildly at the pamphlet in her hands. He's sitting up now, hair all askew from tugging at it, and there's a vaguely worrying crazed look in his eye, like right before he tackled that guard. "Like kissing boys and girls both feel nice, and like seeing a handsome guy and feeling jealous of him makes my stomach flutter, and like having friends feels the same as having crushes! I thought that was just how everyone felt all the time!"

Oh.

Oh.

Oh no.

Poor Dingus! No wonder he panicked and ran here like a crazy person!

"Stevie, can I hug you? Please?" She's not much for physical touch most of the time, but Steve is, and also she's found in the last few months that she doesn't mind so much when it's him. She sort of understands why other people like hugs so much, if they always feel like hugging Steve feels for her. And she really thinks he needs to be hugged, right now.

He nods miserably. She drapes her arms around his shoulders and holds on as tight as she can, hauling him sideways until he's practically laying down on her. He clutches her back and buries his face in her shoulder. She can feel her neck getting wet with tears, a sensation that would normally make her want to claw off her own skin, but this isn't about her. Dingus needs her.

"It's ok, bubba. I'm so sorry. I know how scary this is. When I first figured out I had a crush on Linda Sanderson I cried so hard I threw up, you know? I get it. It's gonna be ok, I promise. We'll make it ok. We faced down evil Russians and giant meat monsters, what's a little sexuality crisis, huh? We got this! We're the goddamn Wonder Twins!"

He snorts at that, which she's pretty sure leaves snot on her neck, which. Ew. Still. Problems for Later Robin.

"We are not, Will and El are the Wonder Twins."

"Uh, nope, no chance, I barely even met them so therefore I am vetoing their application. Sorry kiddos, better luck next time! Find your own nickname, losers!"

Steve sits back, laughing, and she preens a little at being able to bring him back from the brink so easily. She loves him so much she feels like she's glowing with it, sometimes. It almost makes her wish she was straight, because what girl is she ever going to find who loves her this much? But only almost, because. Well. Girls, amiright? Phew.

"So what now, Stevie? You wanna say it out loud? That helps, sometimes. You wanna not say it out loud? You wanna go to a gay bar and find you a boy? You wanna never think about it again? It's totally your call."

"Say it out loud, huh?"

"Hm. It took me like a month, and then the first time I could only say it sitting in the back of my closet with the bedroom door locked and the closet door closed, and I could only whisper it. Just "I'm a lesbian," to myself, like the world's most ironic little goblin. And I had to throw up again after. But it did feel good, once I rinsed my mouth out, anyway. Cleansing, you know? And it gets easier every time." Steve's eyebrows are raised and he's chuckling again, so that's a win. She's not lying, but it is sort of funny, she supposes. In hindsight, anyway.

"Ok. Ok, I can do that. I think. Yeah, I can do that."

She's so proud of him. He's the bravest person she's ever met, she thinks. "You wanna get in the closet?"

"Isn't the whole point to come out of the closet, Robs?" He's smirking at her. Bastard. She whacks him in the shoulder on principle. He may be having a crisis, but he's still a jackass. Her favorite jackass in the whole world, but still.

"Har har, you're a regular Bob Hope. Alright then, bigshot, let's hear it."

A little of that fear creeps back onto his face, and she wishes she could wipe it off, but that's not how this works. They can't make the scary things less scary. He couldn't make the Russians less terrifying, but he could hold her hand and make her laugh and carry some of that fear with her. She can do that for him now, too.

She grabs his hand, and he clutches back tightly. He takes a deep breath.

"I'm...fuck. Ok. Ok, I can do this. I'm...bisexual." The air leaves him in a big whoosh, and he laughs a little. "Yeah, ok, fuck. I'm bisexual. Holy shit, Robbie, I'm bisexual!"

"Hell yeah you are!" She's grinning so hard her cheeks hurt. She's so fucking proud of him.

He's laughing again, a little hysterically, and he hugs her tight again, and she holds him back just as close and thinks oh, he's like me. I'm not alone. I have Steve, and he's like me, and he's mine forever and ever.

When they separate, she looks at him seriously.

"So do you, like, want this to be a thing? Because we can totally make it a thing, and like, get me a fake ID and go to a gay bar and do all kinds of wild shit if you want, but we don't have to, you know? If you need to just, like. Digest this, for a while. It's totally up to you, I just know it took me a while to feel ok with it, and I have no idea if it's different for you but I just want to be what you need, you know? You've been so good with me, and I've never had a queer friend before, so I don't know how, but I want to be just as good to you. You're my Dingus and I love you and I don't know how much of a gay guru I can be on account of, you know, I've never met any gay people besides me and the pretty lady at the bookstore but I couldn't even get real human words to come out of my mouth when I tried to talk to her so I don't think that counts, you know? But I still wanna help! Let me help!"

"Bobbie! Bobbie breathe, you're gonna pass out. I don't think I need a gay guru, I just need a gay best friend, and I have that, so I promise I'm good, ok? Promise. Also I love you too.”

She takes a deep breath, following his lead the way they worked out in the horrible days after Starcourt, when she couldn't sleep without him next to her, warm and alive and breathing, and even then she would wake up in the night with her breath coming short and her vision tunneling and Steve would hold her hand against his chest and breathe slowly, in and out, until she could follow him, and the world wasn't so terrible and scary and loud anymore.

She still thinks about that awful hour underground, thinking she was strapped to the corpse of a boy she never let become her friend, but Steve is always there now when she needs him, and he never complains when she grabs his wrist or puts her head on his chest to make absolutely sure that big, stupid heart is still beating.

When she's breathing normally again, he drops their joined hands down between them, toying idly with the chain linking her ring to her bracelet. "I think...I think I'm glad I said it, and I'm glad we talked about it, but can we maybe just...put it away, for a while? Like it's not...ugh. I guess this is kind of shitty to say, so like, hit me if you want, I guess, but I kind of don't think it matters right now?"

"No no, that makes perfect sense! Like, you still like girls, right?" He nods. "And you don't like. Have a crush on any boys right now. Or do you? Oh man if you do you have to tell me though, it's platonic soulmate law. It's in the bylaws, Steve, don't make me soulmate fine you!"

He laughs and shoves her face away. "Jesus, Rob, no! I don't have a crush on any guys, who would I even crush on in this town? We're not exactly swimming in eligible bachelors. I don't have a crush on anybody at all, I'd tell you, I swear. I know the rules!"

"Oh phew, good. You have to tell me when you do, though, I'm way excited to get you back for making fun of Tammy."

"It was the God's honest truth, Bobbie! She sings like a muppet!"

"Oh my god, shut up, Dingus! Ugh! As I was saying, you super duper have to tell me when you do, but for now, I think maybe you don't have to think about it really at all if you don't want. I mean, practically speaking, it's not really relevant to your everyday life, so we can totally revisit when that changes, but you don't have to like. Join a pride parade tomorrow, you know? You are you who are no matter what. You don't have to prove anything to anyone, especially not to me, not ever."

He leans his head on her shoulder, and she scritches her nails through his hair. It really has no right being as soft as it is, with the amount of hairspray he uses. It's frankly rude, is what it is.

"Thanks, Bobs. I think I'm just gonna put it away for now. It just...another thing to know about me, you know? Like, I'm bad at fighting people but good at fighting monsters, all my best friends are kids except you, I'm bi but it doesn't matter because there aren't any boys to date in Hawkins anyway. Plus my dad would kill me if he found out. Like actually kill me, not "oh geez I missed curfew, my dad's gonna kill me" type kill me, like I think he'd actually try and beat me to death. So there's really no reason to talk about it right now, you know?"

There's a pit of ice in her stomach, and she tightens her arm around him like she can keep him safe just by holding on tight enough. She hates how casually he said that, just like she hates how casually he always talks about how his parents treat him, like he honestly believes it's normal. "Jesus, Dingus. You know you can come here if you need, right? My parents love you, they already think we're getting married. They'd make you sleep in the guest room, but I could sneak you in here easy."

He snorts again. "We're totally gonna end up married for tax reasons anyway, we're never beating the rumors." That makes her snort, too. He's not wrong, though. She isn't going to be allowed to have a wife anytime soon, and if she has to choose someone to be her next of kin, it's always gonna be him. They're planning to move in together when she goes to school next year anyway. No one is ever gonna believe them that they aren't dating, but that's...fine. Honestly, there are worse things. Better to have Steve by her side than not, and if no one else understands them, well, they understand each other, don't they? That's more than enough.

"Yeah, I know I can come here if I need, Robs. It's fine mostly, I swear. They're not home until Christmas anyway."

He takes another deep breath, like he's settling himself. "I'm just glad we talked about it. I feel better now."

She cards her fingers through his hair again, basking in the feeling of her favorite person so close, and so content. "I'm glad, Dingus."

They're alive, and they're together, and they're queer, and neither of them is ever going to have to be alone again.

"Hang on, did you say you've kissed girls and boys?!"

part 2 part 3

[witchpassing]

catching strays [2]

[previous.]

Up concrete stairs dogeared by cleaning, down the sodium-lit walkway between the flats, past the notice board with the childrens’ drawings, past the neighbour smoking into the blue darkness of the courtyard - she doesn’t look, which Katya is reflexively, pitifully grateful for, as if anyone gives a fuck who she takes home these days - then they’re there, Katya fumbling with the key while Rook stands a little away and pulls her jacket close against the night. Glancing up and down the walkway, like she, too, is operating on some vestigial idea of getting caught.

Weird name, Katya thinks, the things she’s going to do once she gets the door open roiling low in her gut. Not outside-bounds weird, not for a transsexual, but still. Probably fake.

No hard feelings there.

The door jams halfway on a wedge of unread mail. They fall through the crack together, chiaroscuro shapes in the walkway light. Katya takes a fistful of Rook’s jacket, shoves her hard into the nearest wall, and Rook lets her, all that height and sinew just folding for her, and fuck, if that doesn’t feel good–

One of them, could be Rook, could be her, kicks the door shut. The lights go out. Darkness, and another woman’s blood on her tongue.

Someone has to come up for air eventually.

Katya, panting, gropes for the light switch with her free hand, gets it on her third or fourth try. Even as she pulls back for air, Rook stays where she’s been put, up against the wall, breathing hard through her nose.

The half-lit sketch Katya’s been carrying in her head since the bar fills in: warm, freckled skin, a broken nose that looks a couple of years older than the rest of the damage. Wide dark eyes in bruise-inked sockets, blown pupils locked on Katya’s face, hunting something in the contours.

You’d be a lot less pretty if you weren’t beat to shit, Katya thinks, tucking a strand of dark hair behind Rook’s ear.

Lucky me.

“Y’alright there, sweetheart?” A taut nod. Katya snorts, turns away. “Yeah, it’s been a while for me too. Just…” She gestures towards the couch, wincing slightly as she recognises, through a newcomer’s eyes, just how thick the undergrowth of magazines, books, records, bottles has got in here. “Find yourself a seat. I’ll get something to clean you up with.”

Sure, at first it was just something to say, words arranged into the right pattern to get a stranger off the street and into her flat, but she might as well take her time now that she has her.

Rook rubs absently at her jaw, gives no indication that the state of the place is registering as a problem, picking between the stacks like autopilot has kicked in somewhere. Katya leaves her to it, ducks through into the little shitbox of a kitchen. On the counter, her answering machine blinks its reproachful red eye. Not getting answered tonight, not getting answered tomorrow, not getting answered this week, moving on. Her first aid kit is buried somewhere under the sink, way at the back, unused for God knows how long; conveniently, this is also where she keeps a bottle of what is probably the only half-decent wine in the block. She weighs the difficulty of replacing it on the black market against the likelihood that she’ll have another girl over any time soon. It’s an easy choice.

Rook has cleared a spot for herself on the couch, a half-dozen empty bottles of tenant union moonshine clustered around her feet, tapping her fingers against her leg in this weird little pattern. Katya shoves a stack of magazines off the coffee table and settles herself in.

“Don’t be so nervous, baby,” she says, taking a pull at the wine. (It’s alright.) “This is only going to hurt a little.” Rook runs her tongue over her teeth, still not all the way present, and nods.

Well, whatever. Weird is fine. You order damaged goods, you don’t complain about the condition it comes in.

She gets about halfway done, Rook turning her head away now and then like a dog that doesn’t really get why someone is touching its face, these breathy little hisses of pain snaking between her teeth, before she caves. Rook is taking a pull of the wine and Katya is watching her throat work and suddenly she can’t take it any more, just shoves the bottle out of her hand and crawls into her lap, the first aid kit’s contents everting into the mess on the floor. That wakes Rook up, alright. Hands push up under her shirt, stroke along her ribs, smear things around a little in her wine-softened brain; a mouth presses into her neck, gives her a bruise of her own to wear. Rook’s prosthetics don’t feel cold in the way she’d expected. Katya shudders, exhales, twists needy fingers into her hair.

Fuck, she’s needed this, needed it with a hunger so bone-deep she’d forgotten what it felt like to be full. After this she’ll go dry for another few months, forget again, find out again. Never learns. Rook slides a palm over the cup of her bra, tugs her a little closer, eases her tongue along up the corner of her jaw, and Katya makes a noise that is positively fucking virginal.

It takes her a second to realise what’s under her own hands; her mind is elsewhere, way elsewhere, somewhere in the unknown below Rook’s waistline. Eventually, awareness pushes through, in some dim sense: there are scars at the base of Rook’s skull, a fishbone pattern of ridged keloid, taut against the skin. Touch maps the contours; double rows flanking her spine, down between the shoulderblades, like she’s been split open. Automatically, Katya counts.

Eight contact points. Intermediate Rachis implant, probably a C-type. Doe’s was an E-type; she had twelve.

Katya is on her feet, recoiling straight into the coffee table, near falling straight on her ass. The bottle spills, bleeds into the carpet. She might actually fucking stress-puke, god, there’s another thing that’s been a while- this isn’t fair, it isn't fair god dammit. she just wanted a little company, why this--

Rook is still on the couch, watching her with those dark eyes, and she knows too, there’s no way she doesn’t. She’s clocked her now, and that’s if she didn’t know right from the start. Smelt the reek on Katya’s skin, felt the shift of the old patterns beneath her surface. Liked it.

“I d-don’t – I didn’t know you - were–”

“Too good for surplus, huh?” Rook’s voice, as she looks up at her, is like dull, pitted metal. “Don’t worry. You’re not gonna get in trouble for this. I’ve been decommissioned; can do what I like now, more or less. I can even consent.”

“Fuck you,” Katya starts, and then thinks better of it. Thinks about a new name and new papers, a new city where nobody knew her, a dozen measures taken to prevent unofficial reprisal. Thinks about what happened to the others, the ones who didn’t buy themselves out with a briefcase full of typewritten sin and a candid tell-all approach. Thinks about what could happen to her if Rook tells that woman smoking on the walkway, her neighbour, the one who nods to her in the cold mornings and doesn’t care who she brings home, what she is.

“Please don’t.” Katya swallows terror. “Talk to anyone about this.”

“Tell me not to,” Rook says, rolling the words around her tongue, trying them for taste, “And I won’t.”

“What?”

“You know how this works. Give me an order, and I’ll obey it. Handler.” The final word is articulated with all the care and venom of a slur.

And just like that Katya is on her again, fist in the front of her shirt, face inches from hers. Some people say you’re the sum of your worst days; others, that defining yourself by the lows in your life means you’re never going anywhere else. Katya, personally, is on the former team, because after three and a half years this shit still comes back so, so easy.

“You aren’t going to tell anyone about me,” she grinds out. “Not your friends, not your next fuck, not your shrink up at that dog pound on the other side of town, nobody.” And, you know - it almost feels good, in its way, for a moment there. “Do you understand me, girl?”

Rook’s lips part in something close to a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” She lets go, sickness rising in her throat. “Now get the fuck out.”

And she does, quick as you like, and suddenly Katya is alone again.

She does puke then, folded over in the middle of her floor, kneeling in the wet mess from the spilt bottle. It’s mostly alcohol that comes up, vodka and cheap wine, shot with something foreign. Fresh blood, licked from Rook’s split lip.

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Bells and Whistles (John Price x Captain!Reader)

Summary: This was far from what you imagined your first date with John would be.

AN: This is part of the "Star-crossed in the Crosshairs" universe, but you don't have to read that fanfic first. You can enjoy this as a standalone!

Thank you and special shout-out to @feedthemadness_sweetie on AO3 for commenting on near EVERY chapter of that series and motivating me to do some actually short slices of life for this series.

Bit of context: Reader is a Captain, they and John trained together before John was MIA for three years (and didn't contact them for the rest of the decade when he did get rescued). Reader has finally decided to give him a chance now that he's atoning for his mistake, and they're falling back in love.

"Star-crossed in the Crosshairs" Chapter 1 // Masterlist // AO3 Version

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

“I’m sorry, but I fucking hate this.”

“Oh thank God, me too.”

So above your level was this restaurant that you’d been sent derisive looks when you’d requested to be seated near the fish tank wall. That wall turned out to be the highlight of this place. The menu? Incomprehensible, both in the style of writing and the combinations of flavours. The napkins? Folded into a shape you couldn’t have created outside of a dream. The chandeliers? More expensive than your flat, casting a thousand rainbows to be fragmented further by the glass displays dotted around this restaurant. Your outfit felt cheap, even though you’d technically splashed out on your first actual date with John. Speaking of, John was wearing a pressed suit with a bow tie you could tell he’d tied himself.

“Can we go please?” You asked quietly. John nodded and immediately signalled to the waiter. You’d barely had an entrée and a glass of wine so the bill didn’t take too long to arrive. Ripples of dull aqua wobbled over your hand, the bulb in the fish tank offering you no reassurance. An angelfish glided past your head whilst John slipped his card into the leather tab, and you pulled on your denim jacket, the one the egregious maître d’ had stared at for the longest second in your life.

A chill caught you off guard as you stepped outside. Glass shook in the door’s frame as John let it swing shut, catching up to you in two long strides.

“Sorry, love,” He said, his voice steel, but you could feel the dejection.

“It’s ok,” You took his hand and used it as an anchor to pull yourself closer to him and slow the return to his car right down. Again, you were really glad to be leaving that place behind, behind with the conversation that was mainly catching up on the last few years and awkward silences.

Thankfully, John reduced his speed and his hand pulsed twice around yours, “I just wanted you to have a good time.”

“We’ve changed a lot, but I still don’t need all the bells and whistles.”

“You deserve the bells and whistles.”

“True, but not that many bells and whistles.”

True enough, on the glum walk through streets you hadn’t really paid attention to on the journey up, you eyed up a pub across the road that screamed “local legend”. When you pointed it out to John, he noted the giant bell hanging over the doorway in lieu of a hanging board. It took two minutes to get you both situated with your drinks and a laminated dogeared menu attached to a clipboard with all the classics in Georgia font. Much more your style.

“You’re not going to believe this,” John said, crinkles by his eyes clueing you in on a jest.

“What?” You followed where he’d indicated, sipping through your straw until you choked on it. A karaoke machine dazzled in the corner by a square of parquet flooring, acting as a flat stage.

“I’m not drunk enough to get up there,” You indicated to your J20 (orange and passion-fruit - classic), “And I’m not drinking anymore. You?”

He shook his head, “Young man’s game.”

“John. You just turned forty.” Your pause and emphasis were there to say “shut up, you’re hardly about to cash in your pension”.

“Don’t remind me.”

“Well, if we’re taking stock, I’ve got the knees of a grandfather in my ‘old age’.”

“Yeah, ‘cus you keep jumping off second-storey buildings and taking sledgehammers to them.”

A second elapsed then you and John both turned into piglets, snorting at his jab whilst your food arrived with a carousel of condiments. You grabbed the sauce bottle, shaking it to test if there was enough, whilst John shook a packet of salt to douse his chips in. 

Neither of you bothered with the paper napkins in your laps, protecting your debonair wear. The food was good enough that you didn’t have to talk through it, except to pretend to complain when John took a pickle poking out from your burger and you stole the extra crispy bit of batter from his cod. Worth it though, every time, to see that fake frustration fade into that dumb fucking smile that made him look like a cartoon and endeared you more and more. All that work put into atoning for you and forgiving him was made worth it.

[idolatrybarbie]

pairing: marcus pike x fem!reader

word count & rating: 5.4k | explicit - 18+ minor free zone!

summary: it's not stalking if it's a casual curiosity. you would never do anything...you're just nosey. lonely, too, maybe. but that isn't your fault. yes—this is fine. only stalking if he notices. so what exactly happens when he does?

warnings: social isolation, touch starvation, marcus pike is a virgin (there is no virgin-shaming here - do not fear), alcohol, themes of alienation, allusions to failed relationships, everyone in this story is very normal, smut - kissing, loss of virginity, vaginal fingering, handjob, protected penetrative vaginal sex(!!!), premature ejaculation, body worship (with mouth), exhibitionism, implied male masturbation, vaginal fingering, very enthusiastic oral sex (f receiving), cum eating, cuddling.

notes: i was depressed and am sick (again) but yesterday was a really good day, so you get a fic. @wannab-urs wanted to see virgin marcus - here he is. this slowly and subtly became a little more kinky than i intended it to lol? my own cat makes an appearance and yes he is really that old. this is also my 400th post to this blog. woohoo, enjoy! :)

He’s your neighbour. Kind of cute. Okay, lie—very cute. You don’t have much on him otherwise. He moved in about three months ago, right at summer’s end. At first, you thought he was a student. You see him around the house and the neighbourhood during weekdays, so that rules out a college schedule.

He likes to read books in the park. Thick novels with colourful covers and lengthy titles. You would think that he’s showing off, peacocking with the way that he’s got a new book in his hands every week. But no, the reading isn’t for show. He moulds them to his liking, dogears the pages and folds over paperbacks; things someone doesn’t do when they’ve got a book in their hands as a lure, a line.

Surprisingly, he seems to be single. You aren’t exactly sure why. There’s no short supply of wealthy single moms in the area, and the man himself is truly gorgeous. Maybe he’s recently divorced, or gay. Maybe it’s his mom’s old house and she’s passed, and he’s only here to settle things up before skipping town again.

You find yourself watching his windows at night, never able to catch a glimpse of him. The house glows orange with the lights still on inside—a welcoming lighthouse in the cold and murky sea of suburbia. When you start thinking like that, watching his house for more than too long, you send yourself to bed. The very last thing you want to be is the obsessed stalker across the street.

A part of you can’t help it. Your other neighbours, despite barely knowing them, don’t seem to like you very much. You have a feeling a certain washing-your-car-in-a-bikini-top incident at the end of this year’s boiling hot August might have something to do with it. With no friends to speak of in this cookie cutter county, you find yourself lonely. When you don’t think about it too hard, that’s justification enough.

This morning, you wake up before the sun. Sparing your eyes the bright glare of house lights, you use a near-dead flashlight to see down the hall. The cat in your care this week lives on a strict schedule. At fourteen human years—eighty in feline—Bender has grown accustomed to routine: breakfast at six-thirty, talk television at eight. Later mornings to early afternoons are a little less structured, leaving him to wander the house or settle in for a nap. Then he eats again at four, followed up by water and a monitored trip to the litter box. After that, he usually sits on the cushioned back of your couch to watch movies with you.

His owner is away in Florida with her grand kids. She’s been leaving him with you for the past six months whenever she needs time away from Virginia to let loose and explore. Bender isn’t really my cat, she’d told you the first time, but her daughter is in New York for school and couldn’t take him this year. You secretly hope that she never does. He’s excellent company.

Professional pet-sitting hadn’t ever been a career that you’d really considered. You’re still not sure if this is a forever thing or a temporary gig to pay the bills. Really, you’d like to put your degree to use in some capacity. But after being laid off so abruptly…well, you aren’t itching to get back out into the workforce quite yet. Especially not when sweet older women pay you a hundred dollars a day to revel in the company of cuddly creatures.

They aren’t all easy like the old man. Charlie, the St. Bernard you sat last month, is clingier than any ex you’ve ever had. The Fogelmans’ Dalmatian is nice to have for a day or two, but thirty minute runs twice each morning go from exhausting to borderline impossible by day three. Animals are exhausting. When you aren’t sitting, you’re sleeping.

Peeling back the tin lid on a can of wet food, you can already hear the light tap of Bender’s small paws on the floor. He joins you in the kitchen, waiting as he watches you spoon half of the can’s contents onto a dessert plate. You soften it, making it easier to chew before you slide the food over to him. He always takes a comically big first bite.

“If only they could all be like you, huh?”

Bender doesn’t answer, of course. He’s a cat.

Good Morning America rambles away on your flat-screen. You’re waiting for Bender’s owner, his travel carrier already baited with treats. The unopened food cans and his toys are packed away in a grocery bag by the door. When Anne-Marie sends you a text that she’s in the neighbourhood, you gently lead the cat into the carrier. The grated door clinks shut behind him.

Poking a finger through the slats, Bender meets you with his paw.

“Come visit me soon, alright?” you ask. “Maybe your mom can take a long trip to Canada or something.”

Anne-Marie doesn’t have to knock for you to know she’s there, her short shadow visible through the frosted glass beside the door. You stand and turn to open it, greeting her with a smile. She asks after you and tells you about her flight in.

“I hope he’s been a good boy,” she says.

“An angel, as usual,” you reply.

“He’s a little bit of a grump sometimes.”

“Perfectly fine with me. Bender’s always welcome back here.”

Anne-Marie takes the bag of food and toys first, tossing it into the front passenger seat before returning for the carrier. Handing it over, you watch as she walks down the steps and  loads him into the backseat of her SUV. She buckles Bender’s glorified plastic box securely in the back, getting in herself. Anne-Marie waves at you from behind the wheel. You wave back.

Watching the vehicle pull away with your furry friend in tow, you see your neighbour’s house for the first time today. The weather is cooling off as winter grows closer. You don’t see him out much anymore, except when he gets home from who-knows-where. Even then, it’s only a glimpse of his short walk to the front door. Today, he’s sitting on his porch. With a fleece sweater zipped to his chin and a vest hugging his torso, you watch as pulls on a pair of muddy boots.

Cold air breezes past you, the draft pulling you back to reality. Just as you’re about to close the door, he peers up. And looks…directly at you. Then your neighbour smiles in acknowledgment.

Making eye contact for a second too long, you shut the door quickly. Leaning against the surface, you replay the last thirty seconds in your head. The car pulled away, he was sat there…he pulled on his boots and saw—

Three sharp knocks land on the other side of your door. You’re too much of an optimist, hoping it’s Anne-Marie again. Glancing at the glass from here, you find the realistic answer. It’s him, up close and personal this time—for the first time. Suddenly, you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

He knocks once again, clearly waiting. There’s nowhere else for you to go. The man is standing at the only reasonable exit point. Caving, you take a breath and open the door. 

The first thing you notice is his smell. Earthy-sweetness lingers with him as the familiar stranger smiles at you. Again.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello,” you return. “…Can I help you?”

“I figured that I’ve lived across the street for a while but never introduced myself,” the man says. He holds out a hand and you take it, his broad palm warming yours. “I’m Marcus.”

You tell him your name, still shaking his hand. When you let go, the smile falters.

“So Marcus, what can I do for you?”

“Well, I was wondering if I could borrow a cup of sugar,” he says.

You glance around the doorway, unsure how to respond. “Um—” 

“I’m joking.”

“Oh,” you nod. Shifting your weight from right to left, the tiniest of squeaker toys lands under your foot.

“You've got a dog, right?”

“Sort of,” you say. “I pet-sit sometimes. They aren’t really mine.”

“I was going to ask if you wanted to bring ‘em out for a walk, but I guess—”

“I could still go for a walk,” you say, the words rushing out.

The smile returns to Marcus’ face, strong as ever as he nods. “Sure. Great.”

“Just give me one second.”

You backtrack into the front hall, pulling open your coat closet for a jacket and your shoes. It only takes a minute before you’re joining Marcus on your porch. He leads you down the steps, taking a right onto the sidewalk. This is the direction he drives in from.

“So, pet-sitting,” he says. “Passion or hobby?”

“Well, I get paid for it. Not really a hobby.”

“Monetized hobby,” Marcus corrects himself. “Or is this what you do professionally?”

“In that case, hobby. I lost my job a couple of months ago. Still sort of figuring it out,” you say. Marcus nods. Then you ask, “What about you?”

“Why don’t you guess?”

You hum, thinking back on what you know about him. The car he drives is new, a dark SUV with tinted windows. Whatever he does must pay pretty well. He lives alone, fairly solitary; no kids, no spouse. You’ve seen him bring in a maximum of three grocery bags at once, and yet he hasn’t starved, so he probably doesn’t cook a lot. Sometimes it’s like he’s never home, and others he’s ever-present. That’s a pretty erratic schedule for a business professional.

Giving up on a real answer, you say, “Male stripper.”

He laughs and rolls his eyes. “I wish.” You and him both.

“A cop?” you ask.

“Warmer,” Marcus says. “FBI agent.”

“You’re joking, right? Are you even allowed to tell normal people those things?”

“I mean, sure. You’re not a terrorist, are you?” he asks.

“No,” you say.

“Then we’re fine,” Marcus says. He formally introduces himself. SSA Marcus Pike.

“So, Marcus the FBI agent. What draws you to Fairfax County?”

“The commute. And the house is nice, too.”

“You don’t strike me as a white picket fence kind of guy.” Looking out at the neighbourhood, that’s all there is.

“You don’t seem the type either,” he says. Touché. “When I first started planning the move, it wasn’t supposed to be just me. But uh…some things changed, and I’d already bought the house. Can’t let it go to waste.”

There’s something raw there. It softens his voice a little, taking away that clutch of confidence that seemingly brought him to your door.

You say, “I guess it’s better here than another shit-box apartment.”

“Right? That was my whole life back in Texas,” Marcus says.

“Texas?”

“Not born nor bred,” he says. “I worked in the Art Theft department at the bureau there.”

“Working on crafts for the kiddos?” you ask.

“More like nabbing art thieves, stopping criminal smugglers. Stuff like that.”

You hate to admit that this man probably has more courage in his pinky finger than you possess in your entire being, but at least now you can justify the curiosity.

“So you’re good at catching the bad guys, then,” you say.

“More so good at noticing things,” Marcus explains.

The air changes slightly, goosebumps rising along your skin. You ignore any potential implication. “Like what? Human behaviour?”

“Sure,” Marcus says. “Small stuff. Like if someone’s lying…or if I’m being watched.”

When Marcus doesn’t say anything else, you pause. A finely manicured lawn as your backdrop, you stare at him, disbelieving. You can’t imagine what you look like—the pictured definition of mortification.

“Look, I’m really sorry if I creeped you out. I just—I don’t get out a lot without a job and all, and I don’t really have any friends here. You seemed interesting, but none of that’s an excuse and I should’ve come over and said h—”

He says your name, stopping your rambling. “It’s fine,” Marcus says. “A little odd but…flattering?”

With your heart racing in your chest, you scrub a hand over your face. “Oh my god,” you sigh. “I really am sorry, Marcus. My life isn’t very…normal anymore. It makes you do some weird things.” 

You can’t remember the last time you were outside before today. Direct grocery delivery took away any need to get out to the store, and with it your last real connection to the outside world. Except the pets. They keep you from losing it entirely.

“We’ve all got our fair share,” Marcus says. Why is he being so cool about this? He should be calling the police, or in this case, himself.

So you ask, “Why are you trying to make me feel better?”

“Well, if I don’t then you might not want to come over for dinner later."

At seven o’clock, you make your way across the street to Marcus’ front door. You hesitate in knocking, checking the time on your phone again. He says it’s fine, but maybe this is a mistake. You’re not over the embarrassment from earlier. You really don’t know how to carry out social interactions anymore. Maybe it’s for the best if you turn around and quietly slip back into your house…

Before you get the chance, the door before you opens up. Marcus has changed. He’s wearing less layers this time, only a simple white Henley shirt and a dark pair of jeans. Cartoon sharks bite the ankles of his socked feet, and you find yourself smiling when you finally look at his face. God, this man is fucking gorgeous. It almost makes you mad.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hey, come on in.”

He stretches his arm to open the door wider, stepping aside to make room. You take your boots off at the door and note the details of his home. The walls are cherry red, different to the sage green of your place across the street. The wall space in the kitchen is filled with paintings where yours stay bare, all of them neatly hung—Frida Kahlo and Elmina Moisan are the artists you recognize. 

Marcus tells you that his mother is Chilean, that he was born over here once his American father could get her stateside. They moved down to Mexico when he finished high school. He’s visited every summer since, and each time he brings back a painting. There are only four here.

"You're missing a few," you say.

"The rest are upstairs," Marcus says.

Maybe you'll see them later.

Tonight, he's making fried rice and soy sauce chicken.

"Or See Yao Gai, if you want to get fancy with it," he says, concentrating on the pan.

Watching Marcus work over the stove is mesmerizing. He knows what to do and exactly when to do it, never letting anything burn or sit too long. You feel more like you're watching a professional chef than a guy that cooks "on occasion.” Even the way he washes rice has technique.

Jesus Christ, get it together.

Before plating the food, Marcus offers you a drink. He pours himself a small glass of something red.

"I'll have what you're having," you nod.

He sits across from you at the table. You imagine yourselves as your respective houses, the cloth runner that sits in the middle of the table acting as the paved street. They say people look like their pets, but homes take on characteristics of the people who live in them. Everything here is warm, like his hand. Vibrant and pleasant. The place smells like him too, all sweet and saffron.

The first bite of dinner explodes with flavour in your mouth.

"This is fucking delicious," you mumble, still chewing.

"Thank you."

"Of course." After a sip of wine, you say, "I mostly sustain myself off of hot pockets and spinach wraps. This is like, gourmet."

"You don't cook at all?" Marcus asks.

"Eh," you shrug. "I used to. A lot, actually. But it's not the same when—"

When what? When there's no love in it? Something like that. There's no one to feed, no one to come home to. So who fucking cares?

"When you're only cooking for yourself."

"I understand." They should sound like empty words, but something in Marcus' eyes tells you he really does.

"It's just…hard, I guess." Oh no, where are you taking this? "To keep caring? I’m sort of—"

"Going through the motions?" he asks.

"Yeah. Exactly," you say.

Marcus scoops another forkful of rice off his plate, chewing before he swallows. He says, "Well you know, I'm right across the street. Maybe twenty feet away? So if you need to, you can always go through the motions over here."

You don’t know exactly what he means, but it sounds nice. Someone to talk to. "One day I might just take you up on that."

When you're both finished, you help Marcus with the dishes and re-organising the table. You're showing yourself to the door with him in tow. You open it and cross over the threshold, the cold hitting you all at once. The sky is much darker than it was only an hour ago. A streetlamp behind you highlights Marcus’ face just so.

"Thanks for dinner. For all of it," you say. "It's been a long time."

"You're always welcome," Marcus says. And then he kisses you. Your hand moves over his shoulders, wrenching him forward to pull his body closer. You both stumble back into his house, the door closing behind you.

His hands remain respectfully north of the equator until you grab them, pulling them down to your hips. You break away from the kiss to say, "I don't usually…um. But do you want to—"

"Yes," he whispers. That's all the confirmation you need.

The combined stumble up to his bedroom has you bumping into walls, almost tripping on the landing. Marcus’ hands are hurried across your body. He can’t seem to make up his mind, palming your ass before he slides his hands over your ribs, squeezing your breast. Right outside his bedroom, he stops you.

“I’ve never done this before,” he says.

“Sex on the first date?”

“Sex…period.” You watch the way he cringes at himself, instinctively holding him closer.

Carefully, you say, “We don’t have to.”

“I want to. I just—it’s good to know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“It’s fine,” you say, giving him a kiss. “And we can take it slow.”

Marcus nods.

Inside the room, he lets you take the lead. You begin with your clothes, shedding your top, socks, and pants. Marcus mirrors you, leaving him shirtless in blue underwear. He’s already on his way to being fully hard, a bulge visible beneath the fabric.

Standing in front of his bed, you wave him over with a light come here. He’s drawn to you, a snake to its charmer, strong arms encircling you in his hold. You revel in the warmth of him. Marcus’ closeness has you leaning into his body, skin-to-skin. It has been so long since you’ve had this. You can’t remember the last time you’ve even had a hand to hold, an arm to brush by accident—so you take it. You revel in it, only god knowing the next time the opportunity will present itself.

“Are you okay?” Marcus asks, breath warm against your ear.

“Yeah, uh… I’m sorry,” you say. “It’s been a long time since I’ve touched somebody.”

The admission makes your stomach twist, Marcus’ face relaxing into a softer shape. Instead of the usual look of pity, he keeps his expression open. When he kisses you again, it’s long and slow; languid passes of his tongue against yours as the pair of you fall to the middle of the duvet. Marcus settles against you, assuring that his weight doesn’t crush yours before he peppers pecks across your mouth and forehead.

You can feel him hard against your thigh, steadily rocking himself into your skin with every smooch. He asks, “Can I touch you?” and you breathe a yes.

His right hand moves from its place on your torso to glide down the side of your body, cupping your ass before Marcus slides two fingers into the band of your panties. He smooths the pads of his fingers over the skin below your stomach, dipping below your pelvis to feel you.

Marcus brushes against your clit. You tilt your hips higher, chasing after the sensation.

“Here?” he asks.

“Little to the left?” you whisper. Adjusting accordingly, your breath catches when he finds it. “Yeah, there.”

Marcus rubs at it with his fingers, drawing tight circles around your clit as you wedge your face in between his shoulder and jaw.

“Can I kiss your neck?”

“Sure.”

Slowly, mindlessly, you peck at Marcus’ skin to ground yourself. Closer to his ear, he smells powdery, like vanilla. You’d like to know if it’s cologne or all him. You gasp when his fingers move to collect some of your wetness, returning to your clit and doubling down on the light pressure. Tongue darting past your lips, you lick him. He groans.

“Does that feel good?”

Gathering your thoughts takes a moment. “Yes, Marcus—don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He watches you now, eyes closed as you’re worked closer to the edge. With Marcus’ free hand, he slides the strap of your bra off your shoulder, pulling the fabric away from your breast.

“Use your mouth,” you instruct him.

Marcus doesn’t need to be told twice, ducking low to take your nipple into his mouth. His lips and fingers working in tandem as your body narrows in on the edge of pleasure. You keep a hand at the back of his head as he licks and sucks your nipple. When he takes the sensitive bud between his teeth, you cry out and tug at Marcus’ hair. You push his mouth closer, closer—you wish he would eat you.

It doesn’t take very long for you to cum. A few more tugs of his teeth at your nipple and a harsher pass over your clit has you seizing against him, lips parted as a harsh noise leaves your mouth. Marcus slows his fingers to an eventual stop. When you look at him again, he’s eyeing the stickiness left between them.

You hold his wrist, pulling it to your mouth and slipping his fingers onto your tongue. Marcus watches you clean them intently, like he’s committing the sight to memory. When your done, he holds your face and kisses your nose. You laugh.

“What else do you want to do?” he asks.

You slide a hand down his stomach, lightly prodding his belly button just to see him flinch. The smile he gives you makes you ache.

Hand hovering close to his clothed cock, you say, “I wanna touch you.”

He nods. “Please.” The single word comes out high and whiny, stoking that fire in your belly once again.

Slipping a hand into his briefs, you feel the wetness at the head of his cock as it smears against the elastic. You start there, taking the sticky tip into your palm to gather some of Marcus’ precum. When you work your hand over the rest of him, the glide is easier, his skin like slick velvet underneath you. It’s your turn to watch as his eyes flutter closed, mouth twisted into a pout as Marcus breathes hard through his nose.

“You can make noise, baby. Let me hear you,” you say.

Marcus gives you a quick nod, eyes opening again when you squeeze him at the base of his shaft. He moans, long and low, lips parted beautifully. You speed up, watching the effects of the faster pace as he curls further into your body. The slope of his nose drags against the skin of your shoulder as he breathes you in.

“Fuck,” Marcus whispers. His curses are said softly into your skin. Suddenly, his upper half draws away from you. “Fuck, wait, wait—”

You don’t realize he’s cumming until the first stripe of spend lands across your hip. Marcus groans, a reluctant purr from the back of his throat that mixes in with another low, “Fuuuuck.” Your hand frozen around him, you wait until he’s done to move.

Immediately, Marcus withdraws from you entirely. His eyes are glued to the cum on your skin, face twisted with something unreadable.

“Hey,” you say, touching your clean hand to his. He looks up at you. “It’s fine. You’re fine.”

“I’m really sorry,” Marcus mutters.

“Why?” you ask. With the shake of your head, you join him closer to the end of the bed. You slide your fingers through the mess of his spend, bringing them to your lips. Again, he watches as you clean it up. “Totally natural. Normal. You felt good, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“That’s all that matters. I felt good too.”

“Do you still want to…” he trails off.

“If you want to do more, I have no objections,” you say. “And if not.” With a shrug, you quirk your lips up. There’s no pressure here. You’re grateful to have him at all tonight.

“I have an idea,” Marcus says. He shakes off the funk, shoulders rolling back again easily.

“I’d love to hear it.”

Noses close enough to touch, your hands never leave his skin as Marcus confides in you his thoughts. When you say yes, he positions himself below you. Starting at your ankles, he nuzzles his face against your skin, slowly moving upwards as he presses kisses to your calves. Eye-level with your left knee, he readjusts your leg. He lightly slides his tongue over the slot of skin behind the joint, pulling giggles from you as you squirm at the feeling.

From here, Marcus makes sure to take his time. He alternates between soft, wet kisses and flat licks up your thighs. He noses along the sensitive skin, rocking into the mattress every once in a while.

“This is probably bad timing…” he trails off. You wait for Marcus to continue, but he’s too preoccupied licking at the skin of your mid-thigh. Running your hand through his hair, you try to capture his focus again.

“Marcus?”

He looks up at you, those beautiful brown eyes melting your heart and sending it dripping down to your cunt. “I’ve known the whole time. That you were watching me.” Then Marcus returns between your legs, nose at the crux of skin between your thigh and where you need him most.

You can barely map out your words. The anticipation is killing you. “You—you did?”

“Mhm,” he hums. He’s so close now.

“You never said anything.” The bridge of his nose presses directly against you, your hips stuttering against his face. “I would’ve…god, I couldn’t stop,” you confess.

“I kind of liked it,” he whispers to your pussy—a secret between them.

You groan when his nose brushes your clit again, breaking into a light pant when Marcus licks a fat stripe across the lips of your cunt. His words short-circuit your brain. You squeeze your eyes shut, imagining Marcus in this very room, touching himself as you unknowingly watch him in the dark. All those nights with the lights left on. Is that what he was doing?

Marcus slides his tongue directly over your pussy, prodding with care. Forcing yourself to look, your gaze falls from the ceiling to his lowered form. He’s already watching you, drinking in every bite of your lip and crease in your forehead. With your attention on him again, Marcus doubles down on his efforts, making out with your cunt as you whine.

“Please, please, please. Marcus—inside, can you use your fingers?”

“Anything,” he says, slipping two inside of you carefully. “Anything you want.”

They move in tandem with his tongue. Finally having something to grip and clench around has the heat of your second orgasm growing to a full forest fire. Picturing yourself now, you wonder if any of your other neighbours have taken an interest in the new guy in town. If they’re watching now, catching a glimpse of you through his window. The thought has you moaning again, picturing inches of soft, revealed skin and Marcus’ hands on you through the eyes of a stranger.

Marcus fucking you in the dark SUV that occupies the driveway, taking you against the translucent accent window of your front hall. Privacy with that hint of exposure. The delicious subtlety of risk.

Maybe you kind of like it too.

Marcus sucks on your clit and the sensation consumes you, flames licking up your spine. You cum with a shudder and a curse. He slows his hand down, removing his index and middle from you to share another kiss.

“I’d like you inside me,” you whisper.

Teeth gnaw at your insides. You crave the closeness, his warmth. Leaning to the side of the mattress, Marcus pulls open his bedside drawer. He fishes a condom from its depths.

“You’re prepared,” you say with a smile.

Marcus shrugs as he carefully tears the wrapper. “I was a boy scout.”

You sit up to help him put it on, spitting in your palm before you wrap it around his length. “Of course you were.”

He watches your movements, rolling the plastic on at the head before you remove your hand. Marcus slides the condom down the rest of him, keeping the end pinched.

“I was expecting brownie points for that presentation,” he says.

You lean up to meet him on your knees, teasing him with the promise of another kiss. You just miss his lips with your own, planting a peck at the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t get a prize for watching your hot English teacher roll one onto a banana.”

Leveraging his shoulders, you have him seated and straddled in one swift move. Marcus sucks in a gasp as you hover your cunt over him, slicking his cock with your body. He holds himself, lining up to let you sink down easily. The stretch is slight, feeling a pinch as he splits you open. Grasping your shoulders, Marcus moans into the plate of your chest.

Grinding on him slowly, you pet his hair and hold the heat of his face to your skin. “There you go,” you sigh. “How’re you feeling?”

You squeeze around him right as Marcus opens his mouth to answer, words replaced by stuttering breaths. "Good, good. So good,” he says. “Feeling you…fuck. You’re beautiful.” Marcus rocks his hips up into you, taking over the pace as he grows a little frantic. The friction of short hair at the base of him keeps you sated, enjoying the feel as he follows his release.

“Think of you all the time,” he continues. “See you out and—god, ah—you’re always so beautiful. Shit… Always alone. I just—”

Marcus grinds into you a few more times before he spills into the condom, moaning into the kiss you give him. You stay together like that for a minute, reveling in the feeling of him. Then you slide off his lap, Marcus’ limp dick slipping from you. He stands to take the condom off and disappears into the en suite bathroom. When he returns, the two of you bundle up under the covers.

He lets you be little spoon, his hands swiping softly over your stomach. Marcus traces little shapes beside your belly button, lips meeting the top notch of your spine.

“How was that?” you ask, breaking the soft silence.

“An excellent first time,” he says. “More…more than I imagined it could be. Thank you.”

“I’m glad.” You bring your own hand to the arm that wraps around you, feeling him. “It’s kind of a two-way street. I haven’t—I’m not really accustomed to closeness anymore.” His grasp on you has your head abuzz, high on his touch. Then you ask, “You said you saw me?”

“Oh, right,” Marcus says, remembering. “Saw you around the neighbourhood. I was mostly impressed you were able to keep a handle on that Dalmatian without turning into the evil coat lady.” His corny joke still makes you laugh, one more for the night, even as you shake your head. “And…I don’t know. I never saw you with anyone. I kept wanting to come over and say hello. Say anything, really.”

“I would’ve liked that,” you say. “Would still like that. If you came and talked to me.” Talking, fucking, going through the motions.

“I think we’re a little past that,” he says.

“You know what I mean.”

“I’ll always come talk to you.” A beat of silence. “Just you and me, like two lonely people.”

[waxingrunes]

Do you have any fun headcanons on what's on wolfstar's nightstand? like are they creams? what books? we know there's tea on Sirus's nightstand but is it REALLY ever finished? what type of tea is it?

And finally... what tv shows/movies are wolfstars favs do you think?

sorry for the lovebomb questions i just want to live rent free in ur headcanons. U truly have a fantastic mind

You’ve put me to work with this sweet anon.

Sirius will have about three drinks on the go at any one time and even if the glass or bottle is empty, there’s a strong possibility it’s going to stay there for a day or two until he needs more room. He used to hate tea, but has learnt to tolerate and maybe even prefer it at times through Remus’ persistent feeding. He hates anything with berries as it lays bitter on his tongue, but will happily sip chamomile or lemon at any hour. He has an alarm clock that always malfunctions which Remus reaches over to slam off every time but Sirius insists he’s too attached to get rid. One of Remus’ watches will be right next to it so he can peep his eyes open and check the time. A hair bobble which always falls behind the nightstand and because he’s too lazy to retrieve them he replenishes them instead. Sometimes there will be a stray ribbon and crescent moon-hair clip if he’s worn it that day, otherwise those accessories are usually shoved in the top drawer. There will be one book on there that will go unread for weeks but never moves, or, if he’s on a reading train there will be a new book every week because he can absorb information fast and tends to get hyper fixated. The books never have bookmarks and are always dogeared which sends Remus into a spiral. A jewellery stand in the shape of an ornate middle finger where he can stack his rings. His wand will be under his pillow for easy access.

Remus’ wand is in the top drawer. He tends to sleep walk/talk and turns out it’s not ideal having a wand so readily available to his subconscious, which they learned through unfortunate events. The drawer also contains a Polaroid picture of him and Sirius that Sirius took haphazardly. His is more orderly, despite being the less coordinated of the two. There are always two books, one that he’s currently reading/annotating, another that he’s lined up to begin. If there’s a mug, it’s on a coaster. The tea is nearly always either green tea or earl grey, he rarely dabbles in other flavours, just likes collecting the fancy ones ‘just incase’. A moonstone, gifted in jest by James as a house warming present to “make him feel more at home”. Reading glasses, always stacked on top of the books with a little lens cleaning cloth folded on top.

I can’t think of anything specific when it comes to what the boys would enjoy watching but I’d say Remus loves a classic romantic comedy, the old school rom-com, and wildlife documentaries. Sirius is more a horror enthusiast, making Remus sit through the goriest shit and explaining why it’s not realistic at all or how it could be ‘done better’.

[raisindave]

[Chapter 67] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

"I have an idea," you started, feeling the corner of your lip twitch into a smile at the absurdity. "What if we give the terrorists orders?"

Maybe your words had entirely stunned the room into silence, or maybe your buzzing thoughts drowned out the sound of the ensuing conversation. Ideas started to click into place in a way that they hadn't before; it felt like a breakthrough. After days of infuriating stagnation, your spinning mind gained traction at this crucial discovery.

"From how they have to be set up for this communication method to work, both sides are already working with a list of keys. They have to," you started pacing, making use of idle hands by hastily acting out your words. "The sender dispatches in a message, and the receiver aligns their existing keys to decode the message. It's the most secure way for them to use a one-time pad."

"They already have the keys… So, in a way, the message is the key as well," the Korvettenkapitän's face dropped as she caught onto your train of thought.

"If we get our hands on a message and the key before it reaches the terrorists, we can alter the text," your eureka moment must've made you look crazed, as Price, Soap, Gaz and Laswell all had stoney expressions. "It'll look entirely indistinguishable from orders that would be coming from the oracle!"

"We can use the seal from the stolen message to make our new message look official," Kraus added, pointing the tip of his pen at you.

"Why don't we just order them to release the hostages and surrender?" Gaz lifted himself from leaning on the side of a table, folding his arms.

"An outright order for unconditional surrender could come off as suspicious. We only have one shot at this," your hands cupped your face as you spoke, nearly tripping over Soap's extended legs.

"And there might be some kind of killswitch message for when the Oracle is compromised. We have to be strategic." KKpt's words could have been interpreted as a jab at Gaz, but he didn't seem phased.

"A-and if we happen to apprehend the right person and if this is the right trail, how can we convince her to send in a message that undoes everything they've been working towards?" Professor Kraus’ conviction faded, and pragmatism made him shudder.

"It'll be pretty hard to say no if Ghost is peeling your fingernails off," Soap shrugged, reclining and folding his hands behind his head.

After a few moments of your manic pacing, you recognized the awkward silence that had just filled the room at Soap's words, just in time for the man himself to walk in. Speak of the Devil. Ghost must've been called in my Price while your mind was spinning with possibilities; he ducked past the glass door, clearly just relieved from his overwatch duties. His presence and Soap's words made Kraus' face pale, and KKpt's tracking gaze honed on his menacing company. Kraus made a point of positioning himself with Soap as a barrier from Ghost's presence, hovering timidly by Soap's lounging in your hijacked seat.

"It's a joke. That was a joke," Laswell clarified with a polite chuckle, an outright lie.

The lie seemed to put Professor Kraus entirely at peace as all tension in his wrinkled expression immediately settled. If he only knew the half of it.

"Either way, 141 can be pretty persuasive when they need to be. We need to start thinking about how we'll craft the message," you posited to the other linguists, manifesting your most commanding tone.

"The hostages are the number one priority. Not some, not most, all of them," KKpt reaffirmed her assertive tone, commanding the humour out of the situation.

"We can't even approach the situation until we know it's safe. We have to start with the explosives," Laswell argued.

"On top of explosives, we can expect armed contact with five tangos," Gaz chimed in from beside you, looming over the dogeared blueprints. "They can make or break this whole mission."

"Five tangos? Piece a' cake," Soap quipped as his mouth twisted into a grin, Kraus bellowed a hearty laugh.

"141, this is capture, not kill. We've been given orders to bring these people to trial," Laswell barked. "But I can't speak for the German military."

With so many possibilities up in the air and so little time, it's a wonder that the room became silent. Every soul in that room was raking their mind for logic, seeking past experiences and wisdom to make sense of this change in tempo. You realized your hands were shaking, but you hid them under your folded arms as you paced further. That decadent chocolate cake the boys had bought you couldn't look less appealing right now, about as appetizing as a leather boot. Your nervous stomach couldn't handle the sight. Ghost's eyes in your direction caught your attention, his presence and intensity were apparent. When your eyes swam to dare to catch his gaze, he didn't relent. Brown eyes bored into you with a lingering agitation that made your gut feel like a canon ball had been dropped into it. What's his problem?

"There's too much press," Price sniffed, scratching at his beard. "We can't go in loud, it's too urban. Plainclothes, no armoured vehicles, no kits. Ghost and Soap will infiltrate the apartment and get this Oracle to comply. Gaz and I will be secondary clearance on the ground. Cricket, we'll get you what you need."

He nodded at you, sharing a glance with your colleagues as well. That's working on a hearty assumption that you'll know what to do with the intel they gather. It's also working with a hearty assumption that you're on the right trail to begin with.

"When can we begin?" Soap sat forward in his seat, resting his forearms on his knees.

"What time is it right now?" Price scoffed.

They all move as one. Not a word, no additional clarifications. Laswell gathered her intel in her arms again and slipped out, sparing a nod your way. Once again, just as quickly as they all manifested, they all shuffled out. Soap rose from your seat, Price and Gaz babbled ever so casually about a recent soccer match, and their distant voices trailed into oblivion. Price and co. were headed to the armoury or wherever, the barrel of Ghost's rifle disappearing last from view. Explosive commotion from behind you made the world blur, and suddenly you were being pulled into a giddy embrace. A wall of scratchy blue cotton with gold buttons pressed into your cheek, glancing over to padded shoulders to see the professor bounding over. Surrendering to the crashing relief, you joined your peers in a giddy group hug, squeezing out the deafening tension that's gripped you three for days. Korvettenkapitän Wolf was belting praises, and the explosion of movement sent the professor into a brief coughing fit.

For now, this mission is out of your hands. It's not your field. You're no strategist. Ideas you might bring to the table have probably been long since dissected by the experts, dismissed, as you'd expect. If someone came into your field of expertise and told you what to do, you’d feel pretty irritated too. Laswell will get back to you with the most carefully worded message you can deliver, curated by senior intelligence and coordinated with the ground crews. This feels like the inverse of the desperate hope they instilled in you. It's funny how the tables have turned, and the weight of the mission is now on their shoulders. It feels good. Looking down your nose at them, rolling your eyes if they don't immediately have a solution. The feeling won't last long, but it's worth savouring. Like a game of Red Light, Green Light, you'll be expected to act soon enough.

"We fucking did it," you cried, the words ringing as false in your reeling mind.

"The hard part's done, but there's still more to do," KKpt tempered the energy in the room, a message that was only partly received.

"What's the one with the," Kraus raised his hand to gesture to the top of his head, "hair."

The professor seemed eager to keep the electric atmosphere alight, an opposing energy to the Korvettenkapitän. He stood a lot closer than you were used to him too, pale cheeks alight with life, a flush you'd assumed had been drawn from the success. This aloof professor was now bouncing on his toes in his frumpy brown blazer.

"Oh, that's Soap," you answered casually, slowly catching onto his lingering smile. "Why?"

"I like him," he could barely contain his smile, tapping fidgeting fingers on his styrofoam cup of tea. He looked like he was about to say more.

"Can we focus, please?" KKpt barked in that brash drill-sergeant tone that made the professor quiver in his houndstooth suit.

"Right… Once the task force gets the oracle in custody, we'll have to work fast," you uttered, trying to fight the urge to continue the previous conversation.

"We'll have to get the key, decrypt the original orders, then write the new orders into the key and send it out like new," she continued.

"It's important to remember that we're working with a character limit in this medium," Kraus grumbled, shaking away his fluster. "Once we know what the new orders will be, we'll have to tailor our message within a few short lines of text."

"There's also the issue of internal dog whistles. There might be some secret keyword or omission of keywords that signal infiltration," KKpt pressed a balled fist to her tight mouth.

"You have a skeptical mind," Kraus huffed, flopping back into a chair with a squealing creak.

"We should have one of us creating the new message with the existing key, one person to read through the old orders to see if there are any consistencies, and another person to make sure we're not fucking it up," you ordered.

Immediately leaping into action, you gathered your things, preparing for anything. A pen, a notebook, and crumpling up the rest. Wads of discarded papers sat like shovelled snow in corners and under tables, forcing yourself to take a long drag of coffee to fuel whatever's to come. The rest of them caught the message, following with the same energetic preparation. For what? Who knows. Preemptiveness, more like. Pieces are in motion, and the energy can't go unused. It's like when you send a risky text to someone you fancy and start frantically cleaning your entire house for reasons you'll never grasp. Almost on queue, the door creaked open again, and a glimpse of blonde bangs corresponded with the sound of someone clearing their throat.

"The boys are about to head out," Laswell tapped her hand on the doorframe, only halfway through the door. "We'll be watching in the van. You should come join me."

"Yes, ma'am," you unfold your tight arms, letting them fall to your side.

You nodded for the others to follow, almost as if they were waiting for your approval to follow this random woman with skeptical brows. Daylight was blinding, and that blonde silhouette was the only distinguishable figure in the early noon sunlight. It makes you realize how much of a cave that restaurant has become. Your two peers followed at your heels, each armed with a laptop and a fistful of loose papers. The grey cityscape manifested once your eyes adjusted and you found your footing on the uneven sidewalk. A maze of vans and tents and floodlights, this tourist center has become a military encampment, armed to the teeth with cops and soldiers.

Your colleagues, the task force ones, swam into your field of view from across the street. There's something so unsettling about seeing these guys without their full kits and camo. Ghost had a blue and yellow sweatshirt with some sports team's logo on the front, unquestionably not one from his personal wardrobe. A black medical mask and a baseball cap made him look like any other commuter on a bus, backpack over one shoulder and all. On the other hand, Soap looked like at least a dozen other people you'd seen at the gym before, with a grey hoodie with ripped-off sleeves and running shorts. If you close your eyes and imagine a jock, that image of Soap is precisely what you'd see. He looks like a retired quarterback that peaked in Highschool. Even though they're not supposed to see them, you could barely see the bulletproof vests under their clothes. Not nearly as high of an armour level as in their usual kits, but could save their life nonetheless.

The rest of them wore jeans, almost like Soap was the one who didn't get the memo, even though his disguise was by far the best. There's Price, no hat, Gaz neither. It's such a rare, once-in-a-lifetime sighting that feels so unsettling, like you've just drawn a sword from a stone. Except after this mission, you probably won't be crowned King of Angleland. Even though it might feel like you deserve it.

Your staring was interrupted, and Laswell ushered you into the butterfly doors of a white van. Laswell seemed somewhat preoccupied, doing sound checks with dinky headphone pads that she pressed to her ears. She'd set up the interior with a wall filled with screens and graphs, a handful of CCTV angles, and an LED display that listed 141's Bravo signs. Those Bravo signs came online one by one, and Laswell, now 'Watcher,' settled in for her role in this mess. KKpt and Kraus joined you on the bench beside you; he goggled at every flashing light while she was stoic and severe.

Suddenly, everything was so official. So real. This is happening, and your half-baked scheme based on at least a dozen assumptions is about to send your colleagues into certain combat. Worst of all, if it fucks up, it all falls back on you. Apprehension caught up to you, and your forehead prickled with sweat. Every decision you've made with certainty descends onto your mind like a cold mist, sowing doubt. They're already on their way, picking up on a camera on the corner of an intersection headed further into the city. All 21 of those hostages and four of your comrades, all flying on your dodgy conclusion. It's all or nothing now.

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Master List

[macfrog]

max… I have another important question for you. what kind of book do you think your dbf joel would pick up? i need answers (also omg I absolutely ate up every single fic you posted absolutely love your writing you talented you. lots of love and hugs and kisses🩵)

hi baby i love your questions keep em coming

i really feel like he's the type that he'd hear one interesting fact about some obscure topic and that'd be him. completely hooked. like when he found out about competitive chess and rambled about it at dinner.

he probs has a line of books on the alcatraz escape or something, and drops random facts into conversation whenever he can. reader rolls her eyes, sarah says something like here we go again and they just sit and wait for him to finish his spiel and then act like it never fuckin happened. thanks for that, old man. anyways -

if we're talking fiction, i think he's into, like 1984 and all that. lord of the flies, maybe a little of mice and men in there. probs read a couple stephen kings in high school, probs thinks he's killer. and he basically folds the books in half when he reads them, which pisses reader off. she'll have given him a bookmark to use specifically so he doesn't dogear the pages.

maybe one day reader forces him to sit with her and read, so they're on his couch, her back against his chest and he has some ridiculous book by a former alcatraz guard, she's reading sally rooney. and at one point she goes to turn the page and he's like uh-uh. she's like huh? he's like i'm not done yet. then she notices the alcatraz book is turned over on his thigh.

boom joel miller confirmed marianne sheridan stan

[sheafrotherdon]

Nicky wakes slowly, drifting through the last moments of his dreams and up toward the morning’s sun without hurry, content, blinking into the gentle press of dawn. His eyelids are heavy, as is the duvet tucked around his body, and he hums quietly before he pulls in a long breath and lets it go. It’s quiet. He turns his head and looks over at Joe, at the tousled fall of his curls, the dark smudge of his eyelashes against his cheek. He feels affection well up inside him, rising like a tide to wash him clean. They are safe; they are rested; they have another day to live by and with one another.

Joe frowns as Nicky watches, then opens one eye and looks at him as if confused. “Can hear you staring,” he mumbles, and reaches to pull Nicky closer, his movements clumsy but determined all the same.  Nicky goes easily, rolls onto his side and tucks himself beneath Joe’s chin. Joe is long limbs and warm skin and the gentle scratch of body hair as they settle, and Nicky closes his eyes, lulled by the predictable press of Joe’s chest, his belly, with every comfortable breath.

Nicky would like to take this moment, this stolen peace, and place it in the pocket of his jeans, folded up like a scrap of paper. Between the folds he’d find, some wash day, the scent of Joe’s skin and the heat of his palm at the small of Nicky’s back. He’d find the sweet, subtle ache of his own heart, both loved and loving in this smallest, most ordinary moment of the day. The paper would be worn from the workings of his fingers over it, a corner dogeared by his thumb, by time. He’d smooth the paper, then fold it again, press it softly to his lips.

Wistful, he rubs his nose against Joe’s collarbone.

Tangled up together, they sleep.

[missanthropicprinciple]

scrunchy nylon jacket, marithé + françois girbaud

rayon and mohair tank, poleci

rayon and linen skirt, skies are blue

handcrafted bronze gundestrup cauldron cernunnos pendant by vis a vis jewelry, woven necklace made by me

Specific fashion goal achieved! A few weeks ago I was reminded of one of my favorite old magazines from my teen years; the October 1999 issue of YM (Young and Modern). I was just 13 and was cycling around the block. It had been raining a bit and I remember the street was still wet and gravely. As I rounded the bend I saw a magazine sitting in a slumped, tented position on the road near the curb. Someone had evidently dropped it getting in or out of their car. I picked it up. Realizing it was mostly intact, though wet and stuck with pebbles, I held onto it, finished my turn around the block and snuck it into the house and into the chasm of my tiny bedroom. I eventually cut it up, kept one page folded up in my purse for years, and stuck parts of it into a scrapbook. Many years later I bought an unblemished copy for scanning. Also at random more recently, I decided to go on a hunt for some of the pieces in my fave photo shoot. Surprisingly, I found two of them.

The scrunchy nylon jacket from Marithé + François Girbaud was originally priced at $112 and I paid $182. It was a little steep, but it is a vintage late 90s piece, pre-revival of the brand. The seller listed it as being from the 80s but the exact design is from 1999. As much as I wanted the grey color I really love the black edition as it goes great with pretty much everything I own. Machine wash cold, tumble dry low. Wuuuut? So great. I was very lucky to find the unique rayon and mohair tank from Poleci. Original list price was $76 and I only paid $21. It fits me and has a great cut. Really the center of the outfit! Only downside is that it’s dry-clean only.

I wasn’t able to find the $72 skirt from Cubika (incidentally there’s a toy company by the same name) but I found a lovely rayon and linen skirt from Skies are Blue (new with tags). The original price was about $60 and I paid $29. It’s a different cut but I think it actually looks cuter, especially as the top part of the skirt is very similar to the Cubika one so it has the same look and line as the outfit in the magazine. Machine wash cold and tumble dry low which is very convenient.

I couldn’t find the exact $45 necklace from Dogearred so I added one of my own pieces. I bought a handcrafted bronze pendant featuring a replica of the depiction of Cernunnos on the Gundestrup Cauldron by Vis a Vis Jewelry for $90 and I made the woven necklace myself with cotton cord from Maine Thread. I’m not really into the tall boots so I would pair this look with Docs or leather sandals. In the end I paid more than the original look but two of these were 25 year old designer pieces and the pendant is something that I got long before I put this outfit together. Plus my jewelry wasn’t emulating the one in the mag; if I had gotten an actual piece from Dogearred it would have cost me a lot less. All in all, this is exactly what I wanted it to look like. It wasn’t my goal to look the way the model does - the goal was to look like me in that outfit. It works for me in a different kind of way, with my hair and my vibe. I love it.

[lukeskqwalker]

YOU DOGEAR BOOKS??? >:O

I do. when I was a kid I would fold the page I was on very elaborately too. like origami. but don't worry, I promise not to break into your house and fold all the pages of your books.

[glossyybabie]

others

part 10 || part 11 | part 12

Summary: It’s getting increasingly difficult for you to remember this isn’t your home . . .

Warnings: Kidnapping. Mild Stockholm Syndrome. Missy being a manipulative piece of shit.

Word count: 868

Notes: Got busy, but I did manage to write this at 2am this morning, as a result of me snacking on noodles far too late at night and giving myself an unneeded burst of energy. Live, laugh, and love xoxo

Out of sight definitely did not mean out of mind.

Just because you couldn’t see Missy didn’t mean you were put at ease in any way. You were tired, fed up, in desperate need of rest, and any break from that psychopath should’ve been welcome, but you knew she was around. She didn’t seem to like to leave you unattended unless you were locked and isolated in a prison-like room anyway.

The minutes crept on. Missy had earlier suggested you read something — she’d commented that your staring into space was off-putting and ruining her own reading time — but no books appealed to you anyway. The last thing you wanted to do was read about something different, something so free compared to how you were feeling now, daring to instil a sense of false hope within your already fragile heart.

When Missy had gotten up, in her seat she had left the book she’d been reading, with her current page recklessly dogeared, and a few other of her possessions on the table beside it, such as a glass of something whose smell was vaguely reminiscent of whiskey, and some other small devices, which you definitely recognised. A chill spread down your spine as you recalled the way you’d screamed and retched . . .

You picked up one of the less familiar items. Missy usually walked around with it, akin to a phone, but it didn’t exactly look like one. It was larger, blockier, a glass screen wrapped in carved steel.

The moment it was in your hands and you could feel the cold weight of it in your arms, you lifted your head and glanced around you. There was an immediate feeling of guilt, accompanied by an overwhelming sense of dread. Subconsciously, you felt as though you were being screamed at to place it down, to retreat back to the safety of the sofa across the room.

That was why you had fully dissociated as you began to press various buttons on the device. The OS displayed on the screen was like nothing you recognised, unhelped by the fact that every small piece of text was written in a completely unfamiliar language composed of circles of various sizes and positions. 

Something caught your attention from the corner of your eye, away from the screen. A leatherbound book, like so many others like it, had fallen from one of the shelves. Glancing further down the aisle of books, you could see that this was a common occurrence, simply a result of lazy organisation and overfilled shelves. As you cast your gaze upwards, your eyes ran across the uncomfortably packed shelf a few feet above you. It was a miracle only one book had fallen.

You knelt down on the floor to pick it up and dusted it off, flattening out the creases in any pages inside it that had been crumpled in the process of its fall. It was difficult to eye a space it would fit in on the shelf. You were beginning to see you’d just have to leave it on a table to be tidied away later.

But then you stopped yourself, realised yourself. Looking back at the book in your hands, the book you were about to fondly place away and tidy up after Missy, a wave of nauseating disgust washed over you. Suddenly the soft brown leather felt hot to the touch, like holding the book was burning your palms.

You shuffled away to drop it back down on the floor when a page slipped out from between the leather binding before you could. It rustled as it drifted towards the floor. Book falling from your hands, you caught it just millimetres from the floor and smoothed out the frequent creases apparent all across the page.

In fact, it was folded. You warily unfolded the paper in your hands, holding it up against the dim candlelight to read it.

If you can read this, you have to get out of there. Run while you can. I probably never made it, but you can. If you’re reading this, she isn’t looking. There’s a Vortex Manipulator n

“That’s so inaccurate. I am looking. What silly sausage wrote this then?”

Before you could react in any way shape or form, Missy had plucked the note from your hands, not even giving you a chance to finish the sentence you’d been reading or anything. Your hands fell uselessly into your lap. Nothing could be said or done as Missy read it herself, clearly the whole thing in its entirety, shrugged nonchalantly as if nonplussed by the alarming contents, and flung it into the open fireplace. Your hand lifted up from your lap and reached forward, as if that would do anything.

“How many . . .”

Missy craned her head forward. “You’ll have to speak up.”

You lifted your head. “How many others?”

Missy’s expressions were never readable. You dreaded to think what emotion was ever behind them. But that meant a smile was never truly a smile, and a hand being held out for you to take was never truly just a polite gesture. No matter the expression in her eyes, there was always a catch. Always.

“Let’s take a walk, my dear.”

[dragonmuse]

#39 for as many characters as you feel like answering?

Let's do the book lovers for this one!

39. How do they mark their place in a book?

Lucius- We get a glimpse in one ficlet. He uses the bar napkins! Never dogears or cracks a spine, but he doesn't bother with 'real' bookmarks. Napkins do the trick and then you always have an emergency tissue.

Stede- Filigree metal bookmarks, beautiful jewel like pieces with full tassels. He often runs one finger over them as he reads.

Izzy- When he's reading paperbooks, he folds the entire page he's on in half. He doesn't really care about books as objects as long as they're still readable.

Charlie- Absolute massacre. He will bend spines, dog-ear pages, stuff them with pens, rulers, post-it's, photos, condom wrappers, whatever is on hand. He also marks books up with extreme prejudice so by the time he lends them to Izzy, they're riddled with his thoughts.

John- Uses fabric samples. Sometimes if he doesn't like one of the novels, Frenchie will pick it up later and discover the sample he was looking for last year tucked inside.

[wintershades]

Here’s an extra ridiculous excerpt from the latest chapter of A Novel Guide to Courtship and Counterfeiting, which finds Jester and Fjord on a Tusk Love-themed date. :)

As they lounge around after their picnic, Jester realizes that they’ve arrived at a certain, uh . . . climax . . . in the story.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

With a laugh, Fjord rested back and turned his gaze to the canopy again. Jester felt no need to fill the silence that followed; she was content to listen to the wind in the trees, and to braid blades of grass, and to let her mind wander as she watched the sunlight draw its designs on Fjord’s skin.

What a day it had been! They’d roamed the orchard. They’d had their picnic. Next, they’d probably—

Jester stopped.

The grass unfurled in her hands.

Because right then, she realized: They’d reached the part of the book where Oskar and Guinevere made love for the first time.

In the story, it happened in a sheltered part of a grove, upon what was described as a bed of the softest grasses. The scene—which was recognized as one of the finest in erotic literature, and was marked by a dogeared page in Jester’s own copy—was replete with the aroma of flowers and every imaginable metaphor for picking fruit.

Seven whole pages of tender caresses and silken kisses and honeyed words of affection!

The sheer stamina of it all!

“Are you okay?” Fjord asked, startling Jester back to awareness. “You look really flushed.”

“Oh—um—you know—it’s just all these layers! It was cooler when we left, and—I should have picked another outfit.”

“Well, then. Let’s get you out of it.”

Fjord spoke these words in such a cavalier fashion that, for a moment, Jester’s brain entirely short-circuited. She froze in place, watching as Fjord sat up and began to gather their things.

“Right now?” she squeaked.

“Yep. I’ve got the perfect place in mind.”

“Somewhere more private?” she supposed. Fjord paused, and then he gave a shrug.

“I mean, it’s not super private.”

Oh. Oh, gods.

Jester rolled off the blanket so that Fjord could fold it up, and she sat facing away from him. Why was it so hard to look at him all of the sudden? . . . Why could she hear her pulse in her ears? . . . This was her area of expertise, acquired through years of intense study and observation! She shouldn’t be nervous!

But like so many other things she’d experienced since she’d come to Port Damali, it was very different when it was happening to her.

“Ready?” Fjord said, not long after.

He was standing next to her, offering to help her up. Jester accepted, and as they began to walk along together, she cursed her hands for getting so damnably sweaty.

Guinevere never had this problem, did she? . . . She would never perspire; she’d only glow or appear dewy. Her flawless skin would acquire a pretty flush, and only two paragraphs later, she’d be described as smelling of lilies and honeysuckle.

You know what? Jester thought to herself. Fuck Guinevere.

Presently, Fjord circled around to take Jester by the shoulders and guide her forward. As he moved from her view, she felt all the more aware of him: the span of his hands, the gentle pressure of his touch.

“It’s not much further,” he said. “Now—close your eyes.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~