#they just ordered them in fancy glasses with lime twists

[egophiliac]

Favorite Disney Princess?

this would be a much easier question if they let Meg into the lineup. dangit. >:(

in terms of, like, favorite movie/adaptation, I have a lot of appreciation for the OG three -- Snow, Cinderella, and Aurora (...okay, yes, I was basically predisposed to being obsessed with Diasomnia). overall it's a toss-up, but Snow has my favorite design! she's so classically '30s but in, like, a technicolor way. it's great! ❄️

in terms of who I spent my entire childhood low-key obsessed with (and isn't Meg)...that would be Jasmine. no question. especially in the purple dress. I love me a snarky princess covered in organza and it's all her fault (and Meg's).

[riflewounds]

Whumptober, day 2 | Nowhere To Run (cornered, confrontation)

Cw: abusive relationship, posessive whumper

---

The sky glowed with those wonderful hues of purple and orange.

A little over half past six in the evening. It's been a good day today.

Fuchs told him to have some time for himself. To relax, unwind, do whatever he needed to do.

It was almost suspicious, the way his boss said all those things. The strange grin twisted the younger man's lip as he stared his gunman up and down. Something predatory twinkled in the man's eyes, but Durant - naively - paid it little mind.

What's the worst that could happen?

He trusted him. After all, wouldn't his boss have the best intentions in mind for him?

Durant turned the corner, long legs carrying him down a smaller street. Plenty of tall buildings, separated by thin, dark alleys.

He had a gun on him. If anything were to happen, he could fight his way out of it, tooth and nail.

Unless... unless he asked for it.

He passed by a deli or two. Then a fancy bar. He paused in front of it, studying the lit sign, but ultimately his interest faded. Too high-brow for him. He didn't need to be reminded of the weird fucks he worked for some years back. A good number of them seemed to love these fancy cocktail lounges, where even the cheapest drinks ran in the double digits and a laughable amount of french fries cost upwards of six dollars.

But the caviar and pork were suspiciously cheap.

And the wine had a strange aftertaste that reminded him of... a lot of things.

So he moved on, in search of some cheaper establishment. Those seemed to be honest, never lying about what they were. They didn't try to mask their rancid stink with fancy flowers or beautiful architecture. No, they proudly displayed their blackboard signs, touting their shit beer was cheaper than water. And they weren't lying, one large beer came in at half the price of a small bottle of water.

He kept pacing, heading through progressively shadier streets.

Until one sign caught his eye. It was colorful, shades of pink, blue, purple and yellow, big green-yellow lettering stating 'TOUCAN CLUB'.

And he went in.

Cheap cigarettes and tropical cocktails. He could pick out a faint trace of a tequila sunset among the dense sea of overwhelming scents. Maybe he should have that instead of his usual order of whatever was closest to whiskey on the rocks. He didn't particularly care about what they put in it, just that it was strong, burned his throat, and distracted him long enough to relax.

But the atmosphere beckoned him to try something else for a change. The dim colorful light, neon signs of toucans sitting on branches, they even had potted palms scattered around the bar to make it feel even more tropical.

He stopped in front of a big poster listing the drink menu.

Nothing out of the cocktail section caught his eye. He moved on to the special section, a selection of cocktails made only at this establishment, and nowhere else. They were all toucan themed, but there was one that sounded interesting. The Toucan Secret.

This one was based on white rum and orange juice, with some pineapple juice and a dash of dragonfruit. But the ingredients also mentioned sugar, kiwis, lime, everclear, and a 'secret blend'. Who knows how potent this would be.

But his curiosity got the better of him, Durant waltzed up to the bar, ordered this toucan-themed concoction, and sat his eager rear on the bar stool.

It took a few minutes, but he was a patient man. In his line of work, he wouldn't have gotten this far if he was an impatient little shit. He passed time by studying those colorful toucans. The lights were pretty, pink and yellow went surprisingly well together, molding into a red gradient where their colors met.

A mesmerizing image, one he was broken out of with the sound of glass against lacquered wood. "The Toucan's Secret, sir."

Before him sat a tall glass, much like the ones used for Long Island Iced Teas. It even had a green straw and a little pink parasol stuck in a chunk of pineapple lazily floating on top.

And it wasn't even that expensive.

It didn't take long for someone to notice him. He practically glowed with such a flamboyant drink on his hands. And as this stranger approached, Durant looked him up and down. Tall, he wouldn't call him handsome, but there was something about the way he carried himself that caught his fancy.

Durant sipped away at his drink. The pineapple juice nibbled at his tongue, tiny invisible saw teeth stripping the outermost layers of his tongue. The sugar and orange juice gave the cocktail its smoothness, and the dash of kiwi and dragonfruit left a nice sweet-sour aftertaste. He couldn't really feel the alcohol in there, save for the warmth spreading through his chest.

Overall, he was happy with his choice.

He took another long sip as the stranger sat down, briefly glanced at the lone gunman before he turned to the barman with those magic words: "I'll have what he's having."

Oh no. Durant knew this little dance. He's seen it before, been a part of it before. Wanted to engage in this little tango again.

They hit it off. Had a little chat. Things turned spicy, with the gunman forced against the cold tiled wall, giggling like a little child with a grin spanning half his face. Consensual violence.

He didn't recall most of what had transpired, on the account of his head slamming into the wall multiple times. Thankfully nothing broke, but his head throbbed with that nasty sickening headache and looking at lit street lamps sent waves of stabbing pain throughout his skull. But he could still walk.

Well, mostly. His legs ached, especially his thighs, and badly. But it was all in good fun, it was the good pain he sought out once in a while, not the bad pain he tried to avoid at all costs.

He still had that satisfied smile as he stumbled out of the Toucan club. The nice warm, fuzzy feeling radiated from his depths, rose up to his head and he tipped his head back for a moment, sending him reeling.

Okay, he definitely had a concussion. Combine that with alcohol (just one drink, but it was a hefty one, who knows how potent, too), and he had quite a powder keg on his hands.

He'll be fiiine. He always was, given enough rest.

But he didn't have time. The sun was setting and it was almost dark, and he had time until midnight to haul ass home.

Home. As if some dingy, moist hole in the wall was a home. No. It was one of Fuchs' hideouts, a web of strategically placed vacant apartments scattered across most cities. An expensive operation to maintain, but there always was a home (or three) wherever they went.

Durant traced quite a path through the town, killing time, trying to sober up a bit before he headed back. The concussion was enough of an issue on its own, he didn't need to get home drunk, too. 

He wound up settling in a park, sprawling across an old bench. The wood caught against his creased clothes, a mainstream combination of a dark cotton shirt, black suit jacket and dark chinos, brought together with a simple cloth belt with a toothed buckle, and dark brown leather moccasins. Maybe excessively formal for this part of town, but inconspicuous enough to blend in with the crowds. The gunman sat there in the park, head craned back, resting against the hardwood strips. It wasn't particularly pleasant, but he's slept in worse places. Spending a few minutes resting on a shitty park bench was always loads better than sleeping on cold granite floors of a train station. And then scrambling before the guard set on beating the everliving shit out of him if he didn't leave.

He didn't like to reminisce about his time between jobs. Living on next to no money, unable to even get a motel room for the night. Raiding delis and gas stations to even get by, then skipping town just so the cops wouldn't get their grubby little hands on him.

And he got good at running. Running from the law, the people he pissed off, his previous employers, and himself.

Some time later, he noted how the cold was slowly creeping through his clothes. Maybe it was time to move.

Durant slowly got up to his feet. The world didn't spin as he moved, maybe he'd recovered enough to continue on home.

And so he walked. Away from the park, next to some small river, down a suburban street and then another. Suburban houses gave way to low apartment buildings, five, six stories tall at most. Blocs upon blocs of the same brown brick buildings, separated by thin alleyways.

He turned left, a second to last turn before he finally got home. 

There was a hand at his throat, pulling him into the alley next to him. Durant went for his gun, fingers almost wrapped around the grip, when he caught a glimpse of the man's eyes. He barely got a sound out before the man's hand cinched at his windpipe and steered him back-first into the nearest wall with more force than necessary. Durant's head met the brick with a dull thud, bright sprites dancing across his vision as sounds slowly came back to focus.

"I don't think you've listened to me, puppy," the man hissed through clenched teeth, "I thought I've made myself clear."

He tried to remember how his tongue worked among the thick buzz in his head.

"And yet you didn't listen!"

The hand at his neck yanked at him, threw him off balance before it tossed his confused body to the ground.

He recognized the silhouette, long lanky limbs, messy dark hair, eyes full of some strange predatory instinct. "Fuchs?"

"Oh so now you've found your words," his boss mocked, kneeling beside the gunman, "Tony."

His lizard brain screamed at him to get up, but then Fuchs' hand was at his collarbone, just resting there, thumb stroking the gunman's shirt.

He wouldn't get up. It wasn't the right decision.

Durant felt how his ribcage grew and shrank under his boss' hand.

"Tell me, puppy. What did I tell you about hanging around other men without my approval?"

"To mind my own business," Durant replied, a slight terrified tremble to his voice.

"That's right. And what did you do?"

God, what should he say? The cat's out of the bag and it wouldn't go back in. Durant sucked in a tense breath.

"I went against my word."

"You'll have to make this up to me."

The gunman was afraid he'd utter those words. That this fucker needed his ego stroked with Durant squirming on the floor under him, scratching at the carpet and screaming, begging to be let go. He just hoped it would go quick this time but... he had a hunch it wouldn't.

"Now get up. We'll talk when we get home."

[nerdypanda3126]

Heart i’s

This was written for the @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers 250 Follower Celebration using a prompt list of 50 Wordless Ways to Say I Love You. I chose #48, getting them a coffee just the way they like it.

And this also got combined with an unused prompt in the sprint fic server: “You think you know me so well.” “How’s your coffee?” “Perfect, thanks—oh, that proves nothing.”

Read on Ao3 

“I’m so sorry I’m late, Alya, there was a… dog… who ate my… sweater, and it was a wool sweater, and it made his stomach upset and—” 

Alya waved her off, chuckling, and Marinette flumped down into the seat next to her. “No worries, girl, that cute guy behind the counter already had this ready for you. On him, apparently.” Alya slid the still steaming to-go cup of coffee over to her with a knowing grin. 

“That was really nice of him,” Marinette said, taking the coffee suspiciously. Whenever Alya was involved, she was never sure there wasn’t a plot afoot. Alya raised her eyebrows in a suggestive question. 

“Yeah, nice,” she said, air-quoting Marinette, “or… maybe he’s hitting on you.” 

Marinette almost sputtered out the drink she’d been in the middle of taking. “What, Luka? Pff, no, he’s—I mean, of course he knows my order, I come here all the time. That’s nothing, I’m sure it’s…nothing...” She trailed off as she turned her head to look at him. 

Behind the counter, he was nothing short of professional, with an easy-going nature that translated well to great customer service. His hair was a bright teal that always made her wish she was brave enough to dye her own, and with his uniform hat on (backwards, always) it was just barely too short to cover the simple black gauges in his ears. They’d talked occasionally about the tattoos covering his forearms, although he’d mentioned others (that she was not going to think about with Alya sitting right there), and every once in a while she’d get a flash of his silver tongue piercing that always made her wonder if his mouth tasted like metal. 

“Uh huh, so you’re telling me there’s absolutely nothing there?” Alya brought Marinette back to earth with her teasing tone. When Marinette turned back to her, she pushed her glasses up on her nose like she’d just found a great scoop. 

Marinette blushed. Considering she’d just been thinking of Luka’s tongue in her mouth… but she couldn’t tell Alya that. So instead of answering her, she took a swig of her coffee. Alya rolled her eyes.  

“Go over and ask him out, M!” She leaned over to whisper like they were conspirators. “I think he’s got a thing for you, too, and if you like him, and he likes you…” 

“Alya, he does not have a thing for me, and I—” She bit back the lie she was about to tell Alya and revised it to something a little more true. “I don’t have time to date right now.” 

“He doesn’t have a thing for you. Mhmm. Right.” Alya turned the cup in Marinette’s hands until her name was showing. The lowercase “i” was dotted with two lines that formed a small heart. Marinette stared back at it. 

“That’s… his marker… must’ve been, you know, he had to… dot the 'i' twice.” She set the cup down hurriedly. 

“And it’s not like he’s been looking over here the whole time dying for you to notice him.” Alya shrugged nonchalantly, but her grin had grown to a smirk. She nodded back behind Marinette again and she dared to turn her head to look. 

And just barely caught the shy smile he gave her when their eyes met before he turned away again. 

“That’s… he’s…” Marinette floundered to come with an excuse, any excuse, but there was no reason he should be looking at her like that. With those electric blue eyes that felt like they could see straight through her. She felt flushed and she turned back to Alya, pulling at her collar. “It’s… warm in here, don’t you think?” 

Alya just stared back at her smugly. Marinette abruptly stopped fanning herself and twisted her fingers together on the table instead.

“Look, you think you know me so well, but there’s really nothing going on. Luka and I are friends. We’re friends, okay? I come here and I talk to him sometimes, and he makes good coffee, and that’s it.” To prove her point, and also to stop talking about this, she took a long draught out of her cup. 

“How’s your coffee?” Alya asked, that smug smile and teasing tone still firmly in place. 

“It’s perfect, actually, he remembered the double shot of espresso and he put in some of that chai flavoring that I like and—oh, that proves nothing.” 

Alya was chortling now, trying to hide it behind her hand and utterly failing. 

Marinette set her cup down with a little snap on the table. “Okay, fine, you’re right, I like him, okay? The reason we come here for our coffee dates is so I can see him, and I come here specifically when I know he’s working, and sometimes I sit here for hours pretending to sketch, but I’m really waiting until he has a second to come sit with me, and sometimes we end up talking a lot, and sometimes I think about kissing him, and sometimes I wish I had the guts to tell him, ‘hey, I have a major crush on you, would you want to go out sometime when you’re not working?’ but I don’t, and he doesn’t like me like that, so I’m not going to say anything so I can keep coming here and dreaming about him in peace and why are you still laughing?” 

Alya pointed behind her and Marinette spun in her chair only to come face to face with Luka. He was frozen in shock, it seemed, a pace or two behind her, holding another cup. 

“I… you… heard all that, huh?” Marinette asked, biting her lip. He nodded as a cute pink tinge started to creep over the tops of his cheeks. 

He cleared his throat and gestured with his cup to their table. “I, uh, I’m on break, and I wondered if I could maybe join you.” His eyes flicked to Alya before landing back on Marinette. 

Marinette felt Alya squeeze her hand, and heard her announce she was heading out anyways, but she was absolutely frozen. Luka slid into Alya’s vacated seat across from her and her eyes followed him the whole way. He let out an embarrassed chuckle and looked down at his hands around his cup before he glanced up at her. 

“How’s your coffee?” he asked, his voice low and quiet and much more musical than it had any right to be. 

“It’s perfect,” she managed to say. “Thank you.” 

He nodded and dropped his eyes again, fiddling with his cup, his lime green fingernails keeping time as he turned it around and around on the table. When he looked up at her again, she realized she’d been holding her breath since he sat down. She forced herself to pull a shaky breath in and let it out slowly. 

“I guess I was maybe a little too subtle,” he finally said, chuckling, motioning with his cup to hers. 

“You mean…?” 

“I mean.” He aimed another one of those shy smiles at her. “I’ve been trying to work up the courage to ask you out. For a while, now, actually, there’s a pool going on for how long it’d take me.” 

“You’re kidding.” She was surprised into giggling. He stuck his tongue out playfully, flashing his tongue piercing at her in the process, and she lost her train of thought again. “But you’re so cool,” she heard herself blurt out, then instantly she smacked a hand over her mouth. 

That cute blush was back and he grinned at her. “Oh, you should know me better than that by now,” he said, “I’m just a dork with tattoos.” 

“A smoking hot dork with tattoos,” she muttered, smiling, but he must’ve heard her because he chuckled again and dropped his eyes and ran a hand through his hair at the nape of his neck, rubbing a teal strand between his fingers as he regained his composure. 

“Okay, sure.” He cleared his throat to stop his laughter, but he was still grinning. “Sure, I’ll take that.” He dropped his hand back to his cup and leveled her with that look again. “Only if I get to say you’re a gorgeous, intimidating, espresso-fueled, way out of my league rock star.” 

She was blushing again, she had to be, but she couldn’t seem to stop smiling either. “You could say that.” She took a deep breath and gathered her courage. “Except for the out of your league part, considering we have a date on Saturday.” 

He tightened his grip on his cup, but that was the only indication she’d rattled him. “Saturday, that’s right, how could I forget? At the ice rink, wasn’t it?”

She hid a giggle behind her hand, relieved he was playing along. “Mhmm. You were going to show off those fancy moves of yours.” 

“I was, actually,” he said, and his eyes glinted with mischief. “Twirl you all around, show you off, maybe throw you in the air a bit, who knows?” 

She gulped. “Throw me?” 

“Don’t worry, I’ll catch you.” He winked at her. “Especially if you fall for me.” 

She sputtered rather inelegantly, and he just grinned back at her, apparently pleased with himself for rendering her speechless. Someone called his name, and his smile slipped as he refocused. 

“My break’s over,” he said regretfully. When he stood, he paused as if he were thinking. “Wonder if I should tell them you beat me to the punch.” That soft, shy smile fell on her and she forgot for a moment that he’d been bantering with her not a moment before. “Either way, I win.” 

Something like a squeak came out of her and he chuckled before his hand dropped to her shoulder and squeezed gently. He hesitated, then stooped to press a quick kiss to her cheek, seemingly before he could think better of it, and walked away. 

When Alya bounced back in, squealing and demanding details, Marinette was still frozen in place, her fingertips lightly touching her cheek, and a dazed, lovestruck smile on her face. 

She reached for her coffee as Alya gushed, more out of a need to keep dreaming than to wake up, and caught sight of the small heart over her name as the spiced flavoring he’d thought to put in wafted up to her. Subtle, he’d said, maybe it was too subtle. She closed her eyes and took another drink of what had to be the most perfect cup of coffee she’d ever tasted, letting his unsaid words linger on her tongue and in her fluttering heart, smiling like she’d never be able to stop. 

[kim-monsterlings]

Cane - M Werewolf x GN Human (Reader) // SFW

The pictures do not belong to me. I only created the mood board. Do not repost my work anywhere.

Content: SFW/Lime; not another fae deal !!, drinking, betting with friends, flirting, scheming, kissing, bit of touching - only thigh and chest, tad bit of fluff

Wordcount: 1515

“Tropemas” Summary: after accepting the bet to refuse all company while alone at the bar, the werewolf you’ve fancied for weeks finally makes a move

Notes: let’s play a game of how many of my background characters are always fae, it’s becoming a problem - and yes, I am from the UK, so I do speak in £££

Masterlist // “Tropemas” Masterlist

Nights of flirting behind sweet cocktails and emptying glasses had done nothing for your weakening heart. Weekly nights with your friends were an old tradition, and in recent weeks coincided with a far rowdier table of an orc, goblin and a… a very handsome werewolf, though their unruliness nearly dissuaded your small group from coming back; until a night so simple spent waiting at the bar for a drink brought the werewolf to your side, and with his smile, wide, toothy, all was forgotten.

The same werewolf stealing glances at you sat alone on a barstool.

Had it been any other evening, the same, hardly hidden glances would have been returned. His obsidian, fluffy ears poking through long and curly hair drifted through your mind like he stood before you. After admiring him for so long, the odd curl to his lips when he smiled warmed you, the way his thick eyebrows dipped with a deliberately slow admiring of you - as he was doing now.

By fate or coincidence or intention – and on your part, definitely purposeful – some nights were spent waiting beside one another. Quieter evenings were disheartening, when all you could enjoy were small smiles, his curled under a trimmed beard, but the faster sway of his tail always widened your smile; it wasn’t imagined, how in his rising from the booth, the dark fur began to tuck closer after meeting your eyes. Busier nights, though, it was the little things; like his knuckles brushing yours, bodies running hotter pressed close, and his tail would curl behind your knees when you leaned just a little nearer.

But tonight, you hoped he stayed away.

Two shots in, Immie’s sly smile sweetened and she knocked back another glass. Her sharp eyes rose to the bar. “Turn away every flirt in the next hour and you’ll be ten pounds richer,” she said. Charms woven on a chain warded against glamour, but the faint tightening of your chest thudded the same as her tricks did. “Twenty pounds. Deal?”

One desperate plea to the kitsune sunken by her side, and the evening’s path was set. Milo nursed his pint with a bitten back grin. Befriending two tricksters hadn’t been so smart, not with them exchanging secret smiles. Immie waved the crisp note like bait.

If you were fae, a witch, you would have cursed them both.

"What's the catch?"

"No catch, sweetie," Immie said. Note still crisp in her fingers, she nodded to the bar. "Refuse everyone."

Everyone.

Everyone, including the cute werewolf with his nearly finished glass. The werewolf whose name remained a mystery and whose soft voice only came in mumbles at the bar, and the very same who rose twenty minutes after you, after you had resigned yourself to a painful hour.

There hadn't been anything to lose. For all the years you had frequented the old bar, nothing had come of drunkards asking for your number but a few free drinks. Not only were you paying for your own drinks now, you were about to lose your chance - if you even had one, that is - with the werewolf coming to lean against the bar, tail tucking close but wagging.

"Hi."

For a first, real impression – beyond the gentle shoulder nudges on busy nights and tail wags, the opening line was nothing dazzling, but the warmth of him alone stole your breath. The werewolf offered his hand and yours slipped to his with a waning of your resolve.

The soft pad of his thumb ran over your knuckles. In a warmer voice, he inched closer, "you've turned away a few drinks tonight, haven't you?"

Insinuated, gone unspoken, he thought you promised a challenge. As Immie’s words had, your chest tightened the same, but even as a challenge… you wanted him.

The room mirrored. Two stares fell to your back and two to the werewolf’s. Nothing mattered beyond the dark hair framing his soft face in loose strands when he bowed nearer. One breath closer, and the confession of Immie’s bet graced your lips, half a second from begging him to wait a night, but then came the gentle touch of his warm hand on your knee.

"Kiran - he's the orc," he murmured, fingers stroking up to curl into your thigh. "He bet me a tenner my offer to buy you a drink would be refused. Let me split it with you."

The slight lilt to his thick lips tugged at your chest. Hand on his forearm - and breath catching at the muscle beneath, you hummed. "And your goblin friend?"

"Eliot?” With his brows dipping, lashes falling low, his thumb stroked up your thigh. “He… he bet twenty I couldn't steal a kiss."

"Oh?" Gone was any hesitance with your teasing, the werewolf’s smile returning wide, dimpled. Your fingertips followed the same patterns down his arm and he trembled. "Why would they bet that?"

"This is the first night you've been alone. I'd hoped you were admiring me, too," he grinned, and it was a fact hardly debatable, but you burned anyway.

Even the two glasses placed before you barely tore your eyes from his, bright and amber. Both orders came together, but the werewolf squeezed your thigh, and paid. With his hearing, there was every chance he heard the lurch of your heart. Fire in your navel, in his smile, the ice cold drink didn’t help but worsened your fever.

You could almost hear your friends teasing you.

This was what they had wanted. Milo, no doubt, whispered the same to Immie. Maybe they weren’t watching now. Time ticking, and you hadn’t refused the drink, refused him. Twenty pounds meant nothing if you had to refuse him, and your whisper was more of a sigh. "They bet me twenty I couldn't refuse everyone."

"Split it. Split it all," he breathed, and a rush of warmth, the thick scent of woods and a deeper cologne embraced you, his forehead coming to yours. "Accept the drink. Kiss me, then throw the drink on me."

"And ruin your outfit?"

"You're worth it."

"Such a flirt," you whispered, on a curse when his hand cradled your cheek; you were too far gone, lost in the imagining of his presence after weeks waiting for this.

His clawed thumb pressed to your lower lip as breath rushed from you. "May I?"

"Please-"

The bitter tang of alcohol passed from his lips to yours, but soon forgotten when he tilted your head back and leaned against your chest. The stool had such a low back that it was his hand gripping your thigh keeping you close.

This was everything the nights of gulping down alcohol made you dream of. His soft breaths catching, chasing your lips when you made to breathe, and he hooked his finger through your belt loop to drag you back closer. His collar crumpled beneath your desperate touch and as he met your hips, you held him close, lips flush, until he drew in a breath, nose nudging to yours.

Lips to your jaw, he chuckled. "The drink."

Half splashed your lap. Ice clattered. He choked, growled, staggering back. The chill of it twisted your stomach when he distanced, but his touch never fell from your hip when you stood. Glinting eyes narrowed with your body flush against him.

"Meet me outside," you whispered, but in a frown, turning and pushing past.

Milo rose first, whispered his apology. It stuttered in a whine but fell quiet with one shake of your head. Neither of your friends stopped you from bundling beneath your coat. Only with your jaw locked did the tremors to your breath stay hidden. The ache in your hips throbbed. The taste of him sweetened your lips.

You hardly managed to explain you were leaving and Immie, with an apology, too, handed you the crisp, well-earned note.

“Finally.”

Warm hands snatched you a step from the bar. On such a cold night, the press of his damp shirt made you shiver, leaning up into him. His welcoming growl rumbled in his chest to yours, down to your hips dragging hard together. Outside now, alone, you weren’t so careful in running a hand into his hair until he grunted, breaths heavy against your throat.

More than that, temptation won over your inhibitions. His shudder and groan nuzzled close when your touch dragged over his thick ears. Lips softened to your cheek before he laughed and said, "I'm Cane, by the way."

With introductions passed, nothing stopped you from leaning into his kiss again, into Cane’s arms. "Fifty pound, huh?"

"Fifty," he said, and his tail swung wide. "Fifty is enough for a nice first date."

Palm resting on his strong chest, you stroked away from the sticky material not clinging to him. "Once you've changed."

"I have clean clothes at my place," Cane whispered, fingers already linking with your and squeezing. "Walk with me?"

Already falling into step, you leaned closer. "I'll even help you change," you said, and the steady nudge of his tail to your thigh made you walk faster.

[goodproofingwater]

ComicCon - KJ Apa x Reader

Word count: 4609

Requested by: anon

Warnings: graphic sexual scenes

You had been waiting in line with your best friend, Megan, for what felt like forever. Dressed as Harley-Quinn and Catwoman, the two of you were the only ones dressed up in line for meet and greets with the Riverdale cast. This had been one of the main reasons you had come. You had watched the show religiously since it began and although it was beginning to get slightly ridiculous you kept watching. Half because you were curious as to where the plot lines would meet up, half because of the gorgeous cast. Megan was eager to meet Cole Sprouse and had bought her south-side serpents jacket for him to sign, but you were much more interested in meeting KJ Apa. The two of you made a plan that you would split to meet your favourites, and then reconveine to meet the Cami and Lili who were standing in the middle of the four person line.

“God this is taking ages..” Megan spoke, letting out a short sigh which was alleviated as she looked over your shoulder, squinting.

“I know.. maybe we should just do something else? There was a tomb raider booth back there which had a hot guy dressed as the joker...at least I think he was hot.” Your friend shook her head, an amused smile on her face as she made eye contact with you again.

“Nah let’s stay here. It won’t be long now, look we can already see the cast.” As you looked over your shoulder you could see the four of them standing in a line, each with a different fan as photographers snapped away. Your eyes naturally fell to KJ, his red hair commanding attention even if he wasn’t gorgeous and God was he gorgeous. You watched his smile as he posed with a girl that seemed to be almost crying, and blinked in shock as he looked directly at you as she walked away.

The line moved quicker then, excitement running through you as you noticed his eyes flit to you every now and then, and soon you were stepping up for your photo.

“Well, Miss Harley Quinn,” KJ’s devastating smile made your stomach do a backflip, and you could do nothing but smile for a moment, “I like your costume..”

“Thanks..” you grinned, and the photographer motioned for you to stand closer. You fell into the position that you would stand in with friends, and let your hand rest on his chest as you tried to keep your thoughts off his hand on your waist. The photographer snapped the photo and he stepped back a little, but not as far as you thought he would.

“Nice to see someone taking comic-con seriously..” he chuckled and you glanced down at the black and red latex leggings which made you look more comic Harley than anything

“I’ll take any excuse to dress up,” His eyes never left yours as his lips fell into a smirk, and you knew that now was the only chance you had. If you didn’t try anything with him standing in front of you, you knew you were going to regret it.

“Hey,” you started, looking up at him through thick lashes, “me and my friend are gonna be in the hotel bar later if you fancy a drink. I know it must be a long day for you and you might wanna unwind..” the connotations of your words were more than you had initially wanted to say to him, but as they hung in the air you saw his eyes darken slightly. “We’ll be there at 10pm”

“Should I come dressed as the Joker?” He grinned and you couldn’t help but laugh,

“I mean you can but I won’t be dressed as Harley anymore..” You bit down on the inside of your lip as you watched his eyes run over your figure from heels to hair, and he met your eyes once more.

“That’s a shame..”

—

You were three drinks deep when you spotted perfectly quaffed red hair across the bar, and you almost spat out your vodka, lime and soda at the sight.

“Are you alright?” Megan asked with a chuckle, her hand moving to the lace which covered your arm and you shook your head, eyes motioning in his direction. You watched brown hues skimmed over the room before they settled on your own, and you wondered how he could tell it was you until you realised you had left your hair dip dyed red and black. “Is that..?” Megan started, and you nodded, licking your lips. She immediately fell into laughter, eyes moving between you and the redhead, wondering how you were going to deal with such an unexpected turn off events.

You hadn’t expected him to actually show. The confidence that exuded from you when you had invited him had partially been from your assumption that he had much better things to do after a day of work than drink in a bar with strangers.

“Well well, Miss Quinn, we meet again..” he grinned, eyes running over the lace dress that hugged your figure not nearly as well as the latex had.

He had changed from his t-shirt and jeans into a casual suit, a purple blazer sat over a crisp white shirt and he smelled fantastic.

“Hi..” you spoke, unable to comprehend that he was standing in front of you for a second,

“Sorry we’re late, the meet and greet ran over.” You snapped out of your stupor as Cole stepped up beside KJ holding a pint glass.

“Evening ladies.” You could practically feel the grip on Megan’s glass tighten, and while you would have enjoyed taking the opportunity to tease her as she had laughed at you, you found yourself unable to do anything but focus on the men in front of you.

“That’s alright,” you started, sipping on your vodka in an attempt to calm your nerves, “we weren’t really expecting you to come.”

“Such little faith..” he teased, sipping his pint, “I hope you don’t mind I bought Cole, he fancied a drink too. The girls would have come but they’re hanging out upstairs.”

“No of course not..” you smiled, “nice to meet you Cole. I didn’t get the chance earlier.”

“That’s alright, KJ often steals attention that way.” He grinned, eyes dashing over Megan in a way that told you it wasn’t just a drink that Cole had come along for.

“So what are you girls drinking?” KJ spoke, taking a seat next to you and ordering another round for the two of you.

Before long you were deep in conversation about New Zealand. You had always wanted to travel there and even had friends from there, but the way he told it made it sound even better. He had moved from beer to whiskey, the rings that adorned his fingers clinking against the glass every now and then and drawing attention. Something about them made your stomach twist, sure that those long fingers could satisfy you in ways that other men couldn’t do with their shafts.

You don’t realise you have been lingering too long on his hands until he shifts one of the rings with his thumb. “They’re all initials of important people in my life. Mum and Dad and my sister..”

Without thinking, you move your hand to his, fingers running along the letters of his rings, intoxication clouding the concept of how long you had been looking.

“They’re cool..” you smiled, looking up into eyes you found already staring at you, mind darting to the shapes those rings would make as his had slapped firmly against sensitive skin.

“Thanks..” he licked his lips and looked as if he was hesitating before he glanced over your shoulder at Cole. Him and Megan were getting on like a house on fire, and you could tell from the pitch of her laugh that she was just as enraptured with Cole as you were with KJ.

The boys eyes met for only a moment and you thought they were going to take their leave. Instead, KJ called the bartender and ordered eight shots.

“Eight?!” You spoke and he nodded, licking his lips as he leant on the bar.

“We’re gonna do two shots each, and then we’re going dancing.”

—

The shots had been all you needed to push you over the edge having already been dancing a fine line from the endless supply of drinks the redhead had been providing.

As you stepped into the cold air, you couldn’t help but shiver. You hadn’t expected to be leaving the hotel and so hadn’t bought a jacket, and you were surprised when you felt fabric wrapped around you.

Glancing up at the red head, a small smile washed over your features at the action, something that you hadn’t expected from him. Sure you had hoped where this night was heading, but none of those had him being a gentleman. The shock continued as you approached the club and his fingers slipped into yours, his hand pulling you past the long line and through a seperate door.

You glanced over your shoulder at Megan who was walking alongside Cole, her eyes wide as she saw KJs jacket around your shoulders, his hand gripping yours even after it had pulled you in the right direction.

You moved into what you assumed was a VIP area in the club and a waitress lead you to a booth which was already being stocked with bottles and mixers. KJ slipped a $20 to the waitress as a thank you, and she proceeded to hover at the entrance to the VIP area should he need anything else.

This was the first time you’d been in a booth like this, and you let KJ’s jacket slip off your shoulders as he began to pour drinks. Vodka and lemonade for you and Megan, whiskey and coke for himself and Cole.

“Have you been here before?” You spoke and he moved closer to you than you had expected, the music loud enough that it wasn’t out of the ordinary.

“Nah, just saw it looked good on the way into town. We don’t usually get the chance to go out like this especially when we’re at conventions - we usually just drink in the hotel room.”

“Well what changed your mind this time?” You asked, eyes running over the space that his open buttons left in his crisp white shirt and licking your lips at the small glance at his body.

“Harley Quinn invited me for a drink..” he smirked, sipping his whiskey and coke without breaking eye contact, “that’s not something you pass up..”

“Oh no?” You spoke, licking your lips as you moved closer, body shaking as you realised what you were doing. How the fuck had you ended up in a booth in a nightclub with KJ Apa? “Were you disappointed when you showed up and it was just little old me?”

His hand moved to your thigh under the table, his eyes dancing from your own to your lips and he shook his head, “absolutely not…”

You grinned, letting your nose run along his for a moment. It would have been so easy to give in, so easy to press your lips and your body against his, but you wanted to make this a night to remember. You were going to have to walk a fine line between riling him up and pushing him away, but you were willing to do the dance the moment his fingers moved further up your thigh and under your dress.

Bad Idea by Ariana Grande burst through the speakers, and you took the opportunity to pull back from him, “I thought we came here to dance?” You smirked, wrapping your lips deliberately seductively around your straw and sucking before you shifted along the booth to standing.

Megan grinned as she saw you stand and moved with you, Cole knocking back his drink as he let his eyes wander over your friend. The boys sat there drinking for a beat too long, and you moved over to the table, taking KJs hand once more and pulling him up.

You had thought it was going to take some convincing, but as soon as he was standing his hands wrapped around you waist and turned you around, alcohol infused bodies ensuring any inhibitions were long gone. At the drop of the beat you ground your hips down onto his, sinking lower to the floor before dragging your ass back up his body with a look over your shoulder which made your intentions clear.

“Jesus Christ..” he whispered against your neck as he pulled you closer, hands gripping your waist so tight you thought it might bruise. Well, more like hoped… His lips grazing up your neck as you danced made you even more eager for this night to continue, and you didn’t care that this was out of character for you. Carpe Diem.

As the song changed to something more upbeat, he spun you around and pressed close to you, a hand tilting your chin up as the other gave your ass a firm squeeze.

“You really like dancing, huh?” You spoke, although the look in his eyes stifled the chuckle that came with it.

“Are you staying in the hotel?” He whispered against your lips, his hand moving along your jaw, fingertips grazing the back of your neck as his mind ran through the things he wanted to do to you.

“Yeah, we’re in room 451.. fourth floor” you bit your lip as he nodded,

“I wonder if it looks the same as the rooms on the sixth floor..?” The mischievous glint in his eyes told you what he was doing, although you couldn’t quite believe that it was happening. Surely this was a dream?

“I’m sure you can compare..” you whispered against his lips, vodka mixed with his tight grip on you and the feeling of his biceps under your fingers making you more confident than ever, “although that might be difficult when I’m sitting on your face.”

His eyes blazed with lust at your words, his grip tightening on your ass and he practically growled as he pressed his lips to yours. You moved your arms to rest on his shoulders as his tongue slipped against yours, his hands gripping your ass so hard he almost lifted you off the ground.

He pulled away only to move back to the booth, grabbing his jacket and downing the rest of his drink. You spoke to Megan as he did this, and had just enough time to let her know you would text her when you were finished so she could come back to the room. By the way Cole’s arm looped Megan's waist you suspected that the arrangement of one of the boys staying with one of you and the other staying in their room had already been discussed, and it turned you on even more that KJ had been planning to take you home the whole evening.

“Let’s get out of here..” he licked his lips, grabbing your hand and tugging you in the direction you came from. You were glad that no one seemed to have noticed the two actors and the girls with them on the way in, but you were not afforded that luxury on the way out. Paparazzi snapped away as KJ slipped his jacket back on your shoulders, and he held you close as he hailed a cab to go the shirt distance to the hotel.

He apologised in the car, but you couldn’t care less. The idea of having your photo taken coming out of a club with a celebrity would have embarrassed you when you were sober, but all you could think about was his lips, his hands, the way he got so turned on at the idea of going down on you.

“Just don’t give your name to anyone and you’ll be fine. They might find your Instagram or whatever but they’ll get bored when they see that I’m not on it..” He cringed at his own words and shook his head, “sorry, that didn’t come out the way I meant it to..”

“It’s fine..” You grinned and bit your lip, slipping your arms into the sleeves of his jacket to stop it falling from your shoulders and he licked his lips at the sight.

The driver gratefully pulled into the back entrance of the hotel, and she walked hand in hand with KJ to the elevator.

“You don’t wanna get a drink down here?” You teased, and he smirked as he pressed the button to call it. Slowly he moved toward you, removing his other hand from his pocket so it was visible just how hard he was.

“I think if I have to wait any longer to slip inside your pussy I might explode..” he whispered, lips grazing along your own until you were interrupted by the ding of the elevator arriving.

As soon as the elevator doors closed, he had picked you up and pressed you against the wall, his hard shaft pressed against your centre through layers of clothing. Painted nails slipped through red hair and a hand rested on the back of his neck as he effortlessly moved you from the elevator to the corridor at the right floor.

“KJ..” you giggled as his lips caressed your neck, his mind clearly on one thing only.

You pushed him back slightly, only to walk in front of him down the corridor, glancing over your shoulder as he stared you down like a predator at his prey.

As you slipped the card into the door of your room, he wrapped his arms around your waist and he pressed you against the wall hard once you were inside. He picked you up once more, kissing you fiercely as he moved you across the room to the bed, throwing you down with a smirk.

“My room is bigger,” he started, “but it doesn’t have those windows..” he nodded toward the floor length windows that were hidden behind gossamer curtains.

“I guess we’ll have to ensure that you get a good look at them, hm?” You grinned and he licked his lips as he pushed up your dress,

“My thoughts exactly.”

Sitting up, you watched as he sank to his knees and made quick work of pulling off your panties, careful to leave your heels on.

“God I’ve been wanting to taste this pussy since the second I saw you in that line..” he whispered as he placed chaste kisses down your right thigh, his hand pressing the left open so you were spread open for him.

“You’ve got a thing for Harley Quinn huh?” You smirked and he grinned up at you, placing a soft kiss on your pussy.

“I’ve got a thing for girls with pins like these that like to dress up… and your tits and ass help” he smirked, and you were about to respond with a wisecrack when he flicked his tongue across your sensitive bud then wrapped his lips around it and sucked.

“Oh fuck..” you moaned out, a hand moving down to red hair and running through it as he ran a flat tongue along your slit. “MmKJ please…”

“God you’re fucking sexy…” he groaned, his tongue speeding up and lapping at your clit as he slipped two ring clad fingers inside of you, giving you no time to adjust as he bent his fingertips up to press against your g-spot. You could feel the cold metal of the rings pressing against your entrance as he moved in and out of you, and you sat up to watch him for a moment before he pulled away with a moan.

He removed his fingers from your pussy, and before he could bring them to his mouth you took his hand and sucked them into your own. Innocent features looked up at him as you licked his fingers clean, and the same fire that had blazed when you suggested sitting on his face licked at his corneas once more.

He pulled back, pulling you to standing and pushed his jacket from you, your fingers making quick work of his white shirt. He pulled your dress from you and let out a groan as he saw you were wearing black and red underwear reminiscent of your outfit earlier in the day.

The hesitation gave you the chance to sink to your knees, and you pressed eager lips against his toned stomach as you pulled his belt from him, pushing down his pants and boxers in one swift movement. Although you wanted to take a moment to appreciate you were on your knees in front of a man you frequently fucked yourself over, you couldn’t stop your fingers from wrapping around his shaft, your lips moving along a particularly prominent vein as your eyes never left his.

“Do you know how often I’ve thought about sucking your cock, KJ?” You spoke, licking a stripe from the base of his shaft to the head. He shook his head as you continued, “every day when I lay in bed, think about you, and fuck myself with my vibrator..”

He let out a loud moan that you couldn’t attribute to either your words or the way your hand had began to move up and down his shaft, and you smirked before you sunk your lips around him. He hissed expletives as his hands sunk into your hair, pushing and tugging until you were adhering to a pace that he liked. You looked up at him as he watched you, and when he pushed you down you kept going, letting his shaft move into your throat. Your eyes began to water but you didn’t stop, and he gripped your hair hard as he moved his hips against you softly, your fingers moving to play with your clit as he fucked your throat.

You pulled back to breathe, and as you licked your lips he let out shallow breaths, obviously enjoying himself.

“Get up..” he spoke, and you did as you were told, allowing him to pull off your bra with one swift movement and pick you up. He moved your naked forms across the room until your back was pressed to the window, and he looked down between you as he aligned himself. Slowly you sank down onto his shaft, hands gripping at his back as your ankles crossed behind his back, heels still firmly on your feet.

“Oh fuck..” you moaned against his lips and he smirked at you.

“You gonna be able to hang on, baby?” He held both of your thighs tight, the glass keeping you in place for now.

“I’m sure I can..” you smirked, tongue darting to run across his bottom lip.

He nodded softly, and then gripped your thighs hard as he began bouncing you on his cock, his shaft meeting your body half way. The mixture of gravity and his hard thrusts were so fucking good, and you couldn’t help but let your head fall back against the glass.

“Oh my god KJ…” your voice was strained as he pressed closer to you, his pelvic bone rubbing unintentionally against your clit.

“Your pussy feels even better than I thought it would..” he groaned, kissing you softly before he went back to work. He watched as his shaft pressed inside of you, and although it felt amazing he didn’t seem satisfied.

Far too soon he put your legs down and pulled out of you, turning you around and pressing you against the glass.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard that this entire city is gonna know my name..” he smirked, placing soft kisses on your forehead, your cheek and your neck before he moved back and pulled your hips so your ass worked out to him.

“Such a perfect ass…” he groaned, hand running over it and smacking it more gently than you would have liked, but you supposed you couldn’t tell someone who was going to be a one night stand how rough you liked it.

He lined himself up once more, running his shaft against your wet clit once before pushing back into you, the heels you were still wearing making you the perfect height for him. He pressed your hands against the glass and you obeyed, moaning his name as skin slapped hard on skin. He wasn’t gentle, wasn’t the gentleman anymore and you loved it.

“F-fuck KJ.. harder babe please...” you moaned and he obliged, his hand coming down to crack against your ass as he fucked you harder.

“You like it rough, hm?” He groaned, his hands moving to pull your hair into a ponytail and he gripped it hard with one fist, pulling your hair back.

Your moans got louder the tougher he got with you, and soon your fingers hurt from pressing hard against the glass as you tried to hold on, eyes moving from the ground below to the top of the window as he pulled you hair even further.

His other hand moved from where it had been holding your waist to brush along your clit, and your hips jolted backwards at the stimulation. He smirked, leaning down to kiss your back as he let your hair go, his other hand moving to pinch at your nipple as fingers found your clit once more.

“You getting close babe, hm?” He spoke into your hair, his body arched over you as his shaft slapped deliciously at your g spot over and over.

You could only whimper, and he let out a chuckle that ran through you before he began rubbing your clit faster, “I want you to cum on my cock, baby girl..” he whispered, moving your hair to one side and nipping on our earlobe. You nodded, wanting to whimper daddy but not knowing if he was into it.

“And after you’ve cum on my cock, we’re gonna get another drink from the minibar and then you’re gonna put that Harley costume back on and ride me..”

You couldn’t help but grin at his words, but it was soon wiped from your face as he moved faster and harder inside of you, the thought spurring him on.

It only took a few more thrusts before you were unravelling for him, your hands balling to fists on the window as he rolled your clit under his fingers and pressed deep inside of you.

After a few more solid thrusts, he let out a loud groan that you knew you would never forget for how fucking sexy it was, and he came hard inside of you. He rested his face on your back for only a moment before he kissed it and moved from you, the two of you moaning softly at the feeling of him pulling out.

“Fucking hell KJ..” you grinned, turning to face him and resting your bare back against the steaming windows. He licked his lips and glanced around the room, moving to sit back on the bed as he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“I know, right..” he grinned, moving to the minibar and pulling out a bottle of champagne, popping it before you could tell him not to.

He laughed at the look on your face and took your hand, dragging you to sit on his lap on the bed. “I’ll pay for it, don’t worry…”

He ran his nose along yours gently, his eyes sparking as an idea washed over him.

“Lay down babe. Let’s see how good champagne tastes when I lick it off you..”

[the-inept-artist]

Apologies to a Brother

Yay, I'm not dead!

Yeah, this is a songfic. I recently discovered the song "Lullaby For A Princess" by Ponyphonic and animation by WarpOut. Despite not being an MLP fan, this song touched me, and also made me think of the Sanders twins. So I took some of the lyrics and changed them to fit the story better. I'm including a link to the original video and a link to the instrumental in case you want to try to sing my lyrics.

Original video

Instrumental version

With all that been said, Sanders Sides, MLP, "Lullaby For A Princess" and "Morning Mood" do not belong to me.

As always, please enjoy and review!

~oOo~

Roman lay on his bed, idly staring up at the ceiling. It was a down day for Thomas, so the sides were taking the free time to relax and unwind. Logan was undoubtedly reading some new text book, Virgil was probably on Tumblr, and Roman knew Patton was baking down in the mind palace kitchen. The tantalizing scent of brownies wafted through the air vents, and Roman smiled to himself. They would certainly have a treat after dinner tonight.

Calming classical music played quietly from Roman's IPod across the room on his desk. Despite being a wild Disney fan, every now and again, the princely side enjoyed not feeling the pull to sing along to every song that played, leaving him to instead ride the symphony and travel the ups and downs of it's invisible story.

'Morning Mood' faded out, and the brief silence swept over Roman. He sighed. He was actually glad Thomas had the day off, because Roman wasn't sure he would've been able to function properly. June 18th always did this to him, despite having been ages ago.

If the date on it's own wasn't enough, shuffle decided to resurrect an old song, one Roman had almost forgotten. Violins and piano rose elegantly, and with them, memories. Memories of things said and done.

Things he had said and done.

Roman sat up and sighed again. It was bound to happen, it always did this time of year. Reaching under the bed, he pulled out a worn book, pages old and cover leathery from touch and use. He opened to the first page and gazed at the taped in photograph, the familiar tug at his heart now starting in earnest. Barely thinking about it, he began to sing.

"Fate has been cruel and order unkind,

How can I have sent you away?

The blame was my own; the punishment yours,

The palace is silent today."

A young Creativity, Morality, and Logic beamed back at the prince, but Roman's eyes were drawn to the tiny figure behind them, a small splotch of green in the sea of blues and red being the only hint he was there at all.

"But into the stillness, I'll bring you a song,

And I'll dig through the past treasuries

Till your tired mind and my aching heart

Have had enough of the memories."

Roman turned the pages slowly, one by one. Every one of them had several pictures either taped or glued to them.

Patton learning his way around the kitchen and proudly presenting his first edible batch of cookies.

Logan during Christmas, joy in his grin as he unwrapped the first of the Harry Potter series.

Roman trying karaoke for the first time and owning Mulan's "I'll Make a Man Out of You".

Occasionally, the camera caught the child in green, but when he was there, he was on the outskirts of the little family. In the rare pictures when he was in full view, Roman seemed to be the only one who could see him.

The delicate sound of a mandolin echoed throughout Roman's room, and he continued to sing, lump in his throat be damned.

"Once did a small prince who shone like the sun

Look out on his friends with pride

He smiled and said "Surely there is nobody

So lucky and so very blessed as I."

Roman swallowed, eyes tracking the growth of he and the other Light Sides. Glasses appeared on both Logan and Patton, and each gained a necktie and cardigan, respectively. A bright red sash eventually marked himself as the fanciful aspect of Thomas. But the child in green simply became darker as time passed.

"So bright was his flame and so cheerful his smile,

That long was the shadow he cast,

Which fell dark upon the twin brother he loved,

And grew only darker as days and nights passed."

Eventually, the child, now in green and black, disappeared from the photo album. Roman closed the book, recognizing this as the time when Patton really began his work, helping Thomas differentiate between right and wrong.

Roman's mind took over, filtering reality with painful recollection as he stared around his room, never stopping his musical storytelling. He watched as his younger self and brother materialized, arguing.

"Soon did that small prince take notice that the others

Did not give his brother the same care

And their host had realized he wasn't all good

So he watched as his brother lay his discontent bare."

"They don't like me, Roman!" Remus shouted. "They never have!"

"You just have to give them a chance, Remus," Roman pleaded. "I know that they—"

"But it's not just them! Thanks to Patton, Thomas is figuring out that you're the better one out of both of us! Sooner or later, he's going to stop listening to me completely." Remus' voice cracked and his shoulders slumped, the fight going out of him. "It was always going to happen. I don't know why you thought you could stop it."

"Remus, I'm sorry, I really am, but—"

"But what do you care?!" Remus snarled, ferocity returning just as quick as it had left. "You're the golden one! The perfect prince! The cherished "fanciful" side!" Remus grinned, full of malice as he brushed past his twin roughly. "Why not give the people what they think they deserve?"

And he left their room, slamming the door so hard the walls shook and Roman winced.

Roman saw his child self, shaking in surprise. Then his expression changed from fear to anger, and he growled, clenching his fists. Roman shook his head at the memory, disgusted at his own actions. The music swelled, and his voice strengthened to match it.

"But such is the way of the Light Side, it sweetly

Enchanted the mind of its host

And that foolish prince just did nothing to stop

The destruction of one who had needed him most."

The prince blinked and teleported himself to The Pit. The place where it had all ended, just as quickly as it had begun.

The Pit was believed to be the entrance to the home of the Dark Sides. Shadowy, cold and fraught with terrors and beasts, it was designed to keep the evils locked away where they could do little harm. Roman had first hated Virgil when he came out of The Pit, because he saw the anxious side as proof that one could survive and escape. Fortunately, he had soon come around and made peace with him. The Light Sides typically stayed a good distance away from the innocent looking hole, knowing the horrors it possessed.

But the twins hadn't, on that terrible day.

The IPod and accompanying melody had been left back in Roman's room, but he didn't care. He had the coming lyrics committed to memory after having written and rewritten the words he so badly wanted his brother to hear.

Little Roman and Remus appeared again, swords and shields in hand. Roman watched them, eyes welling as he sang, straining to reach the pair, to stop them..

"Goodbye now, dear twin, I'm sorry, brother mine

Rest now with darkness embrace."

"Remus, stop!" Roman cried, blocking another attack from his brother and pushing him off. "This isn't you!"

"Oh, but it is, my dear Roman," Remus said sleekly, the new white streak in his hair flapping about as he landed a short distance away. "You see, I've learned that not all types of creativity are appreciated." He hefted his blade and rushed Roman, who barely had time to lift his shield and defend himself.

"Deliver my apologies, bring them to his ears

Through shadow, and through veil, and through pain."

"So I thought to myself," Remus said calmly, spinning for a counter attack, "why be forgotten if I can be the only creative side left?!" Sparks flew as swords clashed.

The knot in Roman's gut twisted as he witnessed the two young boys unknowingly step closer and closer to The Pit.

"Carry the peace and the coolness of night

And carry my tears in kind."

"Please, you can't!"

Roman took a shaky breath as his younger self started to cry, beaten down by his brother. A tear rolled down his own cheek as well. Still, he watched, and he sang.

"Remus, you are loved so much more than you know

May troubles be far from your mind."

"I can and I will." Remus stalked toward Roman, a manic glint in his eyes. "And all it takes is one—little—PUSH!" He lunged at Roman, who swiftly stepped aside out of self-preservation.

Roman broke into a dead sprint, reason gone, and head filled with alarms and the ever-growing chant of catch him, catch him, CATCH HIM!

But, of course, he couldn't catch him.

Remus wobbled, smirk vanished from his lips. Roman reached to grab the back of his lime-green sash, realizing the danger.

He missed.

Roman stopped at the edge of The Pit, even with his younger self, both watching as their brother fell. His cheeks were wet, and breath hitched in his throat. As his child incarnation screamed, Roman lowered his voice and whispered the final lyric, bowing his head as the shadows swallowed his twin whole.

"Please forgive me for being so blind."

"REMUS!"

~ONE WEEK LATER~

"Well if there's one thing I know, it's that Reese Witherspoon isn't evil." Patton nearly choked as he looked over at Roman. Roman gave him an odd look, but said nothing. Probably just the cookie he ate before doing the video.

Virgil scoffed from his place on the stairs. "I resent that. Ghosts aren't evil. They just scare people because you never know when they're going to SHOW UP!" His voice went deeper as he, too, glanced at the prince, eyes wide. Thomas also seemed to be somewhat panicked.

"Okay, okay, I take back what I said about ghosts!" Roman said, thinking they were just bashing his take on the movie.

A sharp pain exploded in the back of his head, and all went green and black.

[blackaquokat]

The World Runs to Chaos

Fandom: Who Killed Markiplier?

Pairing: DAtective (Y/N District Attorney x Abe the Detective)

Summary: In which a party goes horribly wrong and boundaries are crossed. (Or, alternatively, my DAtective edition of WKM.)

A/N: You may want to read the three previous installments for my DAtective series Law & Disorder before reading this piece. Otherwise some of the references and events may make no sense. I also played with a new kind of formatting for this particular fic, in order to accommodate what I consider to be the angsty DAtective theme song. Also, this is long. Like, really long. About 9,000 words. Enjoy!

“Screw the phone, screw you and all your stupid rules

Are you alone? Are you dancing by yourself?

‘Cause I’m out here, alive here

We’re dancing here

Chugging from the bottom shelf…”

I

Up until the moment Abe saw the District Attorney walk through the door, he thought he could make it through this party in one piece, despite the Mayor’s attendance.

But that had been a goal of his, hadn’t it?

To talk with the Mayor.

Maybe see what Abe’s favorite attorney sees in the guy. If he’s really as clean as they claim he is.

Five minutes into a conversation he won’t remember ten minutes later, and Abe finds that he likes Mayor Damien Goodwin. Which, of course, only makes him more suspicious. He doesn’t like many people.

Unwittingly, he thinks of the one person he does like right now. The memory keeps him from abandoning the interaction.

Besides, he’s not blind.  How often does one get to speak to a drop-dead gorgeous government official?

Don’t think about the DA again.

To further prove that Fate enjoys throwing curveballs into Abe’s life, he looks up and the goddamn District Attorney walks through the door in all their stoic, ready-to-verbally-tear-you-a-new-one glory. Only for the first time since he’s known them, they’re not in working clothes, but in a casual fancy ensemble that practically makes them glow and the sight shoots straight through his lungs.

They look just as surprised to see him. He can’t tell if it’s good surprise or bad, what with their argument still lingering over his head like a pendulum.

“I thought we trusted each other.”

He chokes on whatever he was about to say to the Mayor, whose brow furrows at this reaction. “Are you okay, Detective?”

Before Abe can answer, the Mayor follows his gaze. He can hear the smile in the man’s voice. “Oh! There you are, old friend! How are you settling into your new office?”

Abe quits the room before he can catch their quiet response. But he hears the Mayor’s declaration of trust echo tauntingly after him.

Why are they here?

Abe was asked to look into all the attendees, but the DA was never on the list.

Were they a last-minute invite? Had they just not been an area of concern for Mark?

Or is it their connection to the mayor—

“Welcome, welcome, one and all!”

Mark’s dramatic entrance down the stairs derails Abe’s panic. For the moment.

While he’s thinking rationally (a rarity in and of itself), Abe decides the best thing to do is avoid them until further notice, since he’s technically on assignment right now, keeping an eye on the guests and employees for suspicious activities.

Piece of cake.

Or maybe not, Abe thinks as he watches the District Attorney down a glass of champagne without breaking eye contact with him.

Seems like they can’t stop staring at one another, no matter how drunk they get.

They want to talk, he can tell. Or at least they did before the drinking started.

He’s never seen them drunk before.

As the party guests fumble about, bumping into one another and daring and gambling and throwing cards, he finds himself close to the DA a lot, staring into their wide, ancient eyes, more vulnerable and open than he’s ever witnessed. The fifth time their shoulders brush clumsily against his (if Abe didn’t know any better, he’d think they‘re doing it on purpose), he sees their mouth twist in an odd way.

Almost…impish.

It catches him so off-guard he doesn’t realize he’s been staring at their mouth for far longer than is probably appropriate, but they don’t discourage him, and he doesn’t pull away first.

Or maybe he does.

How that interaction ended is a little fuzzy.

All he knows is one moment they were staring at one another when they went to refill their drinks and suddenly they’re both in an isolated pocket of the room, where the rest of the guests pay them no heed.

“I didn’t realize you and Mark were acquainted,” they say first.

“I could say the same of you,” he shoots back.

Their brow lifts and is it the alcohol or have they always looked this attractive when they were angry?

Well, maybe not so much when they’re mad at him.

(No, even then. It’s a completely different anger than the one they utilize when facing the defense attorneys in court. This one crawls under his skin and sets him on fire. What the hell is wrong with him?)

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, their gaze flickers to where the Mayor is sitting, still blissfully unaware of their absence. “You were talking to Damien when I arrived.”

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t interrogating him,” Abe reassures with a roll of his eyes.

“Then what were you doing, Detective? After all, you made your opinion of him quite clear the other day.”

Damn, they’re back on the “detective” thing. Is this how their opponents feel in the courtroom? He feels like he’s staring down the barrel of a gun again.

No wonder they got elected.

“Just…getting to know the guy, that’s all.”

He winces. That sounds like a lie even to his ears.

Judging by the look on their face, they definitely don’t buy his statement.

He sighs. “Look, I felt bad about what happened and sure, I still don’t trust the guy, but…”

“But?”

He runs a hand down his face. “I see what you mean. He seems like a good guy.”

I can see why you’d choose him.

Their brow furrows. “Why did you say that?”

“Say what?”

Wait, did he say that last thing out loud?

Shit!

Their eyes light up in realization. “Wait. Abe, you don’t think that Damien and I are—”

“Hey, what are you two doing huddled over there?!” jeers Mark from the poker table. “Abe, it’s your blind!”

“Coming!” Abe turns to the DA with an apologetic look before rejoining the table.

He hears them sigh before they follow.

For the rest of the game—where the DA proceeds to clean out every single of their chips because even in their most inebriated state, it’s impossible to read their expression—Abe swears they keep watching him and it thrills him as much as it distracts him and damn it, he didn’t come to this damn party to lose this much money just because he can’t stop thinking about how they were going to end that last sentence.

(Or maybe because he can’t stop wondering what would happen if he leapt across the table and kissed the District Attorney until they both forgot the Mayor even existed.)

Abe wakes up the next morning feeling stiff with alcohol and regret.

The latter baffles him until he flexes his hands and flinches.

His knuckles are bruised. So is his cheekbone.

He can’t for the life of him remember why.

Most of last night, actually, is a blur of loud music, obscenely bright lights, and the beautiful angry eyes of the District Attorney.

Could he be any sappier, for Christ’s sake…?

Abe pinches the bridge of his nose in a lackluster effort to fight against the headache hammering against his skull. His mouth feels like cotton soaked in acid.

(Why does he taste lime on his lips?)

Maybe his headache and his memory will improve once he gets some coffee and egg whites in his system.

Every movement from the bed to the blizzard-cold floor leaves him aching like an old man, so he decides to forego clothing and practically crawls to the closet to slip a guest robe on.

When he arrives downstairs, after an enormous amount of physical exertion that may have left him sweating more than he should have, Abe finds himself blinking into the maze of hallways.

Where the hell is the kitchen again?

He’s trying his damnedest to urge his hungover mind into recalling the layout of this ridiculous house when a strike of lightning exacerbates his headache by several notches.

The sudden sound unsettles him more than he cares to admit (the sun is blaring through the windows, how the hell is there a thunderstorm right now?), so Abe hurries to the nearest room to see if anyone else heard it.

And that’s when he finds the District Attorney standing over Mark’s corpse.

“I’m so sick of parties

I’m so sick of being drunk

I hold my breath, lips brush against my ear

But I don’t feel them

Or know them

I just know you

I know you…”

II

As soon as the room empties, the DA turns on Abe.

“What the hell was that about? I’m an attorney, not a detective!”

Jesus, Abe doesn’t want to think about that right now.

He just made the District Attorney his partner.

His partner.

As soon as the words left his lips (compulsively, stupidly; he thought his hungover had dissipated as soon as he saw Mark’s corpse, there’s no way he would have made them his partner while sober) Abe had wanted to crush them under his foot.

Has he just signed their death warrant?

“Look,” Abe says after too long of a silence, “you’re the only other person here with any kind of experience in law enforcement and I’ll need all the help I can get. You with me, or not?”

His voice comes out harsher than he means, but isn’t that just about par the course whenever he speaks to them these days?

Their eyes narrow at his tone. He suddenly notices the dark mark on their jaw and remembers his sore knuckles.

The punch lands harder than he means it to, and the DA crashes unceremoniously to the floor, hand rubbing the side of their jaw.

The mayor scrambles to their side, one hand holding their head still so he can examine their jaw. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” they respond. They push up onto their elbows and look directly at Abe’s guilty face. “Feel better now?”

No. No, he doesn’t.

Matter of fact, he thinks he might throw up.

“Of course I’m with you.”

Their declaration yanks him from the sudden memory and Abe almost forgets where he is.

Jesus, he punched them last night?

And they’re still speaking to him?

“Abe? You there?”

Abe shakes his head. “Glad to hear you’re onboard, Partner,” the title rolls off his tongue with an ease that both delights and frightens him. “Now let’s get to work. Judging by the temperature of the body that I measured rectally, which is obviously the most accurate way to get the inner body temperature of a corpse—”

“You did what?!”

“—that’s a fact, totally procedure, don’t tell anyone I did it—”

“Christ, Abe, I’m a lawyer, you can’t tell me these things!”

“—I am sure Mark was killed around 1:30 a.m. last night.” Abe thinks on that for a moment, then, because for once he wants to feel like he’s in control of something this morning, he stands up and points at them in accusation. “So what were you doing at 1:30 a.m. last night?”

“Didn’t we do this already?” they snap.

“Answer my question, partner.”

They stare up at him, challenging, and suddenly he remembers something else from the previous night.

“So you're telling me you don't agree with the death penalty?” The idea is baffling to Abe. He stares at them like they’ve grown another head.

“I'm saying that only certain crimes should be considered worthy of further violence,” they argue, “and only when the evidence is undeniable. It's also a horrifying expensive and inhumane practice, barbaric even.” Their tone is adamant, and Abe finds himself admiring the passion lining their posture, lighting up their wavering gaze, he’s never seen them drunk and God, they’re beautiful in their openness.

“So...what then? You don't think a killer deserves death?”

“I'm saying that until discrimination can be taken out of the equation, maybe we shouldn't pump human beings full of electricity, especially if there is even the slightest chance they could be innocent.”

He points at them, and he can’t decide if the almost-smile on their face is genuine enjoyment of the debate or a challenge.

“So you wouldn't want the person who killed you to pay for his crime?”

“I'll be dead. What will I care?”

Abe shoves the images out of his mind.

Meanwhile, the challenge in the DA’s mind fades into something more thoughtful. “Do you seriously not remember?”

“Remember what?”

They glance away from him, biting their lip, before standing up. “Never mind. I was in bed at 1:30. I remember staring at the clock before I went to sleep.”

Are they blushing? Why would they be blushing?

Oh God, what happened last night?

“Fine then.” He can demand answers about any drunken mishaps later. Abe is more than reasonably certain that the DA wouldn’t have killed anyone. “So, we need to figure out where everyone was and what they were doing around that time or, at the very least, who saw Mark last. You need to get out there. See if you can piece together the story of what happened last night. I’ll stick around with the body and run more…tests.”

As he sniffs his fingers, the DA hurries away.

“Please wait until I’m out of the room before doing…whatever you’re about to do.”

The next time Abe sees them, it’s from behind a potted plant, just after he discovers Mark’s missing corpse. He meant to tell them right away, drag them back into the manor but…

They’re talking to the mayor again.

“Look, I’m sorry you saw that argument with the Colonel. I lost my temper, and it wasn’t right, and…he must be in shock.”

“…I’m sure he is.”

What’s with that tone? Did they speak to the Colonel already?

It doesn’t escape Damien’s notice either. “The Colonel’s an eccentric; it’s his best quality, and his worst. But, he’s my friend and…so was Mark.” His hands flail helplessly. “I know I’m supposed to be a leader in this scenario, but I can’t help but feel lost! I’ve known Mark for years, since we were kids! And he’s just gone?”

All they do, after a moment of loud silence, is lay a hand on his shoulder, lightly. He doesn’t shrug them off. As a matter of fact, he seems grateful for the attempt.

Abe hates the acidic taste the sight leaves on his tongue. Still, it’s far less of a display than he expected.

“We went to University together. We’ve been friends ever since.”

Could that really be all there is to it?

“Do you…” they clear their throat. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Damien shakes his head. “That’s very kind of you, but truthfully...I just need to be alone…to process all of this. We’ll talk soon, I promise,” he reassures, “but I need to think.”

He walks away from them, head bowed, and Abe has never wanted to see their face more, gauge their reaction.

Could he have overreacted over nothing?

Then he remembers he actually has a job to do. A corpse to find.

“Hey, partner!”

They spin, startled, and then hiss a curse under their breath. “Don’t do that!”

“Get over here, now! Hurry up!”

They must hear the urgency in his voice, because they drop their offended expression and rush to his side.

The tightening, foreboding knot in his gut loosens, just slightly, when they’re next to him again.

“Yeah, it might be the Smirnoff or all the Natty light

Yes, it is weak, but there’s nothing left to lose

So call me right now and I’ll cave

I’ll answer you and blame the booze...”

III

“Abe, weren’t we in a different section of the house a moment ago?” the DA asks.

Abe pauses and looks around. “I don’t know. I’ve never been able to figure out the layout of this place. But anyway, not important right now.” He starts walking forward, the DA just a step behind him. “What’s important to ask is this: why did Mark invite us all here? Why tonight? He said we were celebrating, but he never specified what. It’s almost as if this whole shindig of a hootenanny was just a ruse…”

He stops walking once again, the weight of the day pressing in on his shoulders. “Mark was my friend, had been for years. But then he went quiet. I knew something was wrong, I just never figured out what. Now I guess I never will.”

Could he have prevented this somehow? Stayed sober last night, visited more during those quiet months?

There’s a brushing against his fingers, and Abe looks just in time to see the DA take his hand and squeeze it gently.

He relishes in the comforting contact (when’s the last time he’s let anyone touch him like this?) until they speak again.

“I saw some security footage earlier. You talked to Mark three days before the party?” Their voice is friendly enough, but he hears the unspoken question.

Were you going to tell me?

He levels a serious gaze at them. “I’ve been working with him for years. What’s your excuse?”

You don’t look like you’d have a reason to kill him. But I’ve been wrong before and it cost me dearly.

Their brow lifts. Their hand slips from his grasp and the loss of contact is almost as cold as the look they give him.

“My only connection to Mark is Damien. I’ve only met him a handful of times over the years because he and Damien grew up together, and because he donated generously to my campaign fund.”

It always comes back to the damn mayor, doesn’t it?

Abe’s frustration must have shown, because the DA groans. “My God, will you get over yourself? Damien and I are best friends. That’s all.”

Abe coughs to cover up his disbelief. “That’s fine, I don’t know why you’re telling me—”

“Do you think I’m an idiot, Abe?” they accuse. “Do you think I don’t notice when someone is lashing out over misplaced jealousy?”

Oh shit. They said that word.

That word that is absolutely not what’s happening with him.

Or is it?

“I am not jealous!” Abe defends with a laugh he really hopes sounds indifferent.

Judging by their crossed arms and furrowed brow, he is failing gloriously. He opens his mouth (to dig a deeper hole for himself most likely), but they hold up a hand.

“Look, I know this isn’t the time to have a conversation, that’s fine. But after all of this is said and done, we are going to talk.” They step closer to him, ancient eyes sharp enough to cut into his skin. “There are things I need to tell you. Preferably when we’re not trying to find a killer and a missing corpse.”

Abe wants to laugh but he doesn’t because the urgent sincerity in their face leaves him wondering if he’s seen them look like this before.

He’s almost afraid to hear what they’re going to tell him.

Luckily, murder is a valid reason to put off unwelcome conversations.

He waves his hand, falsifying a nonchalance he absolutely does not feel. “Good point, we’ll talk later about your poor taste in ‘friends’, in the meantime—”

“I swear to God, Abe…”

“—let’s keep walking.” Despite that last jab that he should have kept to himself, the DA follows him further down the hall.

“So, the real question we should be asking is: who stood to gain the most from Mark’s death? Now, in my thorough analysis of the corpse’s anal cavity—”

“I didn’t hear that,” they mutter.

The detective gestures towards the entrance to Mark’s room several minutes later. “Well, after you.”

The DA rolls their eyes, but before they reach for the door, they turn back to him. “Detective, do you remember anyone going into the wine cellar last night?”

“Not that I can recall, why?”

“When I was interrogating the butler,” they confess, “he led me to the cellar and panicked over a broken bottle. While his behavior itself was just…weird, I was wondering when and why any of us would have gone down there. I mean, there wasn’t a pool of blood or even any wine stains, but someone could have easily cleaned it up.”

“Huh…” Abe strokes his stubble chin. “That is…very interesting, indeed. We’ll have to ask around after we examine the victim’s room.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He hesitates a moment, before nodding in approval. “Good work, partner.” Maybe this won’t turn into a disaster after all.

They swell just a hint at the praise. “Thank you.”

The pair enters the room, and the DA hisses a curse at the state of the master bedroom.

Furniture is overturned, clothes are strewn about, and glass is shattered all across the floor. It looks as though a hurricane has blown through the room.

“Looks rough, but I don’t think he was killed here. So perhaps there might be more to the cellar you mentioned. Still, take a look around, see if you find anything, but be careful. I’ve lost three partners before to bedroom booby traps.”

“Yeah…if I die, do not put ‘death by bedroom booby trap’ on my gravestone, please?” They step over a pile of broken glass to a table with several photographs on top.

He doesn’t want to think of them with any kind of gravestone, but he doesn’t exactly want to bring the mood down again.

“Of course, partner, whatever you say. Make sure you don’t tamper with any evidence.”

“I’m sorry, what was that, Mr. Anal Cavity?”

“I heard that!”

Maybe Abe should have paid more attention to the Colonel’s sudden reappearance. Maybe he should have looked up and seen how unsettled you were by the man’s behavior.

But he didn’t.

Now he’s alone in Mark’s bedroom, holding Mark’s underwear, and trying desperately to remember more of what the hell happened last night, at least where the DA is concerned.

He’s only marginally successful.

“You goddamn idiot!” the DA growls. They pull away from the mayor, grab Abe’s arm, and drag him into another room whilst the Colonel calls for another volunteer.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Abe yanks his arm away. “C’mon, it’s a friendly game of Russian Roulette—”

“There is no such thing as a ‘friendly Russian Roulette,’ you drunk moron!”

“Hey, you’re drunk too! Don’t go calling the blue kettle a pot!”

The DA’s frown deepens. “I’m sober enough to know how badly you botched that saying.” They hold up a hand as he tries to speak again. “Look, obviously you still have issues to work out, and since this problem is affecting our enjoyment of the party, I say we get it out of our systems.”

“Get what out of our systems?”

“I want you to punch me, Abe.”

He certainly wasn’t expecting that answer. “What? No! Why would I do that?”

“Because obviously you’re still upset for God knows what reason, and I can’t help but notice that part of it has to do with me. To be honest, I’m still pissed at you too.”

“What, does that mean you’re going to punch me then?” he taunts.

“Yes.”

“What?”

Instead of responding, their fist cracks into his cheek.

Abe reels back, hand touching his cheekbone in disbelief. “You-you—” He can’t decide if he’s indignant or even more attracted to someone who can throw a damn good punch, but his wavering isn’t doing him any favors, “—you hit me!”

“I warned you,” they snap. They hold their arms open, leaving their face and body vulnerable. “Now it’s your turn.”

Abe raises his finger and waves it at them. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Hello again!”

Abe stiffens as the very ruffled mayor stumbles into the room, a wide smile on his face as he beholds his friend, the DA.

“Why do the two of you keep running off together?” He gestures wildly to the other room. “The party is in there! Don’t worry, I made the Colonel put away the gun!”

“That’s great, Damien, but I’m a little busy trying to get the detective here to punch me,” the DA says conversationally.

The mayor glances from his friend to Abe, and blinks several times. “Is this a new game I’m unfamiliar with?”

“It’s a quick thing, don’t worry about it,” the DA dismisses. They turn back to Abe. “Abe, hit me already and we can get this over with.”

And that’s all he’s got so far.

It explains the bruise on his cheek. It explains the discoloration on the DA’s jaw.

But…why the hell did the DA think punching each other would fix anything?

Why would he go through with punching them in the first place? He can’t think of why he would suddenly change his mind.

What did he do to anger them so much?

Wait…the group played Russian Roulette last night?

Mark was shot, along with all those other injuries…was I there when it happened?

Did he die during the game? Was I too drunk to notice?

That last thought feels like a dagger in his gut. It was so stupid of him to let down his guard last night in a house full of strangers. Mark’s blood may as well be on his hands…

Abe paces across the room and comes across the picture his partner had been looking at before they left. He picks it up off the table, a feeling of dread settling over him.

It’s a picture of the Colonel, in a frame with cracked glass. Like the whole thing had been smashed.

Abe drops the frame to the ground with a loud clatter and tears out of the room because he let his partner walk off with the guy who is most likely to have killed Mark last night.

“House parties are proof the world runs to chaos.

I go outside and that’s when I see you.

And you say, don’t talk.

I’m sorry.

I’m scared of this.

Well, I’m scared too…”

IV

“BULLY!”

The Colonel bursts from the pool with a flourish and now you’re wondering if perhaps you need a nap or another dose of alcohol, because what in the actual hell is going on?

You turn away to try to call Damien back, but then the Colonel appears right next to you again, completely dry and dapper, like he didn’t just take a spontaneous dip into the pool.

“Oh, life needs a bit of madness, eh chap?!”

You stare at him for the longest time. “Right now I think Life is just trying to confuse me.”

“Of course, that’s what life is for, isn’t it! Now, what were we talking about? Oh yes, the grisly business inside! Well, I’m sure I’m not the first to say that our host had a great deal of enemies as of late.”

“To be perfectly candid, Colonel,” so long as he’s being open, you decide to be a little honest with him, “no one has really been open about their opinion of Mark, aside from Damien, so I appreciate any insight you may have.”

Nothing you can do about the “madness”, as he so aptly phrased the situation, but acknowledge it and move on.

“Indeed?” The Colonel nods. “Well, I am glad to help. My prying eye might suspect that the people who worked for him might have reason to stab him in the back. God knows he’s a tough son of a bitch to work for.”

You place your hands on your hips. “Is that right…?”

Unwillingly, your mind drifts to Abe. He said he’d working with Mark “for years,” but he also called Mark a friend. You decide to ask him if there’s any merit to the Colonel’s hatred.

“Oh!” He looks over the balcony they have approached, his eyes lighting up in delight. “The old golf course! I-I’ll fetch my clubs!”

“This place has a goddamn golf course too?” you whisper in disbelief as the Colonel charges down the staircase and into the greenery. “Wait, I’m not done—” you call after him.

“Colonel?” Damien reappears behind you. “Damn, I thought I heard him.”

You look back over the balcony and sure enough, the Colonel is nowhere in sight. “You…uh, just missed him. I guess.”

This place makes no. Damn. Sense.

And you can’t even joke with the Detective about it because everything is so tense between the two of you right now.

Maybe it’s a blessing that he doesn’t remember everything you did last night.

Damien pinches the bridge of his nose before shaking his head. “No matter. Would you accompany me? There’s something that I would like to discuss with you.”

“Of course, Damien.”

“Now, I know you’ve been assisting our…intrepid detective with his investigation—”

You try not to pause for too long. “Why do you say it like that?” you ask quietly, even as the urge to defend Abe rises in the back of your throat.

“…I have to bring some concerns of mine to the forefront. If we look at this situation logically, we can only assume that the killer who struck down our dear friend Mark was with us last night. And while I would stake my life on the innocence of the Colonel or yourself—”

“I appreciate that.”

“—can we really say the same of our beloved detective?”

Your mouth twists. “Damien, with all due respect, I don’t think Abe is the killer.”

You very rarely disagree with Damien. In all your years of friendship, you can count on one hand the number of times you and Damien were on opposite sides of a fight.

But this isn’t a fight. Not yet.

Damien’s gaze turns questioning. “My memory of last night is…rather fleeting, I confess, but I remember some things. Old friend, are you acquainted with the detective?”

His tone is neutral, but, at the same time, not unkind. A good start.

“I’ve helped with a few of his cases when they came to court, back when I was just an Assistant Attorney. He was actually the first detective I got to work with.” You spare a brief smile at the memory. “He’s unorthodox, short-tempered, and has a really weird fixation with corpses that I try not to think about too much, but he’s an honorable man. The only one willing to work with someone like me.”

And you may or may not have grown some not-so-trivial feelings for the ridiculous detective who is hellbent on making everything harder than it has to be, but you can’t deal with that can of worms right now.

Damien gives you a long look, long enough to raise questions. But then he nods. “I trust your judgement, and if you believe so, I’m inclined to do the same.”

You relax minutely at his words. At least with the rest of the world falling apart, you could still rely on your dearest friend.

As Abe runs, he only gives brief notice to how the hallways and doorways didn’t lead to the areas he thought they were supposed to.

These thoughts flee from his mind when he finds the Colonel, just as the man pulls the trigger of his gun and fires in Abe’s direction.

The bullet shatters the vase on the table beside Abe.

The gunshot elicits Abe to pull out his own weapon and fix it on the Colonel. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you better lower your weapon and tell me where my partner is, you murderer!” the detective commands.

“I bloody well won’t, you’re the one who assaulted me! For all I know, you could be the murderer!” the Colonel shoots back.

The thunder erupts around them with each utterance of that word, and the sight of the Colonel pointing a gun at him—

The night goes downhill when that damn Colonel whips out his weapon without hesitation at Mark’s suggestion of a game of Russian Roulette.

“Oh, count me out,” the DA hisses as soon as the gun appears. “Guns and I aren’t on friendly terms right now, bullets included or not.”

“Is anyone ever on friendly terms with weapons?” The mayor muses aloud, his hand landing on the DA’s shoulder.

Abe has never wanted to tear off someone’s arm more than in this moment.

“Oh, lighten up, chaps!” the Colonel encourages. “Just a friendly game of ‘Who’ll Bite the Bullet First’ is all it is! Personally, I think I’ll win! I have the strongest teeth!”

The DA blinks. They turn to Damien. “That’s the friend you never shut up about?”

Damien shrugs. “I suppose I’m a magnet for eccentrics.” He punctuates the statement by gripping their shoulder and when the DA rolls their eyes with a begrudging smile in response, Abe does something really stupid.

“I’ll go first!” he announces. His arms fly open, ready for bullet time and wow, he’s really drunk—

That tears the smile off the DA’s face. “What?!”

“Alrighty then!” The Colonel raises his gun and pulls the trigger.

“ABE!!”

But the trigger activates an empty barrel and Abe nearly topples over with the force of his laughter. “Of course not! That’d be too easy, wouldn’t it!” he chuckles.

He can’t even tell if he’s joking or not.

Living’s been far too hard lately.

“What the hell are you idiots doing?”

Abe jerks in surprise at the sound of the DA’s voice. They’re with the Mayor (of course they are damn it, he needs to focus) so his relief about their safety is tinged with irritation.

“Hey, partner, I’m not the idiot in this scenario—”

“Everyone, please!” Damien interrupts desperately. “I know we’re all on edge, but can’t we resolve this amicably?”

What kind of ridiculous understatement is that?

“On edge?!  This psycho tried to shoot me!”

“That’s a bold-faced lie!” The Colonel denies. “I was merely doing some light target practice!”

“Inside?” The butler smacks the Colonel with a feather duster.

“Well, yes! I couldn’t go on the grounds now with that bloody chef in my way, could I?”

“You’re damn right!” the Chef interjects. “You should have remembered that, Private! Besides, you’re not my boss anymore!”

“It’s ‘Colonel’ now,” the man growls.

The DA steps closer to the Colonel and the Chef and Abe’s nerves go haywire at the sight. “Hold on a moment, you guys need to calm the hell down—!”

“Enough of this horseshit!” the detective interrupts, anything to keep his partner from getting too close to the gun-wielding maniac. He addresses the Colonel. “You knew I was onto you and you were trying to knock me off before I could finger you!”

A long, uncomfortable pause follows.

Shit.

“…AS THE MURDERER!” he tacks on too late to save face.

The lightning strikes again, as if also mocking him for his verbal slip-up.

“I will not be called a murderer in my own home!” the Colonel shouts, his statement interrupted yet again by a thunder crack.

“Stop!” a new voice cries out from the back porch.

“This is how it feels to fall in love

This is how it feels to fall

The weakness, the sadness,

The sirens, the madness

The pounding in your chest,

Like you’re racing the streets in an ambulance…”

V

“Mark’s death is a terrible thing indeed,” the newcomer, Celine, Mark’s ever-elusive ex(?) wife declares.

Honestly, Abe doesn’t know what to think of her. She just arrived out of nowhere and suddenly thinks she can take charge of the situation? And how did she figure out what was up with the lightning so quickly?

“We need to speak with Mark.”

“I knew it! He’s a flesh-eating zombie!” the Chef declares.

“No!” Celine shoots down.

“Well, maybe one of those smart zombies,” the Colonel suggests. “Homeo sapio zombifus.”

“Can we stop with the zombie talk?” the DA begs quietly.

Abe decides to take pity on them, since he’s the only one who heard them. “You okay?” he whispers.

“It’s bad enough that there’s some kind of magic going on here,” they hiss, “I do not need to deal with the undead too.”

“I need to commune with the dead.” Celine announces.

Of course she does.

“That…doesn’t sound like a good idea,” Abe finally decides to say.

“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t need your permission.”

Rude. He was just expressing a bit of concern over, you know, trying to deal with the devil.

“But you!”

The DA startles when Celine points at them accusingly. “What about me?”

“You’ve been awfully quiet through this whole thing.”

The accusation in her voice is obvious. Abe’s first thought is, yeah, the DA is always quiet, it’s just how they are, but then that gives way to more doubting thoughts.

Abe has no idea where this sudden suspicion of his partner comes from, but now it’s here, shadowing his mind with inky fingers, darkness crawling up his spine.

You don’t remember where they were last night.

They know Mark.

They didn’t like him...

Apparently he’s not the only one. The Chef and Butler express similar sentiments.

(That should have sent off a warning bell, all of them suddenly agreeing on one nonsensical thing.)

“Maybe I shouldn’t have trusted someone so goddamn gorgeous,” the detective muses aloud.

“Are you guys shitting me?”

Their utterly betrayed gaze is enough to frighten the inky suspicion from his mind. The next moment, he’s overwhelmed by cold shivers.

What the hell was that?

And why do the Colonel and the Mayor seem unaffected?

“Celine,” Damien speaks up, “this is our District Attorney and my dearest friend. This baseless accusation will get you nowhere.”

Abe hates the shame tinging his thoughts at the Mayor’s defending his partner.

“Very well.” Celine inclines her head in the DA’s direction. “If Damien can trust you, perhaps I can too. I sense that you have a far greater part to play in all of this. Will you help me find an answer?”

The DA’s brow furrows. “I…I don’t know about this.”

“Please,” Celine presses. “We need to figure out what is happening and this is the only way—”

Abe finally decides to take a stand for the DA. “Alright, that’s enough. I’m not gonna just sit around and let you drag my partner off to their very likely death. I won’t stand for it!”

They don’t reject his help, but judging by the look on their face, it’s too little too late.

“Well, I trust Celine with all my heart! I see no reason why any one should doubt her!” The Colonel defends.

“That’s easy to say when you’re not the one invited to a séance!” the DA argues.

Abe doesn’t know what it is about their tone, but that triggers something…

“If you don’t hit me now, I’ll just hit you again,” the DA taunts, but they sound more frustrated than anything else.

“I won’t hit you!”

“Why not?”

“I’d much rather kiss you!”

The words slip between Abe’s teeth before he can bite them back. He barely sees the DA (or the mayor) register the statement before he panics and punches the DA without further ado.

Oh, Crucified Christ on a platter, he said that?

He’s never drinking around the DA again.

“If it makes you feel any better, you all can stand watch outside the door, but my work cannot be interrupted.” Celine folds her hands and stares down at the DA. “So will you help me, or not?”

Those delayed warning bells kick in.

Something’s not right with this lady.

The DA stares right back at the Seer, completely unintimidated by the woman’s gaze, which Abe finds impressive. He’s barely known her ten minutes, and he already see that Celine is a force to be reckoned with.

“…Fine,” they eventually agree, not bothering to hide their begrudging tone. “But I still don’t like this one bit. I want someone keeping close to wherever we’ll be.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, Partner,” Abe reassures. “I’ll be keeping a close eye on every single one of you. Even myself. Especially myself.”

They blink at him like an adorable owl and he winks back. Before they follow Celine up the staircase, he sees their mouth twitch into a brief smile.

Something sparks in his head as the DA leaves with Celine. Abe allows the memory to drift through his mind’s eye while he stands guard by the room, keeping one ear ready for anything out of the ordinary while the rest of the group lingers further away, chatting uneasily.

“I don’t have a concussion, Damien,” the DA says, not unkindly, as the mayor attempts to help them up from the ground. “I’ll be fine. Go back to the party.”

The mayor looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Abe can’t say why.

As the mayor leaves the room, he throws a suspicious glance at Abe.

Abe supposes that’s fair.

The DA sighs once it’s just the two of them. Abe can’t stop staring at the discoloration forming on their jaw.

“Do you want me to grab you ice—?”

“I want you to actually talk to me about what’s going on with you. But we can’t exactly do that while we’re drunk, can we?” They stroll unsteadily upstairs to the guest rooms.

Abe follows them, not entirely knowing why he does so.

“If you’ve got something to say to me, just say it,” he hassles. “No consequences if we can’t remember what we said tomorrow, right?”

They don’t bother responding to that.

When they enter their room, they leave the door open and look over their shoulder, as if expecting him to join them.

In their room.

Abe suddenly regrets everything he just said about no consequences, shit, why are they looking at him like they want him in—

They roll their eyes and yank him inside. “If I was going to sleep with you tonight, I’d tell you. I hate bedroom miscommunications.”

They tear the makeshift hat off of his head and toss it into the hallway. He honestly forgot he’d been wearing it in the first place.

Abe tries for a flippant laugh, but it comes out strangled because now he’s having thoughts. Thoughts he really shouldn’t be having about the District Attorney who may or may not be in bed with the suspicious mayor. “Obviously. Come on, I’d expect nothing else from you. You’re the most practical person I know.”

They stare at him in a way that honestly makes him question their intentions again because holy hell in a handbasket, when’s the last time someone’s eyes raked over him like he wasn’t…cursed?

He doesn’t realize they’ve stepped closer until their toe-to-toe with him.

“Not sure I’m being practical right now,” they whisper.

Abe can’t tell if they’re actually speaking to him or to themself.

Their hand comes up and touches the edge of his loosened tie and it feels like they’ve pried his lungs open, he’s lost all the air he can hold.

Before he can take a breath, they grab his tie and surge forward, stopping just before their lips touch his and he can see the sudden insecurity in their eyes.

Well, too late for that now, Abe thinks as he closes that last centimeter of space between them.

There’s nothing gentle about it. The DA’s hands fist into his vest, his hands grab at their shoulders tight enough to leave bruises before one trails up to grip the back of their neck, and everything about it is glorious and intoxicating, they taste like lime and gin (they must have found a stash of the drink somewhere) and for once he’s not thinking about death and solitude, just wondering at how he finally met someone like this—

They part from one another, and Abe breathes like he’s been underwater for hours.

The DA releases one hand from the tight grip on his vest to hover over the bruise on his cheek, where they punched him.

“Guess that didn’t work like I’d hoped,” they mutter under their breath. They press their lips delicately against the injury, so light he almost doesn’t feel it.

They pull away, releasing his vest, and Abe swears they’re holding his heart bleeding in their hands.

The urge to make them stay in his arms or to run out of the room before they can send him away come at him with all the force of a hurricane.

In the end, his hands lift halfway between him and the DA (does he dare steal one last touch before the night ends?) before falling back to his side. He steps towards the door.

And stops when they grab his elbow.

“We’re going to talk tomorrow,” they promise. “Don’t think too much before then, okay?”

He looks back to see that same intensity in their eyes and it sets his blood on fire.

But they don’t ask him to stay.

Did he want them to?

Yes.

So he only nods once before leaving without another word, going right to his room.

He doesn’t feel much like partying anymore. Not when he keeps getting distracted by the lingering taste of lime on his lips.

When Abe finally blinks away the memory, he feels like throwing himself over the banister.

The DA—he and the DA—they both, they—

They remembered that moment last night, Abe is sure of it.

And Abe didn’t.

God, he is definitely never drinking around the DA again, because that should and will be a memory that keeps him going until the day he dies.

He jumps from the wall at the shouts coming from the room the DA is in.

The room his partner is in.

He bursts in, the mayor close behind.

For once, he doesn’t mind the man’s close proximity.

“I’m watching you

I’m watching me

I’m watching us

Fall…”

VI

The door shuts on the blinding lights emanating from behind the twisted silhouette of Celine and at this point Abe is quite certain he’s lost his mind.

But that’s been in question since long before he came to this godforsaken place, so he focuses his attention on more pressing things.

Like the utter devastation on his partner’s face.

Because their friend the Mayor was behind that door too.

And they look like they’re about to crumble to pieces.

What Abe wants to do is take them in his arms and hold them together. But there are too many people around and the situation is starting to implode.

In light of this, Abe settles with just putting his hand on their shoulder. They spare a glance at him, ancient eyes welling with angry, unshed tears.

They look like he did with every partner he lost.

But then he’s distracted by the Colonel’s outrage and in his haste to chase after the man, he leaves the DA behind.

Abe follows the man around a corner, but there’s no sign of him.

What the hell…?

And when he goes back to where he left his partner, they’re gone too.

Those pictures in his wallet, the ones of past partners long gone, have never felt heavier.

You drop out of that dark, warped dimension, and struggle to regain your balance as your ears pop. Your heart is pounding hard enough to hurt your chest.

The question of how you arrived at this part of the house fades from your mind as quickly as it appears.

As you lean against the nearest door frame, you realize you’re in front of a room you’ve never seen before.

Then again, it seems that the house itself is keeping secrets, as insane as it sounds.

But what hasn’t been insane about this entire situation lately?

(It takes so much effort not to think of Damien. If you try to grapple with the fact that your best friend is never coming back, you’ll be of no help to anyone.)

You press your knuckles into your eyes until tears no longer threaten. Then you make your way into the mystery room and examine the chaos.

You recognize Abe’s writing on the notes, on his board. Newspaper clippings pinned here and there. Pictures of the rest of the employees, the other guests…

The Colonel and Celine.

Together.

But you knew about that.

(Damien told you when it first happened, and you held him as he cried over his sister abandoning one of his friends for another, and how his life had suddenly splintered into fragments.)

You are blatantly obvious in your absence from this investigative wall of madness.

But how the hell did Abe have the time to collect all of this?

…why didn’t he tell you?

Your hand drifts over the typewriter, over the paper littered with scattered, smudged repeating lines:

The Colonel did it.

At the edge of the desk is the smashed picture you found in Mark’s room.

Dread weighs in your stomach like lead. The walls of the room feel like they’re closing in, pressing all the air out of your lungs.

In the back of your head is a suffocating thought desperately clawing forward, demanding your attention. Why is it so hard to listen to it?

This place is cursed, the groundskeeper said.

Eventually, you manage to pry the drowning thought open, and it whispers through your head with all the terror of an impending execution.

You need to get out.

Abe, you think, choking on the tendrils of fear wrapping around your throat. I need to find him.

“There you are!”

You jump far more violently than you should have at the Colonel’s sudden appearance.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you some questions…”

As he looks around the room, you set the picture down and back away as if he’s a wild animal.

Which, considering the look on his face…

“What is this? The detective’s been keeping tabs on us?”

“Colonel, I need you to listen to me—”

“The detective’s been keeping tabs on me. And Celine?” His voice turns into a growl. “He’s the one who orchestrated all of this! He did this!”

Oh God—

“Colonel, wait, no! That’s not true! Colonel!”

You follow him out of the room as he pulls his gun.

You are so terrified that it’s too late to save anyone.

The sight of the shaken DA behind the gun-wielding Colonel is one of the most distressing things Abe has ever seen.

It sets off dark, angry parts of himself he hadn’t known existed before coming to this awful manor.

It’s the Colonel’s fault, something whispers in his head.

“You better choose your next words carefully, Colonel!” Abe threatens as he pulls his own gun on the man. If this guy hurts his partner, not even the gates of hell will keep Abe from enacting vengeance.

“Only my friends get to call me by that name, and you, sir, are no friend of mine!”

“Well, you’re one to talk about friends, you murderer!”

The thunder claps, and Abe can feel stronger tremors under his feet than the past strikes.

“Abe, stop saying that word and put the damn gun away!” the DA pleads.

“Get away from that bastard, Partner! He’s the one who started all this when he murdered Mark!”

“Abe, you don’t understand—”

“I didn’t kill anyone!” the Colonel denies over the sound of another lightning strike. “This is madness!”

“Oh, you wanna talk about madness? Madness is stealing your best friend’s wife!”

“Abe, Colonel, you have to listen to me!” the DA urges as they try to pull at the Colonel’s arm, only for him to shove them away. “We have to get out of here, now!”

Abe keeps speaking, tries to keep the Colonel from turning on his partner. “…Madness is squeezing him for cash to fund your own sick sexual exploits with that very woman!”

“Abe, for the love of God—”

“Shut up!”

Why is there so much lightning now? Why does it feel like shadows are pooling at their feet like blood?

Abe is undeterred. As long as the Colonel stays focused on him, he’s not focusing on the DA. “Madness is plotting the death of your childhood friend because you can’t handle the—”

The echoing gunshot registers a split second before the pain in his chest does. The ground shakes beneath his feet.

“ABE!” the DA screams.

Abe crumbles to the floor like wet cardboard, never taking his eyes off his killer or his partner. There’s an obscenely loud ringing in his ears.

His killer looks oddly regretful.

“Colonel, put the gun down!” the DA orders, the horror leaving their face, replaced with determination.

“Partner…” Abe tries to call, but there’s liquid welling in his lungs, “…run…just run…”

Before the Colonel responds, the DA goes for his gun, and Abe’s mind barely catches up with the sight before another gunshot cuts through the air.

The District Attorney jolts away from the Colonel, red blossoming from their white shirt, from their ribs. They stare at their trembling, bloody hands in a daze.

No.

No, not another one, not another partner, not this one, please God, not this one—

As the world around him fades to darkness, the last thing he sees is his partner toppling over the railing, the Colonel reaching out for them.

He didn’t die.

But most days, he wishes he did.

Here’s the Link to the Epilogue

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[skerbb]

FUSW: Family

Direct link to Ao3

Get in on the action here!

Prompt: Family Summary: Grillby has become a little... possessive towards Sans. (Yandere!Grillby tho... just consider it.) Rating: M 

In a way, he should have known it would get to this point. All around, he was quiet and reserved. With the skeleton all but throwing himself at him every day at the restaurant, how could Grillby in some way, not become attached to the concept of having him as a lover?

Fire monsters were known to be bold. So over the course of the next several months, Grillby found he fancied the idea of keeping Sans all to himself.

He was there, even then. His arms curled atop of the bar after having a good meal and a couple of drinks, like always. He was napping and looked adorable for it too. Grillby found himself watching fondly, even giving his skull a gentle caress when he had a moment to spare between orders.

He invited Sans up several times. Their relationship grew more heated and the fire monster found himself enthralled with the other’s affections. The fact that he had to share even one iota of Sans’ attention with his brother was enough to make him quietly seethe.

Papyrus was always fussing over him. Meddling where he shouldn’t be. His attempts to bring Sans home were becoming increasingly bothersome - citing rest and food and insulting his cooking as though Grillby was completely inept at caring for Sans.

The grip on the knife tightened as he sliced through citrus for cocktails. His movements became a little less precise the more he thought about it.

To his credit, he kept a rather cool head for one of his composition.

When Papyrus came in earlier that week, he interrupted a bit of Sans’ appreciation for his heat. He had Grillby’s hand on his face and Sans was smiling at him with closed sockets and that hum that sounded all too loving.

Grillby cherished when Sans was like this, but when Papyrus arrived to fetch him, the smaller skeleton pushed his hand away to turn to his brother. They talked amongst themselves, their words turning into a film of white noise that Grillby didn’t even want to know. The aggression he felt then had been like nothing before and keeping his fire under control had been difficult up until the two brothers left.

The skeleton walked into the bar. But it was the wrong one. That was then. This was now. He’d be civil. After all, Grillby knew Sans would be upset if anything were to happen to his brother. He had to keep himself under control. He wasn’t heartless.

Papyrus just needed to learn his place.

“THERE HE IS-”

Grillby’s eyes narrowed slightly from behind his glasses and he kept quiet as the boisterous skeleton stomped over, flicking snow off his shoulders and onto his dry, clean floors. There was a faint crackle and snap from over his neck and Grillby quietly chastised the flames for acting out.

“-AS THOUGH HE’D BE ANYWHERE ELSE.” Sarcasm. Papyrus was bad at veiling his contempt for his establishment. With a harsh sigh, he went to wake his brother.

Grillby moved, putting up a hand to stop him. The intruder did while eyeing him, looking as confused and pointlessly chipper as always. While Grillby did not necessarily dislike Papyrus in the beginning, he was taking up a little too much of his lover’s time.

The only times he spent with Sans was while the skeleton was on break, or if he made an enticing enough offer for him to join him upstairs. Spending the night was always easy, but when it was time for Sans to leave, it was then he realised that he could boil the rivers of the Underground with the thought of the skeleton being elsewhere.

“....Staying here tonight,”  Grillby supplied as calmly as he could muster, lowering his hand. The knife chopped through the lemon with a bit of force, sending seeds skidding across the counter and over the edge.

“HE’S BEEN HERE FOR OVER A WEEK! HE NEEDS A CHANGE OF CLOTHES, NOT TO MENTION THIS… ‘RESTAURANT’ HAS MADE HIM SLIMEY WITH GREASE AND SMELLY.”

The fire monster’s fiery brow was still in a hard line as he sliced through the fruit, becoming agitated with the insults. “I’m sure he appreciated your… ‘help’... while you were younger.”

“ARE YOU SUGGESTING HE’S GROWING UP?” Papyrus’ tone was a little wounded but he stood his ground. He should’ve noticed Grillby’s aggressive nature since he was bothering with speech as opposed to signing. But no, he remained clueless. “ALL THIS GREASE-LADEN FOOD ISN’T GOOD FOR HIM. HE NEEDS TO COME HOME SO I CAN AT LEAST-”

“I can care for him just fine.”

“WOWIE… I WASN’T INSINUATING THAT YOU COULDN’T, JUST-” Papyrus let the words hang, wringing those ridiculous red gloves of his.

Grillby forced himself to remain quiet, feeling like Sans’ brother was being too much of a pest to be worth the attention an argument would bring. But still, Sans would be inconsolable if anything were to happen to him. He wrestled with the thought, knowing it to be wrong, but at the same time… what if Sans didn’t have to worry about him in a completely different way?

Perhaps if Papyrus kept away of his own accord? That would make things infinitely easier.

“He rather enjoys my company,”  Grillby sighed, relaxing his shoulders and calming his fire, which was snapping around him as his temper built. “....Should think if he wanted to go home, he would have.”

Papyrus didn’t look so sure. In fact, he was staring again, then looking down to his sleeping brother as though not quite sure what to say next.

The fire monster glanced down to the monster between them, the crack of his mouth forming a thin bright smile. Sans calmed his fiery heart but also made it burn with passion. It was why he was like this lately.

“I BELIEVE… THAT HE LIKES YOU. QUITE A LOT. QUITE FOR SOME TIME. AND THAT, PERHAPS, HE IS.. EXCITED TO BE WITH YOU,” the younger skeleton went over his thoughts out loud, fidgeting again.

Grillby tossed the lemon slices into a glass bowl and grabbed a lime from the pile of assorted citrus fruit on the counter next to him, continuing his work as he spoke; “...So glad we’ve come to an agreement.”  There was that hint of him not taking ‘no’ for an answer anymore, hoping Papyrus would stop being daft for a moment and zero in on how he was feeling. At least then he wouldn’t need to be direct.

The other was still talking, however. He believed Sans was capable of making his own decisions regarding work and curfew. The more he thought about it and was made to listen to the brother’s chastisement, the hotter Grillby became.

It became a bit much.

Suddenly, without warning, he adjusted his grip on the knife and pounded it into one of the citruses on the counter, embedding it into the marble surface with a sudden flare up of heat. It cut off whatever Papyrus had been rattling on about and even had jolted Sans out of his deep sleep.

Grillby recovered quickly enough, but stared at Papyrus while Sans yawned without a care in the world and not awake enough to sense the hostility.

“.......Cockroach,”  he said excusingly, twisting the knife from the surface of the counter. It left a scorch mark along the crack like a lightning strike. Papyrus remained quiet, his glance flicking between the two monsters. There hadn’t been any kind of pest on the counter, but the fire monster had made it clear he didn’t want to talk anymore.

Sans greeted his brother as usual, unaware of the others’ exchange. But for once Papyrus reasoned that perhaps this time, he wouldn’t be such an obstinate stick in the mud about where he slept that night. Or perhaps, any other night! Sans was, after all, very much an adult and could make any decisions on his own from therein on.

Papyrus knew it was just because Grillby was very fond of his brother, but he wished he was a little less… scary.

[barinacraft]

The Irish Cocktail - A Plural Pour

Irish There Weren't So Many Irish Cocktails

If only because they're all so different. Its not like collecting lasagna recipes where your grandma's secret formula is preferred over your aunt's, but at the end of the day they're pretty similar and they both taste like lasagna.

These six Irish Cocktail recipes (and counting) have very different flavor profiles from one another. Guess that just makes choosing what Saint Patrick's Day themed drinks to serve at your party (or Irish Wake, see below) that much more fun.

While No. 2 on our list took off briefly from day one before becoming obscure, No. 3 has stood the test of time. You'll have to be the judge though. While further research is likely to turn up a few more, the Irish Cocktail drink recipes found so far are listed below in chronological order.

Behind Your Bar - Several Ways To Make The Irish Cocktail

The Original

Irish Cocktail Recipe No. 1:

1 lump ice

2 drops Schroeder's or Boker's bitters

½ naggin Irish whiskey

1 bottle C. & C. ginger ale

Shown above as first published in 1895, you're going to need a really large glass to make this into one drink.* A naggin is a 200ml (6 ¾ oz) bottle of spirits about the size of a large hip flask in Ireland and the imported bottle of Cantrell & Cochrane ginger ale was probably around 9-10 oz or larger back then.

Said to be a very palatable drink and a favorite of the Irish members of Parliament, you may want to cut this recipe in half. Similar drinks include the Horse's Neck cocktail and the New England highball.

Popular At First

Irish Cocktail Recipe No. 2:

½ jigger Irish whiskey

½ jigger Italian vermouth

3 dashes orange bitters

2 dashes Horsford's acid phosphate

Stir well in a mixing glass half full with fine ice. Strain into a cocktail glass and serve.

Apparently this 1898 formulation† was fairly well received judging by the number of cocktail books it was initially reprinted in before fading into relative obscurity today.‡,1,2

That may have been due to the acid phosphate as an ingredient which is a cheaper, less perishable souring agent than lemon or lime juice whose use fell out of favor and disappeared from the market when bottled soft drinks replaced soda fountains. It has since been resurrected and is being used in high end bars around the globe. Maybe your own home bar should be included among them.

Similar drinks include the Affinity, Brown University and Rory O'More.

Still Serving

Irish Cocktail Recipe No. 3:

1 wineglass (2 oz) Irish whiskey

2 - 3 dashes absinthe

2 dashes Boker's bitters

1 dash curacao

1 dash maraschino

Add all the ingredients to mixing glass filled with shaved ice. Stir well with a bar spoon and strain into a chilled glass putting in a medium sized olive along with squeezing a piece of lemon peel on top.

Outside of a few die-hard aficionados and historians who know otherwise, this classic 1900 concoction is essentially the sole surviving Irish Cocktail drink recipe left today.3 Harry Craddick, Trader Vic and many others substituted Angostura for Boker's, some call for Pernod instead of absinthe, and Crosby Gaige renamed it Erin Go Bragh, but its essentially the same as it ever was.

Other similarly garnished Ireland themed drinks include Everybody's Irish and the Shamrock.

All The Rest

Irish Cocktail Recipe No. 4:

1 jigger Irish whiskey

3 dashes Angostura bitters

2 dashes gum syrup

Mix together with fine ice, strain, and garnish with a piece of twisted lemon peel.3

Irish Cocktail Recipe No. 5:

1 gill (5 oz) creme de menthe

3 dashes gum syrup

3 dashes Peychaud's bitters

2 dashes absinthe

Stir well with three or four lumps of ice and strain into a cocktail glass.4

Irish Cocktail Recipe No. 6:

½ wineglass Irish whiskey

½ wineglass vermouth

1 spoonful sugar

2 dashes lemon juice

2 dashes bitters

1 dash creme de menthe (for green color)

Transcribed verbatim. You'll have to determine the specifics.5

Other drinks that start with ‘i.’

These drinks were served at Mixology Monday's Irish Wake cocktail party hosted by Frederic Yarm. Thanks for having us over for the finale.

References

* - C. F. Lawlor, The Mixicologist Or How To Mix All Kinds Of Fancy Drinks (Cincinnati: Lawlor & Co., 1895), 16. Print.

† - Cocktails .. How To Make Them .. (Providence: Livermore & Knight Co., 1898), 25. Print.

‡ - The Cocktail Book - A Sideboard Manual for Gentlemen (Boston: L. C. Page & Co., 1900), 15. Print.

1 - Paul E. Lowe, Drinks As They Are Mixed By Leading Bartenders (Chicago: Frederick J. Drake & Co., 1904), 21. Print.

2 - George J. Kappeler, Modern American Drinks - How to Mix and Serve All Kinds of Cups and Drinks (Akron: Saalfield Publishing Co., 1906), 36. Print.

3 - Harry Johnson, The New And Improved Illustrated Bartender's Manual or How To Mix Drinks Of The Present Style (New York: Goldmann, 1900), 243. Print.

4 - “Some Men Of Prominence” The National Police Gazette: New York 13 Jan. 1900: 14. Print. Submitted by Ernest Bailey, Bank Exchange, Galveston, Texas.

5 - “Prominent Hotel Men” The National Police Gazette: New York 26 Oct. 1901: 14. Print. Submitted by P. Gilmartin, Marble Hill Hotel, Kings Bridge, N.Y.

[soberovereasy]

124

4 months

4 days

62,300+ calories

$1777+ dollars

177+ hours

When I got to 90 days, I thought, well, I might as well make it to 100. When I got to 100, I thought, well, might as well make it to 3 months. And I’ve just kept going. Save an odd sip of my husbands drink just to try it, I haven’t had a drink of my own ini 124 days (and counting).

People like to ask me if “I miss it” or if it’s “been hard” a lot. I think that sobriety sparks a bit of a curiosity for drinking people, whether they’ve tried a break on their own and struggled or just have never even thought of trying it at all. When alcohol is so ingrained in your lifestyle and culture, it’s really hard to imagine what you’d do without it. That in itself doesn’t mean you’re dependent; it’s just a further symptom of what society has done to romanticize and normalize alcoholism. 1-2 drinks a day is normal, drinking wine is good for your heart, everyone drinks a lot, just get a Michelob Ultra like the fitness people do. A post-race beer re-hydrates you. Drink responsibly. Shots, shots, shots, shots. I’m Irish today. Irish I were drunker. Wine not? Yes way rose.

I think a lot of the stigma associated with alcohol is broken after these few months of a clearer head. I might be repeating myself - sorry - I wanted to write this without reading what I wrote the last time. Once I knew I could no longer drink to get drunk, the idea of drinking all together kind of lost it’s luster. I never drank Miller Lite for the taste! It was one, then another, then another, while I mindlessly emptied tall frosty glasses because it’s just what we did for fun. Eventually that melted into a warm, buzzy feeling where I was ready to take on the world and stay out all night chasing the high. Now, I know that I can never drink like I used to, because I will always be at risk for re-triggering my pancreatitis. I have no permanent damage on my liver, so if I want it to heal and never go back, I can’t drink to get drunk. Goodbye, warm fuzzy feeling.

That makes it so easy, though. It’s so black and white. I have no reason to down cheap beer or chug down the last of a brew I didn’t particularly like just to not waste money. No more boxed wine. I may never have another cocktail, either, save an odd martini if I can stomach the taste, or a craft cocktail on a special occasion. No more grapefruit vodka and sodas by the pool - I’d rather just have a soda straight up with a twist of grapefruit now. The only purpose of a mixed drink like liquor + mixer is to get drunk, period. As drinkers, we like to say it makes a difference. People who would never touch soda in real life will anxiously down a captain and diet with a refreshed, “Ah! That hits the spot!”, as if the captain made the coke taste any better. Have you ever had a Mexican Coke straight from the bottle? That stuff needs nothing else. It’s perfect as is.

I’ve gotten used to, even fond of, bubbly waters. I crack one when I get home with the same ritual that I may have poured myself a glass of wine. I know which ones are better than others - Perrier with Lime is one of my favorites, because of the sexy, slender cans and a strong pop of lime. Topo Chico straight from the glass bottle with a slice of lime in it - just like I used to do with a Corona - is as satisfying as a beer these days. I found Bubly to be a bit bland. Everyone knows La Croix is. I tend to drink those when I want water, but something a little extra.

I’ve tried A/F wines and beers, and still view them as a treat more than anything else. On St Pats I threw an AF stout into my backpack and snuck it into a bar to enjoy amongst the other Irish celebrators. Man, those tables have turned, haven’t they? I used to sneak in wine and liquor to get my buzz on for cheap. Now I’m sneaking in AF options everywhere I go because water is boring and I want to feel like I’m a part of the action.

That���s what you’re really quitting, when you’re not a true addict (we’ll get to that in a second). The alcohol has been fairly easy to kick, save the rare FOMO when I see someone enjoying a large glass of cabernet or pinot grigio at a restaurant. I only really miss the wine - beer and liquor, as much as I enjoyed them, are pretty easy to replace. I’m happy to drink a soda and lime most places, or ask for a MOCKtail at a bar. I keep track of which places offer AF beers and drinks, and suggest them whenever we go out. But the wine, you really can’t replace. The AF wines are fine for the most part, but you’ll never get that out at a restaurant. The whites are better than the reds. I suspect when I do drink again it will be fancy wine and nothing else.

But what you’re really kicking is that feeling of belonging, especially if you regularly hang out with other drinkers. What you’re really adjusting to is a world where you don’t quite fit in anymore. You’ll definitely notice that your friends don’t drink as much as you thought they did…or did they just drink more around you, because you were the instigator? I learned that I was the party planner in our group. I was the one constantly suggesting happy hour or second locations. Whenever I was on my last drink, I was already working on where we’d go get the next one. I was the one who said, “No! Have another! It’s not time to leave yet!” I was always down for whatever. I was a yes girl.

I remember my friend C saying she loved that I was a yes girl. She said, “No matter what, I know I can text you and you’ll be down for something.” And it’s true. I practiced saying yes more often than no because I hated missing out, and I wanted to be the person that everyone went to for a good time. I didn’t want to be left out. So I said yes and yes and yes and yes until I yessed myself into the emergency room. So now what I’m struggling with is, how do you stay the yes girl when your yes is a solid no now?

I’ve chatted with other friends about feeling like we don’t do anything anymore. I’ve mentioned my frustration that because I don’t drink, no one wants to do anything because no one knows what to do. I’m happy to go and sit at a bar with the girls, sipping on whatever I choose for that evening, but I’m not going to suggest it. It makes no sense for me to say, “Happy hour?” if I’m not participating in the happy. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I need to continue being the person that arranges happy hours even in my post-alcohol state, because it’s clear no one else is going to do it. Maybe the only way for me to stop feeling left out is to make sure there’s no way I can be.

My relationships continue to change and evolve in the post-alcohol world as well. I’m now much more annoyed much more quickly by drunk people, and I have little patience for my husband when he comes home after a bourbon-fueled night out. I’ve been short with friends that say they “don’t know what to do” around me - I even get annoyed when they say they don’t feel comfortable drinking around me. I’m sure it’s out of respect of some sort, and I should be grateful that they don’t want to drink instead of encouraging it, but it feels like I’m being treated with kid gloves, and I don’t like it. It makes me feel like I’m fragile in their eyes - and I’m not.

That’s the #1 thing I think I’ve learned so far - I don’t believe I am an alcoholic. I don’t have “cravings” that are uncontrollable. My life is generally better because I’m not drinking, sure, but I haven’t done a complete 180. The doctors told me to quit drinking so I did. It wasn’t difficult. I didn’t do therapy, I didn’t go to AA, I didn’t do anything except quit drinking. And that’s it.

This theory will be tested when I decide to try drinking again. When people ask if I will drink again, my answers vary. It used to be, “Oh, I’m sure I will.” it’s evolved now to, “I dunno. I mean, probably I’ll have a glass of wine every once in a while, but I don’t really see the point of it anymore.” The longer I go without, the easier it is to. I LOVE all of the weight I’ve lost, and the bloat, and how people are constantly commenting that I look great. That feeling is better than any 150 calorie glass of wine, period. And I’ve found enjoyable substitutes, so I don’t miss the ritual. Because that’s all it really is, isn’t it? A ritual that we go through. Grab the wine glass, pop the bottle, pour a glass, sit down and relax. That ritual doesn’t change at all when it’s an AF wine or a bottle of cranberry juice. It’s just healthier now, and guilt free.

I’m traveling this week, which is why I wanted to get this all out there before I left. Because I might drink on my trip. This is the first time I’ve been a tourist alcohol free, and since going to breweries and wineries is such a big part of my past travel, I don’t know how it will go. If I were traveling solo, I don’t think I’d be tempted at all, funnily enough. But since I’ll be with my husband, I can see a time where I might have a small beer flight or split a bottle of wine. I don’t know. And since I haven’t had a drink, I don’t even know if I’ll enjoy it anymore. Every time I sip an old fashioned my husband ordered, it’s so sweet and syrupy I can’t imagine having a whole glass. I tasted his margarita the other night and went WHOOOBOY there’s a lot of tequila in that! My senses are heightened, and even the smell makes me turn my nose up. What if I don’t even care for wine anymore?

I do think that trying alcohol again after you’ve abstained for a good time period is part of the process. The addicts will call it relapse after even one sip. I’ve always thought of it as a video game - when you fall off the mountain in zelda and die, you don’t start the whole game over. You’re back on the mountain where you left off, and you keep playing. I don’t think I’ll relapse to the point of a full binge, though. I’ve done a lot of soul searching. And I’ve put it to bed - it feels like the part of my life devoted to alcohol is truly over. It’s time for a new part. But I do feel like I have to re-explore my world with alcohol in it to see if it can still be in my life, or if I’m done with it for good. If I drink a glass of wine and go, meh, I could do without I think, that’s great because I won’t WONDER anymore. The FOMO becomes the JOMO - the joy of missing out.

The fact is, with all of my free time I have a lot of time to think about my life, and where it’s going, and what I’m doing. I read an article recently about this brand called “Outdoor Voices,” whose motto is simply #DoingThings. The Doing Things lifestyle is pretty straightforward - do something every day to move your body and enjoy yourself. The idea that exercise is a chore is one that has long followed me, since back in the day when I spent two hours at the gym every day to maintain perfect abs and tiny arms. It was just something I had to do in order to look good. That same day, I got on my spin bike with the thought that I was getting to workout, that I had an amazing body that had the capability to work out, that I felt better than I’ve felt in years and instead of spending 30 minutes on a patio drinking rose, I was doing 30 minutes of hard cardio to better myself. It’s like something shifted in my mind and now I’m able to workout and feel THANKFUL that I can do it, that I feel good doing it, and not grateful that it’s over.

I’m picking up piano again. I’ve been reading and playing video games. I’m going to start taking an adult ballet class. When it’s beautiful out, I go on a bike ride, either with my husband or just solo to clear my head. I work out. I take walks. There are so many things I felt like I didn’t have time for, when in reality I was sitting on my couch, nursing a glass of cab and watching netflix over and over, because I’d forgotten what I’d seen the night before.

My sobriety is good. I enjoy being sober.

I think the hangup here is that sobriety gives me something “special” that makes me different from others. It’s like a secret club. I felt this on St Pats, like when you make eye contact with other sober people (mostly servers, ha), with a knowing glance - these people are idiots. So if I break that sobriety for a glass of wine or two a month, am I less special? I can’t say I’m “sober” anymore, but there’s no in-between. I’m  mostly sober. I don’t drink “that much.” I’m not really a big drinker. That’s so decidedly less special, but I don’t know why I’m so caught up on the label. Why isn’t there a label for someone who lives a mostly sober life, plays by the rules of sobriety, and ever so often enjoys a small glass of wine in moderation? Semi-sober. Sober-ish. THERE NEEDS TO BE A WORD.

Because in my heart, I’ve done the steps to make these changes. I’ve been living a new and fresh life from a new perspective, and I love the way I am feeling and looking. And I want to chase THAT feeling, not the one at the bottom of a wine glass. Maybe I *do* want to be completely sober. Who knows.

[vacationsoup]

New Post has been published on https://vacationsoup.com/5-tropical-cocktails/

5 Tropical Cocktails You Must Try When Visiting Maui Hawaii

Do images of little drink umbrellas, orchid flower garnishes and skewers of pineapple in a tropical cocktail pop into your head when you dream of Maui?  The quintessential tropical drink served up in a Tiki glass or carved out pineapple is what comes to mind when I think of tropical cocktails. In today’s post we explore 5 tropical cocktails you must try when visiting Maui for the first time or tenth time (and I can assure you that the ‘research and development‘ needed for this post was great fun!)

We’ve already explored the yummy Mai Tai in a previous post and let our readers know who we think serves up the best on the South Shore if not all of Maui and we’re going to revisit it briefly again in today’s post.

  In no particular order…

The humble yet delicious Piña Colada.  While it’s origins don’t stem from the Hawai’ian Islands, it’s comfortably made itself at home here in our little tropical archipelago and we welcome it with true Aloha!

The piña colada (from the Spanish words: piña or “pineapple,” and colada “strained“) is a sweet cocktail made with rum, coconut cream or coconut milk, and pineapple juice, usually served either blended or shaken with ice. It may be garnished with either a pineapple wedge, maraschino cherry, or both. The piña colada has been the national drink of Puerto Rico since 1978, but we don’t think Puerto Rico will mind if we borrow it.

Piña Colada Recipe (Our revised version of Kōloa’s recipe)

2 oz  Kōloa Kaua`i white (or coconut rum – or use 1 oz each of white and gold or dark for a more flavorful colada)

2 oz Frozen Hawaiian Sun Coconut Milk

2 oz pineapple juice (preferably fresh) + a few frozen pineapple chunks

1 cup crushed ice

Blend or shake and pour into a suitable glass and garnish with pineapple and cherry, little umbella or tropical flower.

Next up is the Blue Hawaii. The Blue Hawaii is a tropical cocktail made of rum, pineapple juice, blue Curaçao, sweet and sour mix, and sometimes vodka as well. 

The Blue Hawaii was invented in 1957 by Harry Yee, legendary head bartender of the Hilton Hawaiian Village in Waikiki, Hawaii when a sales representative of Dutch distiller Bols asked him to design a drink that featured their blue color of Curaçao liqueur. After experimenting with several variations he settled on a version somewhat different from the most popular version today, but with the signature blue color, pineapple wedge, and cocktail umbrella.

Blue Hawaii Recipe (our revised version of the Food Network’s recipe)

1 oz. Ocean Vodka

1/2 oz. blue curaco

1/2 oz. Kōloa coconut flavored rum

2 oz. pineapple juice

1 oz. fresh lime juice

Combine ingredients in a shaker with ice and mix vigorously. Stop when the shaker is too cold to hold. Strain into a chilled martini glass and garnish with (of course) a drink umbrella and/or pineapple skewer.

  The Chi Chi has a loyal island following and it’s easy to see why.

The not-so-distant cousin of the Piña Colada resembles the basic make-up of Puerto Rico’s national drink, while exchanging rum for vodka. The Chi Chi’s history  is a little vague but was likely first invented shortly after the Piña Colada made its first debut. The Chi Chi gained it’s immense popularity in 1970s and ‘80s but still has it’s loyal following.

Chi Chi Recipe

3 oz. Pau Maui Vodka

4 oz. Pineapple Juice

2 oz. Frozen Hawaiian Sun Coconut Milk (available at Foodland)

1/2 oz. Simple Syrup or 1 tsp powdered sugar

Blend on high, pour into suitable cocktail glasses and garnish with pineapple spear or orchid flower. 

TIP- Freeze pineapple juice in ice cube trays for a super frozen concoction!

* A twist on the Chi Chi recipe is to add one ounce of Passionfruit syrup in replacement of the simple syrup! Yum!

      We look next at another twist on our favorite Piña Colada recipe, the Lava Flow – imagine the Piña Colada married with fresh strawberries and you get the Lava Flow. Decadent!

Our recipe today comes from Mixologist, Joey Gottesman of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel in Waikiki.

Royal Hawaiian Lava Flow Muddle in the bottom of a Boston shaker glass:

2 fresh strawberries

1-2 in. slice of banana (use one of Maui’s famous Strawberry Bananas if you can find them)

Fill shaker glass with ice and then add:

1 oz. Frozen Hawaiian Sun Coconut Milk

1 oz. pineapple juice

1.5 oz. Old Lahaina Rum (or other golden rum)

Cover with top of the Boston shaker, shake vigorously. Pour into a hurricane glass. Garnish pineapple wedge and paper parasol. Enjoy.

TIP – The key to preparation is to muddle the strawberries separately from the other ingredients.

And finally we get to our favorite, the Mai Tai.  Now, a few weeks ago I wrote about our favorite restaurant to saddle up at the bar and have a delicious Mai Tai so I know that I can’t top this recipe.  I’ll just share it again here.  Make your own or head to Monkeypod and have one of theirs.

Monkeypod Mai Tai Recipe

1 oz. Old Lahaina Light Rum

1 oz. Old Lahaina Dark Rum

1/2 oz. macadamia-nut orgeat

1/2 oz. Marie Brizard Orange Curaçao

3/4 oz. fresh lime juice

Honey Liliko‘i Foam

1/2 oz. honey

1 oz. liliko‘i purée

1 oz. simple syrup

1 oz. egg whites

1.5 oz. cold water

Mix foam ingredients well and put in a nitrous-oxide (NO2) infuser* to half capacity. Use 4 charges for a liter-sized infuser. (Or blend ingredients on high speed till foamy.) Add lime juice, orgeat  (a sweet syrup made from almonds, sugar, and rose water or orange flower water), orange curaçao and Old Lahaina Light Rum to mixing glass. Shake with 1 cup cubed ice about 30 seconds and pour into highball glass. Float dark rum. Top with honey-liliko‘i foam and garnish with pineapple half moon.

*also known as a ‘Whipped Cream Dispenser‘ , widely available on Amazon.

None of these 5 drinks strike your fancy? How about trying one of these tropical drinks?

Bay Breeze – cranberry, pineapple, vodka Tropical Itch – bourbon, rum, curacao, lemon juice, passionfruit puree, bitters Mango or Lilikoi Mojito – passionfruit/mango puree, lemon/lime juice, sugar, mint, club soda Lilikoi Martini – vodka, passionfruit juice shaken Daiquiri – rum, lime juice and sugar syrup Maui Mule – vodka, pineapple, lime juice, Pimm’s No. 1, Ginger Beer

    Looking for more Maui vacation ideas? Lots of things to see and do,

come on over and visit our Local Maui Guide or Maui Events Calendar!

  [yikes-mailchimp form=”1″ title=”1″ description=”1″ submit=”Heck Yea! Sign Me Up!”]

[russellthornton]

12 Essential Manly Drinks and the Types of Men That Drink Them

There are some things that no card-carrying man should order from the bartender. Real men order the manly drinks in the secret menu.

But what is it that makes manly drinks? Is it the outrageous name? The lack of pretentious flavorings? Or is it in the drink’s raw ability to turn the drinker into a crawling, incoherent heap after the first shot? Most would agree on the latter, but every man is entitled to his own poison.

The 12 most manly drinks every man needs to remember

While some prefer the raw punch of unadulterated alcohol, others get a little fancy and want a small manly garnish to their drink. Here’s a list of manly drinks for different types of men.

Classy drinks for classy men

Ordering these drinks exudes class and taste. These are the types of manly drinks for men who know what they want. Best imbibed while wearing a suit and smoking a cigar.

#1 Whiskey. Whiskey is the definitive manly drink. Either served neat or on the rocks, this liquid gold is so manly they make men’s perfume that smell like it. One famous type of whiskey is Scotch, made from malted barley. While across the pond, American ones are made from various combinations of other grains including corn.

There are other drinks out there that use whiskey as a cocktail base. Real men know how to appreciate it as it is. [Read: Alcohol’s effects on your sex life and libido]

#2 Martini. In its purest form, a martini is a cold mix of gin and vermouth garnished with either olives or a lemon twist. A complicated drink, a martini has various forms. Asking the bartender for “dry” martini gives you a version without the vermouth.

Ordering vodka martini will get you a mix with vodka instead of gin. Telling the bartender “straight up” would omit the ice. And, of course, we’re all familiar with “shaken, not stirred.” [Read: What your favorite drink says about you]

#3 Old Fashioned. A dapper drink for the likes of Don Draper from Mad Men, the Old Fashioned is made up of two ounces of Bourbon or Rye whiskey poured slowly over a glass with a sugar cube then splashed with a bit of water and bitters. Then, garnished with some ice cubes and a slice of orange. The drink may sound fancy but it sure does pack a punch.

#4 Classic Manhattan. This drink was pretty popular during the Prohibition era and is also known to be Frank Sinatra’s favorite. Every bar has their own version of the Manhattan but essentially it contains two ounces of Rye whiskey and half an ounce of vermouth with a dash of bitters and the optional stemmed cherry.

Say what you want on how unmanly the garnish is but this drink can get you in trouble if you’re not too careful. [Read: What to talk about when you’re drunk on a date]

#5 Rusty Nail. The Rusty Nail is one of those drinks that pass itself off as a cocktail but tastes more like a fist fight after the first sip. For this one, you take one and a half ounce of Scotch whisky and dilute it with three-quarter ounces of Drambuie. Then top it off with some ice and a lemon peel.

The mix may sound fancy but legend has it that the drink got its name from the tradition of some rowdy Scotsmen stirring this concoction with a rusty nail. If that’s not manly for you then we don’t know what is.

No-nonsense drinks for the quintessential man

For the breed of men that abhors fancy cocktails served in fancy crystalware. The quintessential man’s drink is anything with ethanol in it. He won’t mind if he drinks it from a beat up tin can or from the sawed off skull of his enemies.

#6 Beer. The most ancient and manliest drink of all and enjoyed by all social classes. Beer is jokingly referred to as a “liquid meal” by its most devoted drinkers. It contains both alcohol and a good amount of carbohydrates no red-blooded man should ever fear to chug. [Read: 12 quick ways to go from sloshed to alert]

#7 Gin and Tonic. A classic drink that calls for 1:1 ratio of gin and tonic water finished with a slice of lime. This drink was originally introduced by British soldiers in India as a way to mask the bitter taste of quinine in tonic water they drunk to prevent malaria. Sounds unmanly but we think they just wanted an excuse to get drunk while taking their medicine.

#8 Rum and cola. As straightforward as the name implies, this concoction calls for a combination of cola and infamously high proof Caribbean rum. This drink is often served over ice and topped with a slice of lime to give an acidic accent to the dark, bitter, and crisp mixture swirling beneath. A manly drink that’s sure to give you a baritone voice if you’re sober enough to speak after the first glass.

#9 Mojito. This drink gets its manliness from being the favorite drink of Pulitzer-winning author Ernest Hemingway. The Mojito calls for two parts spiced rum, one part soda, along with a garnish of mint leaves, some lime juice, and crushed ice. We probably think that the drink influenced him to say the famous quote “write drunk, edit sober.” [Read: The 5 biggest factors that boost a man’s sexual market value]

Crazy drinks for the craziest of men

These are drinks born during desperate times and more often a health risk than a pleasurable sip. Taking a shot is like playing a game of Russian roulette with your liver. Only the manliest gets through a glass and still stands on their feet.

#10 Naga Chili Vodka. If vodka itself is not manly enough, why not add another dash of manliness by pickling Naga chili peppers in it? Just so you know, Naga peppers rank up at 250,000 units on the Scoville heat scale. This means every bottle needs an FDA warning sticker that reads “drink at your own risk.”

#11 Moonshine. Moonshine is simply whiskey that omits the barrel aging and health standards involved in normal whiskey production. It was made popular by bootleggers during the Prohibition Era by means of homemade stills built from car radiators. They were used to distill alcohol from grain mash.

The resulting drink can be clear or cloudy with expected high alcohol content and some additive by-products that sometimes kills the drinker. There are still some craft distillers that produce this alcoholic drink that follows safety standards. But only a true man drinks something otherwise used as a firebomb. [Read: How to unleash your inner alpha male]

#12 Everclear. If moonshine is not enough to scare you, try Everclear with its 190 proof alcohol content. What does 190 proof mean? It means that once you open the bottle, you cannot (1) put your eye near the mouth of the bottle unless you want to go blind, and (2) you cannot light a cigarette a few minutes after opening a bottle.

Seriously, the label of this drink says “don’t consume on its own.” So, if you want to prove something, dilute this first with a liter of water before consuming or else you’ll be like Jesus dying for three days before waking up with a bad hangover.

[Read: Girly drinks galore! 24 girly drinks that’ll help you order the right one for a girl]

As far as alcohol is concerned, real men would rather take a shot rather than argue whether they are manly drinks or not. After all, real men drink whatever they want!

The post 12 Essential Manly Drinks and the Types of Men That Drink Them is the original content of LovePanky - Your Guide to Better Love and Relationships.

[cesarhcastrojr]

Photo by Katie Weltner.

In addition to basic motor skills and moderate self-control, making cocktails requires some concrete tools and a knowledge of why we use those tools the way we do. That’s why I, a bartender type, am here to help. This article is broken down into lists of stuff you need and don’t need, in varying degrees of needed and not-needed-ness. But before we go shopping, let’s cover some basic rules about what makes cocktails good and bad, as those rules inform many of the choices on this list.

The Rules

Photo by Claire Lower.

Rule 1: Ice is your enemy. We’ve all seen Titanic. The minute you shout “ICEBERG” and clunk those cubes into your mixing vessel, you’re a martyred string quartet away from an over-diluted, watery grave. Don’t add your ice until you’re ready to shake or stir, and get the booze off your ice and into your face as soon as it’s ready to do so. Cocktails, like your newly retired parents, start to die the moment they sit still.

Rule 2: Ice is your friend. Cocktails were born out of utility. Pre-prohibition, there were fewer stringent regulations governing the quality of the quaff, i.e., lots of liquor tasted fucking gnarly. But since getting the hooch down the gullet was still the goal, sugar, bitters, and ice—read: really cold water—became the means to the mood-medicine.

Rule 3: Your home is not a bar. Bars and restaurants are hallowed environments. You cannot steal or replicate the conviviality of a conversation with a genuine rando, nor can you steal or replicate a professional grade juicer, a walk-in refrigerator, or an ice well. We all know people who try to do this anyway—they can be identified by their arsenal of KichenAid attachments, home immersion circulators, and unholy disregard for the natural order of things. Don’t be one of these people. Just focus on doing the thing you have the means to do in the best and simplest way you can possibly do it.

Now that we’ve got that out of the way, here is the stuff.

Things you need

Jigger

Any and all drinks need to be measured accurately. There are a few immensely lauded cocktail bars that rely on free-pouring, but they’re like the Bobby Fischers of staring at a glass and guessing how much is in it. If you are not a prodigious, glass-guessing professional, you need a jigger. Despite being hideous and totally uncool, this is the best one for your home. The thing about using jiggers is that to get truly precise and consistent measurements, you need to be able to fill all the way to the top. You cannot do this because your hands are shaky. I know you think you can; but you can’t. This jigger, however, is larger than you will ever need for a single measure of a cocktail ingredient, and therefore, you never have to fill it to the top—only to the little lines.

A Small Tin and a Large Tin

Use these for, you guessed it, shaking cocktails! You can use a pint glass for the small end of a Boston shaker situation, but you shouldn’t. When you’re shaking a cocktail, you’re doing three things: chilling, diluting, and making tiny bubbles. You can shake it like a salt shaker, and your drink will chill and dilute and taste basically the way it’s supposed to, but to get the serious, frothy head that you see when you order a daiquiri at a real deal cocktail bar, you need to shake the ever-loving bejesus out of that thing. Shaking with a pint glass makes this difficult because pint glasses are heavy. Also, if the tin slips out of your sweaty palms and flies directly at someone’s face (a thing that has actually happened to me), a metal shaker won’t shatter into a million pieces.

Pint Glass

You still need a pint glass, though. This is what you’ll use for stirring drinks like Manhattans and martinis (which are always stirred, because they contain no citrus or other opaque ingredients to be aerated and/or otherwise made frothy). There is no discernible difference in the product you get from stirring in a pint versus stirring in a fancy-pants mixing glass, and for the cost of one fancy-pants mixing glass, which will always break, you can buy virtually everything else on this list.

Strainers

If you are only stirring cocktails, you only need a Hawthorne strainer. Generally speaking, stirring shouldn’t break the ice up to the point of little chips winding up in your drink. But being an ambitious imbiber, you’re probably looking to shake as well, and when you do shake, you’re going to do it real hard, like we talked about. This is going to result in ice chips that need to be strained out with one of these do-dads, unless you’re into chewing your cocktails and brushing with Sensodyne for the rest of your life.

A Bar Spoon or Chopstick

This is for stirring drinks, which is a whole damn thing that we can talk about in depth later. I’ve interviewed bar managers from Michelin-starred restaurants who didn’t know how to stir a cocktail. It’s a skill that takes a lot of practice, and you should be very proud of yourself if you can master it. That being said, if you’re looking to mix a drink without meditating first, just flip the spoon around and use the handle. A chopstick works fine in a pinch.

Big Cube Tray

Yes, your fridge makes ice, but that ice sucks. Remember the rules? The ice your fridge makes is more janky and chipped than my Corolla’s front bumper, and will therefore dissolve faster, both in your mixing vessel and in your glass. Enter the brutalist Big Cube. Like soviet architecture, it is solid, strong, and utilitarian. Build an Old Fashioned in your glass, plunk one in, and give it a few stirs. Whack three of them into small(ish) pieces for stirring Manhattans in a pint glass. Shake a sour on one for an extra frothy sour to coat your ‘stache.

Elbow Juicer

Hand juicing limes is a really inefficient way to juice, but a great way to make your next handshake feel clammy and gross.

Y-Peeler and Paring knife

Functional garnishes, like twists, contribute immensely towards the finished product of your drink, and thusly I am a big fan. Use a y-peeler to carve yourself a skinny swath of citrus skin, and squeeze it, skin side towards your bev, to release those fragrant oils. From there, you can toss it in your drink, throw it in the garbage with abandon, or fold it into a decorative paper crane. You’ll need a paring knife for lime wedges and the like, but be warned, once you’ve finally figured out exactly how much lime juice to put into a perfectly balanced daiquiri, the last thing you want is your ding-dong friend squeezing a lime wedge into his. That’s why I prefer garnishing with wheels.

Masking Tape and a Sharpie

Presumably you already have these things in your house; but they’re making an appearance here as an excuse to harp on dating perishable ingredients. Vermouth, like most new relationships, goes bad after a month, so mark it when you open it and toss it when its time has passed.

Things You Don’t Need but Are Nice

Grab a few of these if you want to treat yourself.

Pour Spouts

As we’ve mentioned, Mr. Shaky Hands, it’s a good thing you’re not a surgeon. Pouring a quarter ounce of something directly from a bottle is a tricky, expensive, and invariably sticky operation. Pour spouts help reduce spillage, and even have a little air hole that you can cover up with your thumb to further slow things down.

Spill Mat

You know those rubber mats that bars keep in front of service stations? They’re called spill mats, and in addition to advertising for brands most bartenders loathe, they also hold all the drips and drops of liquor that happen during service. They’re less necessary at home because theoretically you’re making fewer cocktails, but they’ll still keep your countertop dry and your mess minimal.

Things You Def Don’t Need 

Photo

You can skip this stuff.

Fancy mixing glass: See above. Save that $70 for something you actually need, like a fancy t-shirt with a tiger on it.

Fancy bar spoon: There are lots of fancy bar spoons. There are spoons that double as muddlers (practical!), spoons with a trident on the end to make you feel like Poseidon (nautical!), and spoons plated in actual gold (WHY). The one linked above costs $5 and works great.

Moscow Mule Cups: A metal cup does not make your drink that much better.

Muddler: You have a wooden spoon, don’t you?

Julep Strainers: They do the same thing as the other strainers you already have.

Japanese Jiggers: These look nice, but even in professional bar environments, are often used incorrectly. The skinny silhouette allows, theoretically, for a more precise measurement, but also means that whatever you’re jiggering will shoot out with abandon unless you’re exceedingly careful. They’re also designed to be used overhand, which is about as practical as a Tidal subscription.

Cherries: Cherries are not a functional garnish; they are candy. Go buy candy, it’s delicious!

That’s it for the hardware. Now all you need is an inherently great palate, a professional-grade knowledge of spirits, fortified wines, and liqueurs, and the monastic discipline to healthily foster and perfect a hobby that is also a life-threatening addiction.

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Just kidding! Making drinks at home is a safe, cheap way to end a night, and a bomb-ass way to impress just about anybody. Learning more about the products behind bars will make you feel more comfortable in them, and gaining a better understanding of a trade we all participate in will make you a more informed and conscientious customer, and a way cooler cucumber in general. Cheers!

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Ways to Drink Your Whisky

Whisky drinking is akin to wearing a suit; you need a tailored fit.

Whilst many purists will assure you that ‘neat’ is the nectar style to go for, no one can dram up your measurements better than you.

Here’s some classic whisky drinking styles, try them out and suit up.

Neat

Whisky straight up, on its own, is the championed method of many connoisseurs.

This method can taste overpowering if you’re not used to alcohol, but it does lend itself to showcasing the various flavour notes in your drink. 

Spices, sweetness and woody tones, particularly of single malts, can be picked apart most easily when offered to the palate in their purest form.

However, this doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s the best way to taste whisky.  Only bow to peer pressure and drink whisky this way if you love it; otherwise ditch the hardcore demeanour and get over it.

On the rocks

‘Scotch on the rocks’ still sounds pretty hardcore anyway, doesn’t it?

This could be a refreshing drinking method if you’re trying to acclimatise yourself to whisky, but it does adulterate some of the flavour, for a couple of reasons.

Firstly, the cold temperature will numb your tongue and compromise your ability to taste a spectrum of notes and secondly, as the cold ice melts it will both dilute the whisky and take some of the flavours away entirely. For that reason, most people will order blended whisky on the rocks, rather than investing in an expensive single malt.

A clever alternative is whisky stones. These actual stones are placed in the freezer before making it to your glass, and relieve you of the dilution problem, whilst still giving you the chilled serving.

Drops of water

Some people believe that adding a few drops of water to your whisky actually releases the flavours.

This one is probably for you if you feel that the pungent taste of alcohol can mask flavour for you. With a little dilution, the initial smack is less intense and you can access the notes immediately, and arguably pick up on more subtle ones.

Others will say that the dilution still compromises the spirit. We say; legal drinking age dictates that we should all be grown up enough to make our own decisions.

  Warmed Up

Who doesn’t love a hot toddy of a winter’s evening?

Warming whisky up comes with some of the same problems as cooling it down; the tasting notes are at their peak at room temperature and so drastically changing this will alter or efface some of them. 

However, whisky is believed to have medicinal qualities, and there is a lot to be said for ditching sophistication and enjoying a warming whisky in bleaker days.

To make a hot toddy, some people will add twists such as lemon, honey, cinnamon or other spices such as cloves. All of these can complement the drink beautifully, but they will also go towards masking its original flavour. Regardless, the elixir beckons more convincingly than a cup of cocoa.

Whisky Tea

Mixing whisky and tea is not at all uncommon in Japan, China and other parts of Asia. 

Far from a cheap blended whisky mixer, the Chinese are disposed to a combination of single malt whisky and hand-picked tea. No wonder it tastes good.

Often floral notes from teas such as Darjeeling can balance the dry fruitiness of a whisky, softening its flavour whilst adding even more aromatics. Meanwhile, whisky iced green tea is a crisp and clean-cut alternative.

Dave Broom, author of The World Atlas of Whisky pointed out the similarities between tea and whisky, such as their tropical flavours, smokiness and malt qualities. For instance, there is a strong link between smoky Lapsang Souchong, and peaty Islay malts.

If you fancy a long drink to take you into the small hours, or refresh you on a hot day, this could be your bag. 

Highballing

As outlandish as this sounds, it essentially adding a fizzy drink to your whisky. This can sweeten the drink, as well as soften the hangover.

The Japanese love to add soda to their whisky, whilst over in the west we enjoy additions such as coke and lemonade. Purists may mock, but if you like the taste, let them.

Mixing

Just because whisky tastes so good neat, doesn’t mean it doesn’t marry well with other things. In actual fact, whisky tastes great in various cocktails and keeps enough character to give them a kick and give them more credibility than a daiquiri.

The Manhattan, the Whisky Sour, the Mint Julep...they wouldn’t have survived the century if they weren’t good. It’s just probably not advisable to splash your Macallan 50YO around with sugar syrup, in terms of long term pension plans.

However, some popular complements to a stellar blend include rosemary, bitter lemon, ginger, blood orange, honey, berries, fig, mint and limes.

Mind you, still keep the drinks at least two parts whisky; it’s not vodka, you don’t need to pretend it’s not there.

What a shame, you have all these different drinking styles to try.

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