#which is what it has been for years - a steaming pile of dog shit

[anthrofreshtodeath]

I am calling it! Angels are cooked. Done for 2023. Catch me in November.

[steviewashere]

Let Me Make You Soup, Let Me Show You That I Care

(also on ao3)

wc: 4,149, Steddie Tags: Post Vecna, Post Canon, Post Season 4, Sick Steve Harrington, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Vomiting (Though Not Extreme, For I am Emetophobic), Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Steve's Sucky ass Parents

(Also, I hope y'all don't mind me cross-posting some of my favorite one shots that I've put up on ao3. Figured I could push them to a bigger audience, especially those who don't use ao3).

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Steve gets sick often. Small colds, allergies, the dreaded flu. Maybe it doesn't help him that he's had so many concussions and injuries on top of that too. Left with debilitating migraines and aching sides and muscles that become overexerted too fast.

Safe to say, his immune system is now a pile of steaming dog shit.

He's become good at attempting to "take care" of himself. With his parents being absent nearly all the time, much of the recovery process and gentle care was left to Steve. His hands don't have the same soft and slim quality as his mother's did, though. Even if she doesn't make the effort to shove his hair from his sweaty forehead or massage vapor-rub onto his chest or squeeze his shoulders as he dry-heaves into the toilet. He can miss that.

It's also safe to say that Steve Harrington, best babysitter and lesbian protector, is absolutely terrible at asking for help. His idea is, Got myself into this mess, I can get myself out. His other idea is, I don't want to burden anybody; I've been that too many times.

He suspects that's why his parents aren't there now to tuck him into bed and check his temperature and read him a bedtime story. Even though, now, he's a nineteen year old "man." More like a bruised child trapped inside the buff body of an even more injured adult, left to his own devices and decisions.

Steve is miserable today. Woke up with a knocking headache, an itch at the bottom of his throat, tingly fingers, shivering limbs, and the need to massage his abdomen to elicit the vomit to come up sooner.

It's barely nine in the morning. Just cracked his eyes open. Which, are heavy with crust and too much sleep, yet not enough.

It's barely nine in the morning and all Steve wants to do is lay stiff on his mattress, a trusty tried and true trashcan on the floor, curtains closed, a heavy duvet draped over his legs, and the A/C set to sixty-eight degrees. That's what he does. Doesn't have the appetite for breakfast or water or Tylenol. He doesn't have the energy to lay on a towel on the bathroom floor, body curled around the base of the toilet bowl. And, he doesn't have the confidence to plead with somebody over the phone to "Take care of me, just this once and I'll repay you."

He's done that before to Tommy. The bastard never showed and Steve sobbed so hard at the thought of being left alone, that he hurled right onto the beige carpet of his bedroom. That's why the desk is stuffed into the corner. To cover what he couldn't even take care of.

Steve has decided to lay in bed today. Has already used the trashcan. Kicked off the duvet then whined then brought it back to his sweat drenched t-shirt hem, then said fuck this and ripped the shirt off his body.

The silk sheets against his rapidly heating body feels nice. Like laying on the kitchen floor, Steve surmises. And that makes him think of soup.

A hot bowl of chicken noodle soup. Something he's made himself countless times before. A recipe that his mom never perfected. It's just Campbell's, the instructions are on the label, yet it was never made correctly.

She'd do that. When her motherly instincts were at an all-time high. That had to be when he was probably five? Six? His mom would make a bowl of soup so warm and soothing that she would have to warn him about touching the ceramic. She would bring him a glass of orange juice and say, ever soft and comforting, "It'll help you. Mommy promises."

The juice would sting his throat and he would cough so hard she would start to worry about doing the Heimlich maneuver.

That's what his mother's "sick care" turned into. A glass of orange juice that only hurt, never helped, just made him think about swallowing glass.

Soup turned into a heat-until-lukewarm situation. Juice wasn't bought for him. His parents elected to buy "fancy juice" instead. Another descriptor for Mommy's self-healing alcohol problem, Steve began to substitute. He remembers the last time she ever made him anything or gave a shit about his weakened body.

Steve was eleven years old.

He eventually learned where to buy the Campbell's stuff. From Mevald's. Now he keeps a hefty supply in the back of his family's pantry. Ready for a day like this.

A day where at eleven, before noon, Steve has a sudden mouth watering appetite for measly chicken noodle soup.

He hefts his body into an upright position, feet planted onto the carpet, fingers white-knuckling the edge of the mattress, a quick glance thrown at the trashcan, and a heavy breath burrowed into the stale air. Right before he scoots to stand, he hears the telltale sound of Eddie knocking on his front door. A simple three pattern.

The rapping startles Steve slightly. He forgot that Eddie was supposed to come over. I'll have to send him away, he thinks solemnly.

"Coming!" Steve croaks to the bathroom floor. With whatever strength the knocking has given him, he tucks the trashcan under his right arm, creeps to the top of the stairs, and ever so carefully floats down them.

The can is set off to the side before he opens the door.

In the glow of the daylight, energized and cheery, is Eddie Munson. Wrapped in a leather jacket, hair tied up into a bun, jeans replaced with jorts, and a grin the size of the moon.

"Hey Stevie," he drawls as his lithe frame leans against the doorjamb.

"Hey man, listen..." Steve begins before being interrupted.

"Whoa, what's going on with you?" Eddie shoves into the house. His grin is set into a small frown and his eyes are glazed with concern instead of the excited energy equal to a golden retriever. "Did you get enough sleep last night? You could've called me if you had a nightmare."

That's something him and Eddie do. When one has a god awful nightmare about floating bodies and squelching flesh and sterile hospital walls, they call each other. Sometimes to just hear that the other is alive. Other times for a trip to one another's house. The phone calls could be Eddie recapping a campaign storyline or Steve bemoaning over a wretched, hag of an old woman that demanded a refund on an R rated movie her grandson finagled her into renting. Or just breathing. Steve's fond of the soft puffs of air that signal Eddie finally relaxed enough to go back to sleep.

"No, weirdly enough I slept way longer than I was supposed to. I'm just sick today. But, I'm fine. Or at least I will be, got a good grasp on this. Y'know, trashcan, soft bed, canned soup. Was actually coming down here to send you back home," Steve rushes out. He's out of breath and feels lightheaded. The headache has turned into a pulsating mess and his stomach churns violently. Before he can warn Eddie again to go out the front door and leave him be, Steve finds himself hunched over his trashcan at the bottom of the stairs, trembling with the force of his grip. One hand on the edge of said bin. The other, wrapping tendrils of hair around his fingers and pulling with enough force to surely rip out some of his luxurious hair. Which, really, is a sweaty disgusting mop today.

He feels the hand in his hair loosen. A smaller, slightly cold hand replacing it. But this time, the fingers work carefully to sweep back any loose strands. Another hand joins the mix. This one squeezes at his right shoulder.

Eddie is behind him, whispering and shushing, "You're alright. I got you, let it out." His cold skin feels amazing over Steve's damp forehead. And equally, his touches are soothing.

Steve coughs once, twice, spits the same amount, and then leans against Eddie with a heavy sigh. "Thanks," he mutters. He shutters at being oddly exposed. Now that he's realized his torso is bare and he probably looks as awful as he feels and now all of his guts are in a bin in front of him.

The bin gets shoved over to the left and Steve starts to get up from the hardwood floor. Eddie lifts him up and leans him against his side. "How about this? I'll make you something mild, get some water into you, and divvy up a couple Tylenol tablets. Your skin is hot and not in the sexy way," he chuckles.

They make their way to the living room. Steve is deposited onto the couch with a cushion shoved behind his back and the can placed appropriately at his feet, within arm's reach. Eddie adjusts his hair again, this time with the tie from his own hair, and leaves to the kitchen.

Steve is dazed. Hot all over. Itchy in some places. Runny nose, aching stomach, watering eyes, and throat so itchy he wants to dig his fingernails into the skin on his neck. This predicament almost makes him embarrassed, more ashamed than anything. He gets his ass handed to him annually and has to have people take care of him during the concussions, until he's given the okay to go home and grovel in silence. And he puts himself in situations he can't get himself out of. He's tired of it, he realizes. Feels the need to apologize to Eddie, make him cookies or something, promise to never make him do anything like this ever again.

When said man comes back into the room with three extra-strength Tylenol in his palm and a cold glass of tap water, Steve wants to cry. It's not until Eddie is setting everything down to pet at his hair and shush him again doe he notice, he is crying.

"Sorry," Steve's voice rasps. He takes a gasping breath before choking out another nasty, wet sob.

"Nothing to be sorry for. It's what your body has to do," Eddie coos.

"No, I'm sorry you have to take care of me," he breathes. That's tally number two for decisions Steve is making today. Some miserable, lonely, somewhat pathetic decisions.

Then, Eddie pulls back. His eyes are the size of saucers. And that small frown from earlier has turned into a deep-set, terribly worrying downturn. "You don't have to apologize for that. Not at all. You need help, I'm here for you. It's what we do, okay?" he murmurs. Steve cries some more at that. Choking on his tears, practically. Enough for Eddie to say, "Hey, breathe with me. I don't want you to make yourself sick again."

So they sit for a few minutes. Breathing. Steve keeps his eyes on Eddie's mouth, watching him count. And Eddie stares at his eyes. Trying to piece together all the little details about this version of Steve. The one not picking fights and towering over unlucky underclassmen and spitting venom instead of backing away when he's supposed to. This Steve that looks like a small, terrified, lonely little boy. Who feels the need to apologize for being a human being. Somebody that makes sure everybody is better off and happy and swooned over before taking an assessment of his own body, the injuries stitched into his side, and the possibility that someone also wants to make sure he's doing alright.

God, who is Steve Harrington, Eddie questions to himself.

Once the tears have subsided and breathing has been placed under control, Steve feels exhausted. Eddie seems to notice because he suggests, "Why don't you lay down for a while? Maybe snooze some while I make soup?"

Steve nods with slight hesitancy. "Can I—" he stutters, "Can I lay down in my room?" To Eddie, this is the quietest he's ever heard his friend. And that doesn't sit right with him. A man—bulky and toned, loud and sassy, bark with no bite—now sitting with his shoulders slumped, skin blotched in various shades of pink and red, breathing ragged, and looking at Eddie with terribly timid eyes. He's just a little boy, some part of Eddie whispers.

"Yeah man. 'Course you can. How 'bout you get yourself to bed, I'll follow behind with your can, give you your medicine, and leave the door open just in case you need something?" The nod Eddie gets back is so energetic, it's as if Steve wasn't sick to begin with. That part of him that's been whispering and wondering is now aching. All he wanted was to be looked after.

Where are your parents, Eddie wants to ask aloud. Who was here to take care of you, Eddie wants to dig.

In mere moments, Steve is tucked back into bed. The curtains are drawn to be almost completely closed. His door is left unlocked and gaping. There are soft snuffles drifting through the house. And Eddie finds himself in front of the Harrington's fancy electric stove.

Before he came back downstairs to cook, Steve whispered something about there being Campbell's in the pantry. "If you want to heat it up on the stove, that's what my mama did when I was really little. It's what I do now."

Eddie glances at the cans and makes a decision for Steve, He deserves better than a piss poor attempt. Homemade it is.

When he was little, Wayne used to make soup on sick days. Still does. During the recovery time when Eddie's sides were still sore with stitches and itchy with stretch, Wayne would bring him a bowl of soup and a tall glass of orange juice on a little tray. He makes a mean bowl of tomato. "Something my mamaw taught me and now I can show you," he had told Eddie.

As much of a bare wasteland as Steve's kitchen is—What does he eat, Eddie wonders—he manages to find all the ingredients necessary. After a couple cupboards are ripped open and some miscellaneous drawers sifted through, he finds himself stirring a simmering metal pot of something he hopes Steve can keep down.

Eddie wants to chastise Steve for even thinking about being sick alone. What a misery sentence. Was probably going to call Robin and say something about, "You don't need to worry. It's not bad. I'll just be out of work for a couple days." Then he would've trekked back upstairs, slow like molasses, and locked the door behind him. Would've laid in bed shivering and crying and barfing. Probably would have passed out by the time he was finally hungry.

Steve even apologized earlier for being taken care of. As if he was a burden. Made himself smaller and tighter and quieter, that's for sure. So Eddie won't do any form of chastising. That'd only make him disappear on himself more.

As the soup is being dished up with plain toast and a cup is being filled with pulpy orange juice, Eddie hears Steve startle awake upstairs. Goes from snoring almost as loud as Wayne in the winter to dry heaving, hard.

Eddie sets the made tray down onto the counter. He makes his way back to the front door and chucks his shoes to the side and hangs up his jacket. Then, tumbles upstairs just as Steve is breathing raspy again.

One. Two. Three knocks on the open bedroom door. And in the blink of an eye, Eddie is over at Steve's side. He's crying again. Nothing like the nauseous sobs from earlier, but sniffles and silent watery blinks.

Steve's hair is pushed back again. "What's goin' on Stevie? What happened?"

"N-nothing," he spits frantically into the air. Like a kid trying to hide a lollipop behind their back. A teenager caught with a lit cigarette in hand. The family dog with a sneaker in it's mouth being told to drop it.

"Okay. Okay, I won't push. But I brought you some soup and orange juice. It's not the best because there's so much pulp in it, but it'll do for now. Oh, and—" Eddie sings. He digs around in his jorts pockets for a small container. As he brandishes it just in Steve's line of sight, he says, "Found some vapor-rub in the medicine cabinet downstairs. Now it is a few months out of date, but that just means more will need to be appl—honey, what's goin' on?" he questions softly.

Steve's sniffles have turned into thin-lipped, eyes glazed and bloodshot, muffled sobs. He has a streak of snot dripping down on his upper lip and his chest keeps stuttering. Eventually, he chokes out, "You brought the soup to me."

And what a statement.

The sentence slaps Eddie across the face, causing his head to rear back. It confuses him, that's what it does. Obviously I brought him soup, what the fuck, he asks himself incredulously.

"Wha—of course. That's what you do when somebody is sick. You help 'em out, bring soup or crackers or whatever and make sure they're better," Eddie supplies as he wipes away the sweat and snot with his banana. There's a brief moment where the only sound is Steve crying. The room is dim and he seems more comfortable than when the door was initially answered.

Eddie thinks back to the apologizing. The making himself smaller and quieter. His hesitancy about wanting to sleep in his own bed. How his mom used to make soup. And the statement, "Got a good grasp on this." Pieces start to click, sirens sound off, door number three has opened and behind it is a shiny new car.

A horrifying realization. The easy solution to Eddie's childlike curiosity over where Steve's parents are. And that in itself makes him want to hurl into the trashcan or pull full force at his hair or sob.

His parents aren't here and haven't been in a long while, Eddie accuses.

"Oh, Stevie." He pets again at his drenched hair. "I'm not going anywhere, alright? You don't have to worry about that with me. Let me do what I need to do, but I'll be right here if you need anything."

"Okay," Steve whispers.

Within just a couple minutes, Eddie has Steve propped back up on a mountain of pillows. Some from the hall closet, the stale bedroom of his parents, and the ones from his own bed. He's changed the bag in the can with a call of, "It's alright, no big deal," after Steve's cry that Eddie didn't need to do that. A bedside lamp has been turned on. An ice cold wet rag has been situated over his neck. There's a thick layer of vapor-rub in his chest hair.

Then came the aforementioned lunch. It smells divine. As if God himself started a soup kitchen in the Harrington's desolate house. What's even better is that it's definitely not chicken noodle.

"I don't remember there being any cans of tomato in the pantry," Steve notes.

"Oh, well. I thought you deserved better than that crap. Made something Wayne usually serves up. Family recipe," he sings again.

"Oh," Steve breathes. His eyes feel wet again, but he fights every part of him that says to cry. He's done enough of that. "Y'know, you didn't have to," he says quietly.

Eddie makes the wounded sound of a shot dog. He finishes setting up the tray on the stiff mattress. Then, situates himself to sit on Steve's left, rubbing down his bare back. "I wanted to. That's all that matters. Now eat up before it gets cold."

And he does just that. The bowl is hot to the touch. Its contents still fresh from being boiled. Even the gulps of orange juice don't burn as bad as when he was little. Steve feels five years old again. He's anticipating the late afternoon lunch from his mom where she'll show him vapor-rub and a spoonful of Pepto-Bismol. In the living room, she's going to lay down, with him on top, and they'll watch reruns of his favorite cartoons. The curtains are closed and she hums lullabies as he drifts off to sleep.

Eddie rubs his back and hums songs and kisses his forehead gently. Which, Steve hasn't been given that amount of affection in a long while. And he honestly doesn't mind.

There's something that's been sitting between the two of them, a thing the size of a ten pound medicine ball. A word shaped like love and comfort. The space where Eddie shares stories about Uncle Wayne and his hibernation snoring when the temperatures drop and how he acquired every single mug on their wall. And in response, Steve listens and drips a couple droplets of how his mom would read Goodnight Moon and kiss him on his cheek or on summer days where they'd splash each other in the shallow depth of the pool. Before it became a graveyard. Or the loosely sketched outline of a mom and her child. His dad wasn't as close, but he'd play catch when Steve was still learning about baseball or share facts about his car that intrigued little eight year old Steve in a way no sport has ever done before. How he acquired the bowling pin from the one time his parents took him out for his birthday. The car painting being something his dad did in his spare time, not bought from some general store in the next town over.

Even in his sick state, Steve thinks about pecking Eddie on the lips. Wonders how smooth they are. If he uses chapstick. What flavor it could be. His mind supplies days in the future where they make soup for each other and shout about how excellent Hellfire was or Lucas' basketball game had been. Mornings shaped by soft snores and gentle touches and steaming cups of coffee. Nights wrapped around each other, cooing sweet nothings when the nightmares become bloody again, and sex that's slow and drawn out. Or the quiet moments where Steve needs a shoulder to cry on. And open arms so that Eddie is encased in comfort, even after everything.

At his final spoonful and dip of toasted crust, Steve whispers, "I love you." As treacherous as his mouth has been in the past, this final decision isn't as daunting as the rest from earlier today. Some part of Steve knew that it would come to a head and the words would spill from his lips like the soup on his chin.

Eddie hums beside him. He kisses Steve one. Two. Three times on the forehead. Then he sets the tray aside with all the empty dishes and the vapor-rub with three finger divots. He strips down to his boxers and a simple t-shirt. And he tucks Steve in as he scoots on top of the duvet to hold him.

"I love you, too," he responds. "And I'll be here when you get up. So get some rest and the next time you're awake, I'll go get some new orange juice and more ingredients for tomato soup and a container of unexpired Vick's."

Steve drifts off to sleep with his body curled around Eddie's side.

In the morning, the curtains are open and soft sunlight streaks in the bedroom. Eddie has left the house to do a quick grocery run, leaving behind a note of "Just lay back and relax. I brought the phone upstairs if you want to keep yourself entertained."

He calls Robin to muse aloud how excellent Eddie is. Their dance around each other now concluded over a simple bowl of soup. How nice it is to finally get the care he wish he had when his mom started to go away. Him kissing a guy before she could kiss a girl and her shriek off, "The next time I see you, I'm gonna give you the nastiest, biggest wet willy this world has ever seen. Trust in it, Steve Harrington."

The threat isn't an empty one, but it makes Steve chuckle anyway. Even though he still feels that encroaching violent twist of his stomach and a cough that could send him flat on his ass.

And when the phone call ends and Eddie is back inside with soup being made on the stove? Steve feels like maybe it's alright to rely on his true family when the time comes. He makes a promise to himself too that he'll learn how to make the best goddamned chicken noodle soup this world has ever tasted. All so that he can dote over Eddie the same. Make sure that he really knows just how much Steve loves him.

"I love you," Eddie breaths into his tussled hair later on the couch, where they're watching cartoons.

"Love you, too," Steve slurs as his body becomes heavier with sleep.

[thelindenpapers]

Mingling

"Despair, Teresa; Teresa, Despair.", Trent disclosed casually.

"Hm?", my eyes drift over the edge of my lifted drink as I turn in their direction.

"Despair.", he repeats and the guest steps forward...

My mouth tightens around the glass lip mid-sip.

Father's luck will be my death yet.

"Despair.", assures the guest. "Nice to meet you."

The voice is smooth and cultured. The offered hand, rubbery, dry, and extremely pale against my skin, leaves a strange feeling lingering on the palm.

"Ah! Nice to meet you."

Because I was taught not to be rude.

Perhaps a first mistake.

At this declaration Despair pauses, blinking once, thinking hard in his bewilderment.

It suddenly strikes me that he must not hear that a lot.

In the background: our host, run off far, far, away.

I engage emergency-automatic-small-talk mode.

"So, Despair. I've heard so much about you--"

"-- Such as?"

"That . . . . you are well-traveled. And successful."

"I do keep busy.", he affirms.

I could wipe my forehead, but suppress the urge. Try harder, to adopt a stance of unalarm and unhurry, "How did you come to know our host?"

"It was when Trent switched majors, back in College. Did you know that the good man had an interest in artistic cinema?"

"Wow! No, I had no idea he had a creative side…"

"Mmm. Had.

"Of course, Trent never talks about it anymore… doesn't attend the festivals abroad, as he once did.

"But, really, it is better for him this way. After all, no one wants to live like a pauper.", Despair smiles widely, the ghost of a laugh only just escaping the dungeonous, perfect teeth.

I've never fake-smiled so hard in my life.

“Well then. I hope--”, his face, at this one word, turns hard as stone and it makes me want to hide under Trent's fussy leather couch, “…that you. Erm. Enjoy the party. …I suppose I should continue mingling. Oh, there’s--”

“Angelica? Yes, I know her. She’s been doing quite well recently, but don’t ask anything about her adopted child...

"My gift to her was Kawasaki’s disease. They’re still not sure of the extent of the damage, to his heart. From what I’ve gathered, it doesn’t look well.”

Angelica, as if sensing her name spoken, looks towards me.

When she sees who I am with, her gaze darts away as if the very image of Despair were burning hot to her eyes.

I swallow.

“…They do all see me, Teresa. All the ones I’ve gifted.”

My jaw sets. Despite the feeling of crawling unease that Despair oozes, my inherited Scot’s temper flares at his bored recounting of Angelica’s recent pain.

I feel like I want to find someone that he did not yet know, just to spite him. “There’s always--”

“Oh, Isaiah, there. I gifted him years ago. Still wears the wedding ring, though.”

It was as if he could see through my eyes.

Wherever I turn my head to look, Despair has another story to tell: “Li. The doctors suspect that his cancer has returned from its remission. Such a shame. He won’t have long to live if it has come back…just landed his dream job as well. Aina. She’s in love with a woman she can never have. Deeply so. In a lot of pain right now, saw her crying in the kitchen earlier. Samantha. Her brother died this month whilst visiting a friend. Burglar was in the house. Shot him dead. Hasn’t started coming to terms with it, which is why she’s here in the first place. Hector was just disowned by his father…his only parent, it would seem. Mother died in childbirth--”

In that intensely disinterested voice, Despair rattles a descriptive swath through the room, laying bare agony and struggles unshared. Emotions I have no knowledge of nor right to.

My head spins.

I want to shut my eyes, so I do.

My stomach is churning.

…I do not know everyone here, but some of these people are my friends. The Scot in me is fairly easy to raise.

But the Brooklyn accent?

That takes some doing, and without even thinking I find myself mere inches from his ridiculous fucking face…

“Listen to me, you calloused, steaming pile of dog shit.”, I hiss. “At this point I don't care who I speak to next, so long as it isn't--!”

“--You. You’ll have your gift to come as well.”, he interrupts.

I freeze perfectly still.

“It should arrive fairly soon.

And then, thereafter, you should come to expect me at all of your functions and gatherings…

"There is, of course, no need to worry. I am an impeccably-mannered guest.”

I wish to run from this place, for all the good it will do me...

But from somewhere near the door, a murmur of distraction has started, to which people seem to gravitate.

I can’t see who it is: the crowd knotting, nodding greetings, then, making way for the new guest as they approach us…yet, I note that everyone's gaze angles downwards.

Whoever they are, they must be on the short side.

Despair splutters -- all boredom gone.

Almost pouting.

...In front of us, steps a little girl.

Her skin is warm and very dark…it looks almost as if it glows.

She has the largest eyes I have ever seen on a child: deep and brown.

A lovely round dandelion-top of super-curly black hair is on her head: with sprigs of queen anne’s lace, honeysuckle, and baby’s breath placed carefully at either temple. Her short-sleeve, flutter-hemmed tunic is mellow butter-yellow, with a row of cartoonish daisies printed at mid-riff.

Her stone-washed capri jeans are scuffed, but intact.

Delicate, white, lace-topped socks sprout out of a pair of impossibly bright-red converse high-tops.

Random, sparkly barrettes are affixed to the disheveled, bright white shoelaces...

I’d never seen her anywhere before -- yet, at the sight of her, my eyebrow twitches up and I bark a short laugh of disbelief!

Her bold, bow lips curl into a smirk as she looks up, boring into me with her eyes.

“THERRRRRRE you are! Been lookin’ for you everywhere!!”

She grabs my hand and starts to draw me back through the crowd.

I kind of glaze over a bit.

Her hand feels like sunlight.

I am extremely glad to be taken away, but I worry about how Despair might react if I leave without saying farewell.

I tentatively look back, though my feet move forward just fine, “Uhhhm--”

“Hope!!!”, Despair drew himself up imperiously, addressing the child in a commanding voice. “I was just telling her about the gift she was to receive next week--!”

“Oh, she doesn’t need that anymore.

"Besides, you were with her almost all the time when she was my size.

"It’s my turn now. Otherwise, she’s gonna get too bored!”

No one dares laugh...

But the music, which had been lowered to nearly a whisper at the beginning of the party, turns up loud.

We steadily make our way out into the hallway with the sound of the gathering getting livelier: shuffling steps of people drawing closer together; hoots and hollers and cheerful ‘goodbye!’s.

I don’t think to ask where we’re going...

As we wait for the elevator, I turn towards Hope.

She leans near, gesturing for me to bend down so that she can whisper in my ear.

She cups a long hand, and in a conspiratorial tone, she says to me: “Hmph! I know most of those folk, too!”

We grin as the elevator bell sounds.

[monstersandmaw]

Poke

Thats it, that's the prompt :3

Challenge accepted, Anon.

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

___

Contents: Female ghost x gn human sfw Wordcount: 694

(prompts now closed)

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Sitting alone at your desk, staring glassy-eyed at your screen as you tried (again) to think of a way to tell Brenda (without your getting fired) that you couldn’t be expected to take on the work of three people without the appropriate financial compensation from the company, something poked you in the side. Hard.

The yelp that escaped you as you jerked around and stared at the empty space beside your chair seemed even louder in the stillness of your deserted house.

Deserted.

Empty.

There was no one else there.

There could be no one else there.

You lived alone.

You'd lived alone for the last three years, though you’d only been living in this house for a few months.

No dog, no cat, no partner.

No one who could have physically poked you in the side with enough force to leave a lingering ache.

“The fuck?”

Your heartbeat clamoured in your ears and you shoved your chair back so hard that it hit the wall as you stood and stared around.

Downstairs, the kettle was boiling.

“What. The. Fuck?”

Cautiously, you crept down the stairs one at a time, breathing hard but trying to be quiet about it, and wishing you still had that old baseball bat from your teenage years. The kettle clicked off and then there were no sounds in the house except the creak of your feet on the treads as you descended.

As you entered the kitchen, you found a mug sitting on the side. Inside, a teabag was floating in freshly-poured, steaming water, and a spoon was slowly rotating to help the tea brew.

“What the fuck,” you whispered. Your hand clutched the door handle so tightly it creaked.

Then something cold brushed against your jaw and you reeled back out of the room. The spoon had stopped turning.

“Is this why the place was so cheap?” you asked the empty house. You squared your shoulders and stepped back into the kitchen, glaring. “It’s fucking haunted?”

The blinds against the window rattled softly, the little mint plant on the shelf shivering and jittering like it was laughing, and the pipes creaked and moaned all around you.  

“If this is a prank from Ollie or Chris… I swear to —” you cut off suddenly as a white figure flashed into being for half a heartbeat in front of the hob. You blinked rapidly, chest heaving, staring at the spot. A woman in a Victorian dress with her hair piled up on top of her head had been standing there, translucent and ethereal for just a moment. “Ok… Ok, I saw that… I saw you.”

You scrambled to a drawer on the other side of the kitchen and drew out one of the pieces of scrap paper you used for shopping lists, and picked up a pen. Crossing to the untouched mug of tea, you set it down and said, “Can you write with that?”

For a while, nothing happened. The mug steamed away, the blinds had fallen still again, and the house was quiet.

Then, with a feeling like the air was being sucked out of the room, you watched the pen twitch, then rise. In a beautiful, English roundhand script, the biro spelled out a quick note. ‘Yes, though it is hard for me to interact with objects. My name is Adelaide and I live here as well. Your privacy is your own, by the way. I do not intrude. You seemed tired, and it’s been hours since you last had a break. I am sorry if I frightened you.’

You watched her write, and then swallowed. “Holy shit.”

The soft ripple of laughter echoed distantly in your ears.

“Well if the worst you’re going to do is get me out of a call with fucking Brenda, then… I’m happy to share my house with you, I guess. And… thanks for the tea?”

Again, the quiet caress of cold fingers along your jaw made your breath catch but you didn’t recoil this time. The faintest whisper, the words indistinguishable now, sounded in your ear, but the tone of it seemed fond, kind, and even a little flirty.

___

| Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar)

[hxneyandespressx]

all at once (you are the one i have been waiting for) 

summary: the lights are out. roads are flooded. jj and elle are stuck at jj’s apartment due to a thunderstorm. what secrets will be revealed when these two friends are alone in the dark?

pairing: jennifer jareau x elle greenaway (jelle)

word count: 2.8k

a/n: memories are in italics 

☆。*。☆。

A pair of women ran across the fresh wet lawn from a car parked in the distance, a few feet away from the apartment building. Giggles could be heard clearly from across the road. They skipped up the small steps and reached the entrance. Under the porch roof, the blonde shook her head like a wet dog, while the brunette attempted to dry her hair with her cold hands. The friends entered the building, working their way up to the blonde’s apartment, all while causing a commotion within the hallways. JJ haphazardly took out her keys from her baby blue raincoat and unlocked her apartment door. She took off her jacket and hung it on the antique coat hanger, with her muddy hiking boots by the door.

“Sorry… uh- make yourself at home,” JJ said. “I’ll grab some towels from the linen closet.”

“Yeah sure,” Elle responded while observing the apartment. Inside, was a home fit for a young career woman. Clean minimalist furniture. Books and academic papers were sprawled across the cheap Scandinavian coffee table. A few coffee mugs were scattered around the living room. A blue blanket sprawled across the cushions of the sofa. The same blanket that Elle bought for JJ on one special Christmas.

The brunette shook her head, thinking that it was typical of JJ to keep her place slightly messy. She was brought out of her thoughts when a soft cotton towel was presented to her. 

“Thanks, JJ,” Elle said as she tried to dry her hair. The blonde nodded happily as she tried her best to drain water from her hair with another towel in her hand. 

“Want something to drink?” JJ asked as she walked into her small kitchen. 

“Just some water,” Elle called out. The brunette flopped onto the couch, feeling tired from the day. A minute went by and JJ came back with two glasses filled with water. Elle thanked the blonde when she was given the glass. 

“Want to take a shower?” JJ asked innocently. Elle slightly choked on the water. 

“Wh- what?” 

“A shower. Because you must feel cold from the rain we ran through earlier.” JJ softly laughed at Elle’s outburst. The brunette grumbled.

“Yeah. I’ll take one. Only because I know you’ll make me if I refuse,” Elle said as she got up and made her way to the bathroom. Once the showerhead noises were heard, JJ went to her room to pick out some clothes to share. Once she changed, the blonde knocked on the bathroom door, with a sweatshirt and shorts in hand. Sounds of the shower went by, and Elle opened the door, in a towel and all dewy from the hot steam. A peach blush appeared on JJ’s cheeks, barely noticed by the brunette. In their long years of friendship, JJ hadn’t felt like this about her best friend until eight months ago. 

“Thanks.” Elle took the clothes from JJ’s hand and shut the door. The clang from the now-closed door took the blonde out of her thoughts. Taking a deep breath, JJ walked away from the bathroom door. As she passed by a window, onto her way to the living room, her eyes took a peek to see how the weather had been. It had gotten worse. Dark clouds rolled in quickly and the rain got heavier, with the low rumblings of thunder playing songs in the sky. An idea struck JJ’s mind. I should get some candles from the cabinet, in case of a power outage. Arriving at her destination, JJ raided the closet and found her soy candles. As she placed them aside for later, Elle came in from her shower.

“Hey. What are those for?” Elle asked.

“Since the weather is getting worse, I decided to be more prepared. Better to be safe than sorry.” JJ said as she also pulled out a few blankets. 

“Since we don’t have anywhere else to go, wanna just Netflix and chill?” Elle proposed. JJ raised an eyebrow at the brunette’s wording.

“Just Netflix and chill? Ha- you could have worded that differently,” JJ said. Elle shrugged and grabbed the remote. The blonde sat next to her friend, making the both of them comfortable with the heavy blanket she brought. For the rest of the afternoon, both Elle and JJ watched one Studio Ghibli movie after another.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

As the evening went by, the weather got worse. The rain beat down harder on the asphalt. Trees swayed along with the hard wind. Rolling thunderous sounds moved closer to the area with each passing minute. This was one of the worst thunderstorms this town had ever experienced. 

The power went out during the second hour of watching Netflix. In the dark, both Elle and JJ worked their way around the blonde’s apartment, taking out every electrical plug to prevent any accidents. After that job was done, JJ went into the kitchen while Elle started to fold the large blanket they were once under. After the brunette finished, she sat by the window on the leather loveseat, watching the storm rage across the sky. She turned on her phone to the radio, weather reports about the storm softly playing.  

“When do you think this is gonna let up?” JJ asked, coming up behind Elle with two mugs filled with water. Elle took a mug and whispered a soft thank you. 

“Well, from what the news is telling us, it’s going to be a long night of heavy rain and strong wind,” JJ said as she stared out of the window. Elle sat next to her friend and placed her chin on JJ’s left shoulder. Silence occupied the living room. The pitter-patter of the rain against the windows created music that filled the air. The orange light from the candles set a soft ambiance. Quiet. Peaceful.

“Seems like I won’t make it home tonight,” Elle joked.

“You don’t even have your car here! Besides, the roads are flooded and there are trees blocking said roads,” JJ said, pouting at the brunette’s silly little joke. 

“Sorry.” Elle softly smiled. The sounds of laughter rang away, being replaced by silence again. A few minutes went by and JJ got struck with an idea. 

“I have something fun for us to do!” JJ said.

“And what’s that?” Elle asked.

“We should make a blanket fort,” JJ said, smiling from her plan. “It’ll be fun! Taking away some of the sadness from the thunderstorm.” 

Elle nodded in agreement and the two women started working on the pillow fort. The brunette started by getting the kitchen chairs to build the framework while the blonde looked for more blankets. JJ grabbed her largest white cotton bedsheet as the initial cover. 

“Elle, help me with putting this sheet on.” JJ said. Her brunette friend nodded her head and the two women tried their best to gently drape the sheet over the four dining chairs. 

“Oh shit. I forgot to get the clothespins.” JJ left the sheet and speed-walked to her small linen closet to gather as many pins she needed. With a handful of some wooden clothespins in her hands, JJ came back to the living room and shared some of the pins with Elle to get the bedsheet draped properly. After the first sheet, the blonde picked a colorful paisley-printed sheet to decorate over the white bedsheet. Both the women worked their way to pin the sheets carefully together and onto the chairs. 

“Didn’t know you liked floral patterns.” Elle teased JJ, who typically prided herself to be more of a “tomboy”. 

“Shut up.” JJ playfully punched Elle’s right shoulder. The brunette chuckled from the light punch. 

After the main structure was built, JJ filled the inside with a plethora of pillows and blankets. With a thick plaid blanket as the foundation, the blonde piled on two more to provide a soft space to sit. Elle grabbed the fuzzy blue blanket off from the couch, so she and JJ could cuddle together with it. Scents of honey and milky french vanilla wafted throughout the living room, reminiscent of untamed yet peaceful meadows of the French countryside. The lit candles glowed against the roof, the paisley patterns being well seen enough to be traced. 

Both the women smiled at their creation and entered the little fort. Elle sighed contently as she flopped onto the mountain of pillows. Meanwhile, JJ sat with her chin on her knee. Feeling unsatisfied, the blonde went out of the fort and went to search for something to drink. The coldness from the kitchen tiles clashed against the warmth from JJ’s feet. Opening a cabinet that was leveled to the floor, JJ crouched and looked at the different wines she had in her collection. 

  “Whatcha getting?” Elle asked loudly.

“Some wine, because why not,” JJ said as she was deciding on which bottle to choose. 

“Oh.”

JJ came back to the fort, where Elle sat at the entrance, with a twist-off red Bordeaux wine bottle and two wine glasses in her hands. The blonde handed one of the wine glasses to the brunette and twisted off the closure of the glass bottle, filling both eh glasses halfway with the aged wine.

Both laid on their backs, drank wine, and talked the evening away. From arguing about who would win the next Super Bowl to debating their interpretation of Plato's Republic, the two friends started to reminisce about the journey that took them to where they are now.

“Hey… Remember our college graduation trip down the California coast?” Elle asked. JJ thought for a few seconds. A smile appeared on her warm ivory face. 

“Yeah… I do.” A soft smile appeared on the blonde’s face as she started to remember the fond memory. 

The blue fire crackled as Elle added a few pieces of salty driftwood to make the bonfire warmer. The brunette went back to sit on the large colorful towel next to her best friend. 

“Can’t believe we graduated college,” JJ said as she stared at the night sky. Elle nodded in agreement. “Now we can start our lives. Who knows what will bring.” The blonde rested her head onto the brunette’s shoulder, taking in the scenery of the multiple constellations shining in the night sky.

“Hey, Elle… do you think we’re still gonna be friends? After we go our separate ways?”

“I know we will,” Elle responded.

“You better stay in touch.” JJ playfully punched Elle’s ribs. Elle laughed from the weak punch.

“Don’t worry,” Elle looked at JJ. “I don’t plan on going off the grid anytime soon.” The blonde huffed in annoyance. Elle chuckled lightheartedly. After a while, the crashing of the ocean waves filled the air as the two recent college graduates stargazed for the rest of the night.

“Oh! How about the time you helped me get through a breakup with that New Orleans guy?”

“I remember that,” Elle sighed. “Thank God you’re not in that relationship anymore.”

The blonde cried into the shoulder of her best friend as she hugged the brunette. Elle rubbed circles on JJ’s back to calm her down. The three-year relationship that made JJ so happy now made her so heartbroken. 

Elle tried to comfort her friend during the breakup for the past six weeks. She wanted JJ to know that she was more deserving of someone who would treat her better. No more wasting time and tears over someone who did not care about her in the first place. 

“JJ, you’re better off without him. Better yet, you deserve better.” Elle said. The blonde sniffled and wiped her tears away. Elle smiled as her friend sat up straight. JJ slowly realized there were other people in the world, and she was more deserving of someone who would treat her better. 

“You know what?” JJ said as she looked at Elle. “You are right. I can’t sit and mope around, waiting for something to happen. I need to take charge and show who is boss.”

“You mean girlboss?” Elle asked, with a smirk on her face. JJ laughed.

“Yeah… girlboss.”

“Thanks to you, Elle. I am happy to be single for a year and a half.” JJ said while holding up her wine glass, pretending to take a toast. Elle laughed at her little gesture. 

Feeling slightly chilly, JJ pulled her blanket closer to her body, her fingers feeling the softness of the fabric.

“Remember the Christmas that we spent together?: JJ asked. 

“Yeah.” Elle felt amused as the soft blue blanket in her hand was reminiscent of the time they spent the holidays together. 

“And you gave me this blanket. The best present anyone could have given me.” JJ stated. Elle lifted one of her eyebrows.

“Really?” Elle asked, with a hint of joy in her voice. JJ nodded. 

After a while, having a conversation tired their voices. Instead, they sat in silence comfortably. JJ turned her head to face Elle, who had her eyes closed. The blonde took this time to take in the beautiful sight in front of her. 

The soft golden glow from the candles highlighted Elle’s olive-toned skin. Her chocolate brown locks perfectly framed her face. The fringe of her bangs fell into her equally beautiful deep amber eyes. She looked good in the grey sweatshirt that she borrowed that evening. JJ’s heart beat faster the more she stared at the beautiful brunette next to her. As far as she knew, Jennifer Jareau was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with Elle Greenaway. 

The brunette opened her eyes, as she felt like someone was watching her. 

“Hey,” JJ said.

“Hey,” Elle replied. 

“Had a nice nap?”

“Ha- very funny, Jareau.” Elle playfully slapped the blonde’s shoulder. A few seconds of silence went by before JJ posed a question. 

“Wanna play 21 questions?” JJ asked.

“We already know each other, silly.” 

“It’s just for fun. What else can we do when the power is out?” 

“True. You ask the first question,” Elle said. And so, JJ asked the first question. A simple one. What would your dream house look like? Elle chuckled, knowing that her friend already knew the answer, and responded. This went back and forth between the two women. Until they hit the last number. 21.

JJ took a deep breath and exhaled in nervousness, as it was her turn for the final question. 

“What do you wish for in life?” 

Elle paused. The silent wait fueled JJ’s anxiety. 

“I just want a girl who loves me. The authentic me,” Elle said. The brunette turned her head to face the blonde, who was nervously biting her lips. “And to live with her in an apartment in a city, with a few plants and maybe a cat.” 

JJ looked at Elle with loving eyes. To her, she never met the most genuine person in her life. All their late-night adventures, silly arguments, and untold secrets. Led up to this moment. The one that could change the course of their tight friendship. 

“I have something to tell you.” JJ said. 

“Oooh… Are you about to profess your undying love for me?” Elle joked.

“Yes, I am.”

“.....What?”

“I love you, Elle Greenaway.” Elle looked like a deer in headlights. Her soft pink lips slightly parted as she gasped under her breath. After being in love with her best friend for so long, Elle’s feelings finally got reciprocated. 

“I love you too, Jennifer Jareau.” J

oy and relief showed on JJ’s face. For once in her life, she felt sure about what she was doing. And this was something she wanted to last for a lifetime. 

Elle lightly brushed some hair out of JJ’s eyes. 

“I could stay here forever.” Elle said, softly caressing JJ’s cheek. Slowly, Elle brought her face close to JJ, their noses touching. Her lips softly grazed against JJ’s own in anticipation to what to happen next. 

Feelings bit impatient, JJ closed the gap between herself and Elle, gently kissing and savoring their moment in time. After a few seconds, the two women parted, slightly out of breath. Closing her eyes, Elle placed her head on JJ’s left shoulder, a small smile appearing on the taller woman’s face. JJ wrapped her arms around Elle’s body, feeling the warmth engulf her. Both slowly drifted into sound sleep, filled with dreams of what was to come next for their relationship. 

taglist: @queer-rambling / @voidreid / @homosexualyearning / @ssajelle / @jemilyology / @pumpkin-stars / @iconicc / @drinkingcroissants / @abbyprentiss / @elizabethxolsen / @lgbtbau / @hotchrocket / @morcias / @sunnymulti

[deantransgressions2]

8x03 heartache

#1: "i mean, that's got to be a ritual, man. or at least some sort of a heart sucking, possessed, satanic, crack-whore bat."

time tag: 2:58

#2: sam: "what? i had a year off. i took the time to enjoy the good things."

dean: "while avoiding doing what we actually do."

sam: "wow, dean. does it make you feel that much better every time you say it?" < if sam had a tumblr he would follow my blog.

but anyway the key word is "we", dean. you were not there. so sam went off and did sexy stuff he could. get over it.

time tag: 3:20

#3: "that chubby guy the last person to see the vic alive?"

time tag: 4:24

#4: "it's too bad i dropped out of lunatic 101" (said while interviewing a mentally ill man)

also: "he's a mushroom"

time tag: 8:22 + 9:08

#5: "i know where i’m at my best. and that is right here, driving down crazy street next to you." (said to sam) okay dean, thats super cute of you. but is SAM at his best when he's next to you?

time tag: 15:33

#6: sam said maybe dean is better off hunting alone, and he doesn't have to "explain himself to anybody" .....2x03 flashback guys.

dean: "yeah that makes sense, seeing i have so many other brothers i can talk to about this stuff." ok so 1) you do have another brother and he's rotting in hell. 2) you never let sam talk to you ab his feelings, so why do you expect the him to listen to yours? and 3) get a therapist man.

time tag: 15:53

#7: sam: "i'm not saying i'm bailing on you. i'm just saying make room for the possibility that we want different things. i mean, i want my time to count for something"

dean: "so, what we do doesn't count?"

??? sam is literally just saying that his life has just been one unbelievable steaming pile of dog shit and he wants some time to find happiness and actually feel safe for once. sam saved the world, and suffered immensely for it. if he wants to live a suburban life and go to farmers markets, then that’s his damn right.

time tag: 15:56

#8: "i got another email, this one is for you. from a university. answering questions about admissions."

sam: "just something i'm looking into. an option."

"you're seriously talking about hanging it up?"

does dean think university lasts till you die? that if u go to college you can't hunt ever again? or you can't once you graduate? does dean think he has any say in what sam choses to do with his life?

time tag: 23:25

#9: sam: "do you think brick thought maybe he'd burn to nothing when he crashed that car?"

dean: "yeah, but he didn't, which brings us here"

there is something about the wording of this, and sam's demeanor that makes me think he is talking about more than just brick. because sam once also fell to his death. except he came back, without consent. and now has to continue to deal with all the trouble and pain in his life. maybe ill elaborate more on this, but this scene just feels deep

time tag: 33:45

#10: "wow. back in business. got the win. admit it, feels good huh? you know, i was thinking about what randa said about, you know, what it feels like to be a warrior. i get it man, i do."

sam: "i know, i know you do. i don't. not anymore. hell, maybe i never did."

"come on sam, don't ruin my buzz, would you?"

sam: "dean listen. when this is over, when we close up shop on kevin and the tablet, im done. i mean that."

"no you don't"

sam: "dean, the year that i took off, i had something i've never had. a normal life. i mean, i got to see what that felt like. i want that. i had that."

"i think that's just how you feel right now."

dean is so unbelievably obsessed with sam. why doesn't he just tell him "hey man, i love you, you're my brother and i'm happy you're in my life". then sam would be like "love u too man. im gonna go live a normal life. you are welcome to my home between hunts." done! happily ever after! instead we get dean, demonizing everything sam does that doesn't include him, and gaslighting him until sam adapts to dean's worldview. disgusting.

time tag. 38:09

[pleasespellchimerical]

You know, as boring and dreadful as this winter has been so far, it really cannot top Christmas 2015.

In 2015, I was working at a regional theatre as an electrician and lighting op. We had five shows over the course of a season, but the Christmas show was the big one. The monster. The month-long endeavor that paid the bills for the rest of the year. 

(Small theatres are always hurting for money. Oftentimes, artistic integrity needs to be sacrificed to keep the lights on.)

Anyway, the big moneymaker for that year? A Christmas Story: The Musical. The worst part was? I kinda liked it. I’m not a fan of the film, but the musical had a real energy to its cheesy nostalgia. The songs are catchy as fuck. It seemed tasteless to me to do a show about a boy and his gun during a year that the US was averaging one mass shooting per day. But what do I know? The show paid our bills, and that was what counted.

I was shunted onto wardrobe crew for that show. The show was massive, we had a shortage of crew, and they figured it was easier to train a new lights op than it was to train a new wardrobe person. So instead of sitting back, pressing buttons, and doing the usual troubleshooting (the theatre’s lighting system and equipment was older than I was), I was thrust right into the thick of things. Getting hands on, running around, and working all the extra hours.

I wasn’t prepared for all the shit that would go down that month. None of us were.

This show was huge. We had nearly thirty cast members, including twelve kids. Each cast member had around three to five different costumes. Santa suits. Trick pants. Long thick wool coats that these poor actors would be sweating into for two hours. 

We started previews right after Thanksgiving, and my day would go something like this:

45 minute commute. Get to the theatre at 3 pm. Take two hours to check over everything and steam the garments. This was the most relaxing part of the day. No actors yet, just me, my fellow wardrobe tech, and the steamer gurgling away and occasionally spraying boiling water at me. 

After steaming, we’d lay out clean undergarments, make any repairs, and do our presets. At this point, the actors would start arriving, and after slapping wigs onto kids, my fellow crew and I would take a breather in the greenroom before go time.

The show was crazy. Multiple costume changes that we only had a minute to do. Ripping garments off of actors and stuffing them into new ones. I had to swap between wardrobe duties and moving the set, because the set was huge, and again, we had a shortage of crew. During intermission, I had to fight through all the actors to collect pieces for the second act, and set those up. After the show, I would start fixing the trick pants, deodorizing all the garments, retrieve the wigs before the kids started getting squirmy and tearing them off, and cleaning up.

I’d leave the theatre around midnight, and get home at 1 in the morning.

This was exhausting enough. But we were also pulling double duty some days - we had matinees twice a week, which brought us up to nine shows a week (for reference, Broadway only does eight). I took to napping on the greenroom couch during my breaks. And this went on for a solid month. Thanksgiving until New Years.

I would’ve been dead beat by this show if everything had gone perfectly.

Everything did not go perfectly.

There were the little things. The fact that the theatre building was falling apart, and the literal holes in the walls made sure that backstage was freezing. Everyone huddling around gas heaters. Kid actors being homophobic (half your colleagues right now are queer and you need to Stop). Kid actors (rich kid actors, mind you, who had fucking maids at home) not cleaning up their dressing stations. Grown actors being snooty. Grown actors deciding to deodorize their own costumes to the point where we had to hide the spray bottles (dry rot is a thing if you overdo it). The lights and dimmers deciding to catch fire, and me having to bolt from my tasks to help fix it. 

You know. The usual. 

Then there were the big things.

The drummer who couldn’t stop sexually harassing the women on the crew. The tap soloist tearing a thing in her foot, necessitating new costumes to fit her understudy. The Cold From Hell that got my fellow wardrobe person and I. The stage manager told us that she could hear us coughing from the audience.

We sounded like we should’ve been in a TB ward. I was living on coughdrops at that point.

Everyone was pretty much running on fumes after Christmas. The stage manager put in to skip the next show. I was still sick as a dog. We were also busy trying to get the drummer blacklisted.

And then, on closing day, a pump in the basement broke and flooded the entire basement with sewage water.

...the basement, which was our costume storage.

We had to herd the patrons to the restaurants next door and across the street, who had graciously opened their bathrooms for us to use. We roped off the basement and called an emergency plumber in. The only saving grace was that we wound up not being able to strike the costumes properly, instead sorting them into piles in the green room, which meant that we spent a lot less time on strike than we would’ve otherwise.

Exhibit A: Three thousand dollars worth of dry cleaning. 

The other saving grace was that I was no longer wardrobe crew after that day. I didn’t have to worry about the cleanup, or rescuing costumes for the next show. I got to go back to my lighting, dealing with my usual safety hazards of crumbling cables, bad wiring, and fiberglass dust.

The next show was a very small production, with a cast of seven adults. They were all lovely. It was quiet and uneventful, which was exactly what I needed.

Anyway. The real moral to this story is that it could always be worse, and it usually is for people in live entertainment during the holidays. 

I do miss working in the theatre, but I don’t miss shitshows like that. 

[lvllns]

and i’m feeling colder than i feel is good

the wayhaven chronicles. ~2.5k words. little bit of felix and kincaid, but it’s not the focus. mild book 3 demo spoilers, very brief and nothing plot relevant. this idea has been rattling around in my head since the first chapter of the demo and i finally sat down to write it. detective becomes a vampire au? i guess?

Standing in a shitty rest stop bathroom, Kincaid watches his split knuckles mend and thinks that he should have seen this coming.

—

Three months ago, one month after Murphy’s attack.

Kincaid slumps back against his chair. Scrubs his hands over his face and groans as he leans forward to press his face to his desk. Between the Agency and the station, reports and paperwork have piled up. Stacks that threaten to tumble to the ground at even the slightest touch. He’s trying, really he is, to catch up even the tiniest little bit but it feels like a fruitless endeavor.

Especially when Tina sheepishly slaps another folder down, playfully thwapping it on the back of his skull. “Got more for you.”

“No thanks,” he mumbles with a shake of his head. “I’m not acceptin’ any more paperwork currently.”

Tina laughs. Pats his shoulder before giving it a squeeze. “Unfortunately for you, I don’t think the Captain would appreciate that.”

With a frustrated huff, Kincaid sits up, eyes narrowing at the mess all over his workspace. “Why the fuck are there so many reports? The fuck is happening in this sleepy town?” He picks one up. Squints and scoffs as he drops it back down. “Another case of mysteriously dying flowers from someone with a dog.”

“You need a break.”

“I need to retire.”

“You have a few years yet,” Tina says with another reassuring pat to his back. “Ah, you have company.” She winks at him and heads for the door. “You’ll help him relax, right?”

Kincaid looks up from his computer to see Felix walk in, coffee cup and bag from Haley’s in hand.

He grins, bright eyes flashing with mischief, as he rests a hand against his chest in an attempt to look affronted. “In his office Tina?”

“Knew I liked you for a reason!” She taps the middle of his forehead before vanishing into the hallway, shutting the door with a muted click behind her.

Felix settles himself in the chair opposite Kincaid and cocks his head. “You look exhausted.”

“I sleep like shit, you know this.”

He hums. “I do, which is why I brought you these!”

Before Kincaid can react, there’s a steaming cup of coffee in his face, the bag rustling as it settles next to a stack of reports. He plucks the drink from Felix’s hand, letting his touch linger as long as he can before pulling away. The vampire shifts in his seat, grin fading to an honest smile, soft but no less bright. Kincaid takes a deep breath, a rumbling groan escaping him as the smell of coffee overwhelms his senses.

When he takes a sip though, it tastes...off.

His face screws up, nose wrinkling. It’s not bad, something is just a little to the right of normal. It’s like he can feel individual grains of sugar on his tongue. The coffee is more bitter, coating his tongue and throat so heavily it’s almost difficult to swallow.

“What’s wrong?” Felix leans forward, eyebrows knit together.

Kincaid holds the cup in front of him. He shrugs. Takes another sip and it’s better this time, going down smoother. “Nothin’, guess I’m just used to the shitty instant coffee here.” He smiles. “Thank you, Felix. I needed this.”

The shorter man hums. “You’re welcome. I grabbed you a couple of those scones you like too.” Kincaid could kiss him, and he almost does but Felix keeps talking. “I...may have dumped a little too much sugar into your coffee because I know you use a lot but I wasn’t sure how exactly much so.”

Kincaid bursts out laughing.

Writes off the weird texture in his mouth as Felix’s over eager hand.

—

Two months ago, two months after Murphy’s attack.

“Do you smell that?” Kincaid whips his head around, nostrils flaring.

The werewolves are retreating, scrambling away with their teeth bared and hackles raised. Something has them bolting and he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth but he catches a scent on the wind.

Mason looks at him. “Smell what?” His face screws up. “Ugh! The fuck?!”

They both throw their arms over their faces. Kincaid’s breathing goes ragged as he tries to take in oxygen without letting the smell overwhelm him. It’s musky, thick. Reminds him of old fur coats and wet dog. There’s a small part of him that is glad it doesn’t reek of death, but the musty scent isn’t that much better.

Whatever this smell is, it’s hitting him hard. He feels a little dizzy, and a little like he’s going to be sick. When he looks back at Mason, he finds himself being watched already. There’s a knot between Mason’s brows, silver eyes calculating, but he says nothing. Just keeps his own nose pinched shut as he mumbles about the benefits of not having to breathe.

He’s leaning against a tree when the other three make it into the clearing. Felix looks relieved he’s alive, heading straight for him. Kincaid is so busy trying not to pass out as they leave the clearing that he hardly pays attention to what anyone is saying.

Well, until Nate mentions the name of the plant.

“The crown imperial plant?” Kincaid wipes at his face. “That explains the smell,” he mumbles.

Mason’s eyes snap to him again and there’s something there. He makes a smart comment about having two Nates but says nothing else.

“It’s strong,” Nate says apologetically. “Even for humans.”

“It fuckin’ reeks of musty fur,” Kincaid grumbles, arms crossing over his chest.

Now Adam looks at him. Searching and seeking. He feels like he’s being pulled apart and displayed for the team leader to examine at will. Adam suggests they head back to the warehouse, though it takes longer than usual for him to pull his gaze away from Kincaid.

He writes this off as the two of them being annoyed at having another Nate in their midst.

—

One month ago, three months after Murphy’s attack.

Insomnia is an old friend at this point.

Kincaid rarely sleeps longer than three hours at a time, sometimes four if he’s lucky, and that’s on the nights he can even get to sleep. Night after night of shitty sleep, catching an hour here and there, isn’t unusual.

So he thinks nothing of it when he’s running on two hours of sleep for the sixth day in a row. A full coffee cup sits on his desk next to him, though he hasn’t touched it after he took the first sip. It’s too bitter. He’s been using less and less sugar, less creamer, less everything lately because it’s become too cloying. Trying to swallow a mouthful of sweetened coffee is like trying to eat gravel. It sticks in his throat. He didn’t realize he was being obvious about his change in taste until Felix made a comment the other day about not dumping a whole shaker of sugar into his drink.

Easy enough to write off as getting older, the sugar no longer agreeing with his palate like it did when he was in college.

He smells Felix before he sees him. A burst of bright citrus and something else that he can’t place. Kincaid looks up the moment Felix walks through the door to his office.

The vampire hits the brakes. Blinks and smiles. “I was going to sneak up on you.”

Kincaid chuckles. “Good luck, I smelled you coming.”

“What?” Felix appears in front of him, a warm hand on his chin tilting his head back. “You smelled me coming?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice going low and soft as it always does around Felix. “You smell like oranges and lemons.”

“Huh.” The hand falls away from his face. Felix lifts his shirt to his nose and takes a deep inhale.

“Darlin’, what are you doing?” Kincaid chuckles as he speaks, hands moving to rest on the other man’s thighs.

“You said I smelled!”

“Good! You smell good!”

Felix laughs. Leans forward to bury his nose in Kincaid’s hair on the top of his head. “New laundry detergent I think. Maybe. I don’t know, I borrowed some of whatever Nate uses.”

Simple then, to explain that away as a change in routine.

—

Two weeks ago, nearly four months after Murphy’s attack.

That...hasn’t happened before.

Kincaid blinks. Looks down at his hands. Looks up at the training dummy.

Or, what’s left of it.

He’s knocked the head clean off. It went sailing across the room, knocking against the wall. When he swung again, a chunk of the shoulder went flying.

He flexes his hands. Curls them into fists tight enough his knuckles bleed ivory. They haven’t changed. They’re still covered in freckles, a little more tan from all his time outside in the summer sun. Nothing that would explain why he’s just busted up a training dummy that he’s seen Adam hit with no problem.

Curiosity gets the better of him.

With a shake of his head, he squares himself up.

Takes a centering breath.

And swings.

Another head goes flying off the next dummy. He kicks, hard. Knocks the next one right off the metal post holding it upright. He stops then, not wanting to destroy everything in the room. This...doesn’t seem good. His mind starts racing but before he can connect any dots, he hears Adam approaching the room.

Kincaid turns. Faces the other man as he walks in and halts immediately, eyes surveying the damage. Three busted up training dummies and one man who probably looks incredibly confused.

“Did you…?” Adam trails off as he speaks, eyes narrowing.

“Uh, yeah.” Kincaid rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry?”

Adam waves his apology away. “Do not worry about it. I was in here early this morning, I must have weakened them.”

He can feel the sharp, knowing stare of the other man on him but Kincaid can’t bring himself to look his way. Instead, he takes a deep breath and nods.

Easy enough to write that off as well.

—

Present day, a little over four months after Murphy’s attack.

His knuckles just healed.

They were broken and busted, bleeding profusely, and he just watched them knit back together.

“Oh no,” he whispers. Looking up, he catches his reflection in the dirty mirror, wide-eyed and horrified. “Oh no, no way.”

Everything crashes down on him then. He thinks about the mission, the case. How he was quicker than he expected. When one of the Trappers rushed him, he slipped out of the way without a thought, his reflexes sharper than they’ve ever been. He kicked the door open to their busted up hideout, putting a hole in the wall and tearing the door off some of the hinges.

Old building, weak enough for his human strength to help it crumble.

Kincaid takes a ragged breath and jolts when he doesn’t remember the last time he did that voluntarily. The smells in the hideout had been overwhelming. Rot and dust, mold and the coppery tang of blood. He had covered his nose, pinched it shut, and as he thinks about it now, he realizes that he never once opened his mouth to take a breath.

Someone pounds on the bathroom door. “You good cowboy?”

Mason.

His shoulders drop and he presses his forehead against the mirror. “I...I don’t know.”

Silence.

No, not silence. He can hear him walking away. He can hear his heartbeat fade, and another one get stronger as someone new approaches. Kincaid realizes he can hear all of their hearts beating over the rushing in his ears.

And then, ripping him from his spiral, “Kincaid?” The door creaks open as Felix pokes his head in, amber eyes wide with worry. “What’s…” His gaze drops to what should be a mess of torn up flesh. “Um.” Felix goes tense, every muscle in his body tightening up. “Maybe I should get Adam?”

Kincaid can’t pull his focus away from his healed hands as he says, “That’s probably a good idea.”

—

They’re all piled in a tiny hospital room at the facility, Kincaid laying back on the bed with his eyes shut and an arm thrown over his face.

“I’m a right fuckin’ idiot,” he grits out.

“You are not.” Felix shoves his arm, not the one they pulled a ridiculous amount of blood from at least. “I don’t think anyone would expect, well, this.”

“He’s right Cade,” Nate says, voice calm and low. He’s speaking like he’s trying to steady a spooked horse, and really he’s not that far off. “This is certainly nothing any of us expected.”

Kincaid drops his arm to the bed. Stares at the ceiling for a minute before he says, “There were a lot of signs.”

“What?” Adam steps closer, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

“Food stopped tasting good.” Kincaid sighs as he sits up. “Couldn’t even dump half a cup of sugar into my coffee anymore. The sleep thing, I haven’t slept longer than three hours a night in weeks now.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed, feet settling on the floor. “My senses are sharper. I destroyed some of those training dummies.”

“Those are easy enough to write off.” Felix hops up to sit next to him. Leans his head against Kincaid’s shoulder and laces their fingers together.

Nate hums. “They came on gradually?”

“Yeah, little at a time.” Kincaid shifts. Squeezes Felix’s hand. “Not surprising, given how the body makes blood. What I am surprised about, is how Mu—his blood apparently squeezed mine out.”

“We don’t know that you’ve been turned—”

Mason cuts Adam off with, “I think we fucking do.”

Adam growls. “It is possible—”

“What? What’s possible Adam?” Kincaid snaps. “That I’m only half vampire? Maybe I just haven’t fully turned yet, it’s only been four months after all. Maybe some of my own blood is still rattlin’ through my veins yet.”

Kincaid watches him deflate, shoulders slumping. Adam presses a hand to his forehead and sighs, but remains quiet.

“You haven’t taken a breath in twenty minutes,” Mason helpfully supplies.

“Thank you so much, Mason,” Kincaid growls out as he presses the meat of his palms to his eyes. “Where do we go from here?”

“There are...meetings you’ll need to sit through.” Nate grimaces. “Forms to fill out, that kind of thing.”

“Depending on where your abilities settle,” Adam’s voice is rough as he speaks, “you’ll be given training in how to handle the changes you’ve undergone. I would not be surprised if you ended up with hypersenses similar to Mason, or strength similar to mine.”

“What does that mean for us working together?” There’s a flare of anxiety that bubbles in Kincaid’s chest. He doesn’t want to lose this, he realizes. A sour smell floods his nostrils and he recoils. “Fuckin’ hell, is that me?”

Mason chuckles. “That’s fear, cowboy.”

Nate whacks him on the back of the shoulder, giving him a disapproving stare for a moment. He turns to Kincaid and shrugs. “I imagine we’ll continue to work together. There’s no reason to split us up, not when we function so well as a group.”

“Whatever happens,” Felix turns to Kincaid, “we’ll deal with it. You’ve got us to help you.”

Kincaid leans down. Presses a kiss to Felix’s temple and whispers, “Yeah, yeah I do.”

[spookyspaghettisundae]

A Spark To Ignite the Dead Wood

Cold, angular, gray. One door in, same door out.

A sleek reflective window, in which Jericho Kane could stare into his own sad mug, complete with all the ugly scars. His vision blurred as his mind wandered to what the window might be hiding on the other side of the interrogation room. A little camera on a stand with a blinking red light to indicate it was recording? A person, or two, waiting for some cop to enter the room and grill him for answers?

A thin chain connected his handcuffed wrists to a small metal hook on the table in front of him. The chain’s links rattled and ribbed against the hook whenever he budged, which he had to do every now and then, his fidgeting owed to the hard chair that made his sore butt cheeks ache, and a backrest designed to offer neither comfort nor invitation to lean back and relax. Everything here was perfectly engineered to make a stay as unpleasant as humanly possible.

Even the air in here was cold. A tiny little grate in one high corner of the room, big enough to fit two fists inside, took care of ventilation. Though it probably relied on air conditioning, he had to wonder if it was not allowing the cold wintry air to leak into this dreadful little room.

Following the sound of a key turning in a lock, a chunky clank heralded the door to the room opening. Jericho craned his head and spied the face of the person entering. Unfortunately, he recognized him. That recognition coaxed a groan to growl right out of Jericho’s throat.

It had been years, yet Jericho knew that unkempt beard, those horn-rimmed glasses on a flat nose, the receding hairline that framed a short mane of curly hair turning silvery, and that familiar face—now marked with days of sleep deprivation and wrinkled in what had to be disdain.

Using a hand that already gripped a thick manila folder while he carried a cheap plastic cup of steaming coffee in the other, Detective Augustus Shaw averted his gaze and slammed the door shut behind himself. He approached the table, plopped down the items from his hands, causing some coffee droplets to splash onto the surface, and pulled out the chair with an annoying sound of metal grinding against synthetic floor tiles.

Jericho shot a glance at the cup of coffee but tried not to let his thirsty gaze linger there. Neither would the cheap bitter swill help at all against the unpleasantly fluffy feeling of cottonmouth that plagued him right now, nor did he want to give Shaw any conversation material to work with. The career criminal and con man wanted to keep things short and painless. On some level, he did not want to waste the detective’s time, either.

“Jericho Kane,” Shaw said after demonstratively clearing his throat. “Long time no see. How long has it been since we’ve had the fortune of having your company around here in Maine?”

He took a sip from his cup and his forehead furrowed with crinkles counting both too many years of time on the force as well as from cringing over the coffee’s terrible aftertaste getting stuck on his tongue. Shaw shook it off and set the cup back down.

“Rap sheet tells me you’ve been pretty busy all these years, and up and down the whole East Coast, no less,” Shaw added, gently tapping the folder with his left palm. He cleared his throat again, audibly attempting to fight against the bitter film clinging to the roof of his mouth. Then he asked, “Do you want to hop right in and spill the beans, or do I need to flirt it outta ya?”

Shaw smiled at him, though no sincerity reached the crow’s feet framing the corners of his eyes. The detective hated being here as much as Jericho did, even though he could have walked out of the interrogation room anytime.

“Are we burying the lead here? How’s about you just tell me what business you had in any of the places you were trespassing in all week, and we both get to leave sooner? I know both of—”

“I’m not saying anything without my lawyer,” Jericho interrupted him sharply. He swallowed and stared at the place where the chain and hook on the table met, between the coffee stain and the pointless pile of papers and photographs jammed into the overflowing folder.

He could practically hear Shaw’s frown when a stifled sigh made the detective’s nostrils flare, and the seconds of silence that followed only underlined that air of disappointment.

“Okay,” Shaw said, taking another sip from his coffee and the smacking his lips indicating instant regret. “Alright. Fast-trackin’ this, then we both get to leave sooner. You work for the group that runs drugs across the northern border?”

“When’s the lawyer getting here?”

“Sources tell me you’ve worked for two crime syndicates—at least. One in NYC and the other all the way down in Miami. Any others send you onto an errand in our neck of the woods?”

“Not saying anything without a lawyer, man.”

“You went from being a two-bit drifter and con artist, constantly getting evicted from really terrible apartments, to your parole officer in Rhode Island refusing to offer any statement and looking like he had seen a ghost after you got out of the slammer.”

Jericho just kept his mouth shut. He jutted his jaw out and his lips curled inward, turning into a hard-pressed, thin, white line.

“Listen, man, I know you’re not a terrible person. Probably still got debt to pay off to some heavy hitters, right?”

Nothing.

“Some people in my position would mistake this monstrous pile of paper for proof that you’re a monstrous person, but I know better. Most people in your position got your reasons, constantly wonder if they’re bad people themselves, and deep down somewhere, buried underneath all the rotten things you experienced and any crimes you committed, you’re just—just a human being.”

Jericho deeply disagreed and looked up at the detective, locking eyes with him. He silently mouthed “lawyer” at him. Shaw ignored that and continued.

“You’re always down on your luck ‘cause people like us don’t get to win the lottery. We get dealt a bad hand in life, and we roll with whatever we’ve got.”

Shaw cradled the plastic cup, balancing it on an edge as his fingers idly circled it in his hand.

“Well, today’s your lucky day for a change, Jericho. Work with me here. You tell me what I want to know, and I’ll make sure you’re out of here in no time.”

Lawyer, Jericho thought, hoping that telepathy might finally work for him, one of these days.

“See, you can disappear behind bars for a while for some petty bullshit, or you can cooperate with me, because I’m really not that interested in you,” Shaw said, taking another pained sip from the cup. “No offense.”

Lawyer?

The telepathy did not seem to be working, or Shaw was blowing it off. No way to tell. Maybe this was not the best opportunity to try it out, but it was not like Jericho had anything better to do right now.

“See, I know things got weird at some point,” Shaw said. The cup plopped down onto the table’s surface and he leaned over it, closer towards Jericho.

He was playing to make their exchange feel more intimate, the crook figured. But the detective’s tone had shifted, and a strange glint flashed across his eyes. Jericho could not help but feel intrigued.

Did Shaw know more than he was letting on?

“A cigar-smoking guy in a stretch limo invites you in after a botched 'milk run’ in a meat packing plant, says he can make all your problems go away,” Shaw said.

Jericho kept his eyes locked onto the detective’s. How in the hell did he know about that?

“He offered you new work and the money he was offering was too good to turn down, so of course you took it. Who in your position wouldn’t have? Lemme guess, he had big mean-looking fellas in white suits with big mean-looking guns, and Cigar Man’s speech was a monologue with you for an audience.”

Frighteningly on point. Shaw had arrested Jericho’s full attention. Not a single thought trailed off, not a single word formed inside his head. He still wanted a lawyer before he admitted to anything, but the eerie accuracy of Shaw’s description rendered Jericho’s attention rapt.

“But the guy in the packing plant made your mouth melt shut and you had some voodoo man in New Orleans get that fixed. And there was that crumpled bag from the golden arches that provided a happy meal and a poisoned apple every day. Or a serial killer priest who ritually crucified himself after mass and could turn into the Incredible fucking Hulk before you and some of Cigar Man’s boys put him down like a dog and several dozen rounds of point-fifty caliber ammo,” Shaw said.

Jericho’s heart skipped a beat. Though Shaw was only scratching at the surface of all the unreal things he had witnessed in his recent years working for the “club"—the detective somehow knew. Knew of what Jericho liked to call "the weird shit.”

Shaw shot a glance at the mirrored window and said in a hushed murmur, “There’s nobody over there, Kane. No camera, nothing. I know better than to let anybody else in on this. I know how weird and un-fucking-believable all of this is. Hell, I question my own sanity just saying any of this out loud, but I have seen some shit myself. And—listen—I’m here to hear you out. I just want to—I wanna know the truth.”

Jericho swallowed the big empty wad of nothing that suddenly lodged itself inside this throat, yet it refused to go down no matter how many times he repeated the useless motion. That ball of anxiety stayed stuck right there, a slimy void only adding to the rest of his discomfort. He leaned back in his chair despite how painful the metal bars bracing the backrest felt.

“Look, I know of the Carcosa Casino job you were part of, down in Atlantic City. What did they call the 'package’ you were supposed to take from those thugs? 'Lightweight ghosts?’ What in God’s name is that, anyway?”

Jericho shook his head, croaked out a clipped, “Dunno.”

“You didn’t ask questions. Can’t say I blame you,” Shaw said, shaking his head in unison. “Probably woulda done the same in your shoes.”

He broke eye contact and shoved the folder in between the two of them. Flipped it open. Papers rustled; glossy prints of pictures glided from the main pile onto the discard pile he started right next to it.

Jericho recognized the Heavenly Night bar from one of the big photos even though this image depicted it as charred black and burnt down—from that one time when he had set it on fire with a thought. From that one time when he had discovered what unnatural abilities he possessed.

Another picture portrayed Jericho in a black raincoat with a green surgical mask on his face and sunglasses concealing his eyes, toting a silenced pistol in one hand—but he easily identified the distinct shape of his own head despite the stubble left behind after shaving it.

His typical “job attire” whenever he worked for Cigar Man.

“You usually get self-deleting messages with simple, straightforward instructions and are left to figure out the rest. You’re pretty good at that, right?” Shaw asked.

More pictures. Incident reports. A timeline of all the weirdness that Jericho had lived through. Hints at the world hidden behind the world, a world of human monsters that could alter reality on a whim as soon as they figured out the cosmic cheat codes. Most people do their damnedest to rationalize the weird to the best of their ability, but at some point, it gets hard to deny it all. Shaw must have gotten there on his own.

“The four-digit numbers just kept piling up in your bank account and everything stayed untraceable. Shit, Jericho, one of the guys at Homeland Security admitted to me that they didn’t just fail to trace anything—they couldn’t. Every data trail just vanishes into thin fuckin’ air. Like the hand of God reached through every computer and wiped every record clean.”

Jericho had gotten a message from Cigar Man just last week, so his mind went there. The new job. He dispelled the thoughts, focusing on trying to get a read on the seasoned detective. What was his deal? Was he on the payroll of the other syndicate? The douchebags over in Europe?

“And I get it, man. You never ever stopped to question this, because it’s both too good to be true—and too scary to fuck with,” Shaw droned on.

His sympathy was grating on his Jericho’s nerves but clearly genuine. The crook sensed it. The detective felt that same spark he had felt himself, all those years ago.

That time when he still struggled to understand it all. When he felt ambition, wanting to know how the secret world worked. How things like magick functioned, and trying to understand what, if any, difference existed between ghosts and demons.

That spark always struck dry wood, igniting the debris that rested, dead and dormant at the back of one’s mind, bursting into flames and feeding roaring fires of burning curiosity.

Shaw finally fell silent and stopped shuffling through the papers and photos. He let his gaze wander back upwards, scanning Jericho’s face for a reaction until they locked eyes again. That glint in his eyes—it reflected the hungry fires, consuming any knowledge it could get.

“C'mon. I know you wanna talk to me. You wanna talk to somebody, anybody. I’m not your enemy, Jericho. I’m not like him. I’m not—”

Jericho’s heart began to race in that instance and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, knowing in advance what name Shaw was about to utter. A horrid premonition during which time almost slowed to a complete halt and his eyes went wide.

“No!” Jericho suddenly shouted. “Don’t say—”

Shaw’s brow furrowed but he continued anyway, oblivious to the trigger he was pulling, “I’m not The Way King.”

Jericho’s heart skipped a beat and his blood curdled. The harsh white light from the neon tube overhead in the interrogation room flickered in response to that name being spoken.

“Fuuuuuck,” Jericho hissed, elongating the vowel in agonized defeat.

“Something wrong with me saying that? The Way King?” Shaw asked, continuing to shoot his mouth off, oblivious to the smoking gun he unwittingly kept firing every time he flapped his gums.

“Shut the fuck up! Stop saying his fucking name!”

The lights flickered again. The background noise—that constant buzz of chatter and drawers and metal doors and shoes tapping against hard floors and someone shouting and some chuckling and people on the phones and—all the life in the police station, muffled through the steel door, it all went dead. All at once.

Jericho lurched forward, causing Shaw to shift back in his seat, startled. But the surprise written across the detective’s visage mirrored the dread that must have taken hold of Jericho’s own face. Jericho showed him his empty palms in surrender.

“I will tell you whatever the fuck you wanna know. But you gotta—you have to fucking unlock me, right now. We need to get out of here,” Jericho whispered at him, enunciating every syllable with sharp endings and harsh gravity punctuating every stop.

Shaw stared at him, slack jawed. Now it was the detective’s turn to swallow a big lump of nothing that had gotten lodged in his throat. He bit his lip for a second and his hand went for his pocket. Crammed his fist right in there and dug around to look for the key.

Then the detective started shaking, wracked with spasms like he was being seized by an epileptic attack. His mouth started to foam while he gurgled.

The chain ribbed and rattled as Jericho leaned back as far as he could, trying to gain as much distance as possible, until he felt the tug of cold metal keeping him locked in place, and he heard the crunch of the chain accompany his bondage bringing him to a helpless stop.

Shaw’s eyes rolled back so far into his head that they looked only white and bloodshot. Then a hideous grin shaped across his face, clearly not his own. Drool dribbled down from the curve of his lip, forming pearls on the way down Shaw’s beard until the saliva dripped down onto his lap.

“There you are,” the Way King spoke through Shaw’s mouth, stealing his voice but spewing it out in a different cadence and tone. “Told you, boy. I will always find you, no matter where you go.”

Blood rushed in Jericho’s ears, his heart pounded like one of those huge Japanese drums; just thundering away and drowning out everything, leaving him deaf to the rest of the world and mesmerized by the spiderweb of crimson in Shaw’s white eyes, knowing that the Way King now stared at him through the powerless borrowed vessel.

“Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”

The handcuffs sprung open without anybody manipulating them. Jericho froze. Did not dare budge.

There was no point in running.

He was going to have to hear this demonic dickhead out now.

His deals always sucked.

—Submitted by Wratts

[lady-hammerlock]

Of Masks and Concealer (Watch Dogs - Marcus x Wrench)

Summary: Marcus has a perfectly normal male name on his face, hidden beneath a liberal coat of concealer. Is it Wrench's name? He hopes it's Wrench's name. A Wrencus soulmate AU with a liberal dose of angst and fluff. 

AN: What is this? Another Watch Dogs fic from me? In truth I discovered this in my writing folder a little while back. I had completely forgotten that I had written it, but it was mostly finished, so I figured it should go out into the world. I hope you all enjoy. :)

As usual, the full story is under the cut. The only real warnings for this one are for mild violence/injuries and Wrench having really big self-esteem issues.

A MASK AND CONCEALER

Marcus Holloway had a rather unique soulbrand. The name itself wasn’t all that strange; just a perfectly ordinary male name. Any confusion that might have caused in him disappeared when he started to hit puberty, and realised that he found plenty of men just as attractive as women.

No, it was the position of the soulbrand that was weird. Plenty of people had them on their arms or legs, and he had heard of soulbrands being on people’s backs a few times. He even had a cousin whose soulbrand was on the sole of her foot. Marcus’s soulbrand however was right below his eye on his right cheek.

As a kid it hadn’t really mattered. For the first couple of years of school he had gone around with it uncovered. The writing was small enough that half the kids couldn’t even read the name of Marcus’s soulmate without getting real close to him.

Marcus soon realised that most other people kept their soulbrands covered up however; both the kids at school and the adults he knew, or at least the adults that hadn’t already met their soulmates and settled down with them. The kids at school hadn’t started to pick on Marcus for his weird soulbrand, but he definitely didn’t want them to start.

Covering up most soulbrands was easy enough. If clothing didn’t naturally cover it up then surely a pair of gloves or a scarf or whatever would do the job.

Marcus’s required a little more creativity. For a while there he went to school with a brightly coloured Band-Aid under his eye, which drew more attention that the soulbrand itself had done. When he grew a little older his Mom started to cover it with concealer. As Marcus grew older he learned how to apply the concealer himself. He’d still wear some sort of Band-Aid when going swimming or whenever the concealer was likely to rub off, but on most days he carried a little container of concealer around in his bag.

By the time he joined Dedsec he was a fucking pro at applying the stuff, which was good, because if there was ever a reason to conceal your soulmate’s identity from everyone and everything then going up against groups like the ones Dedsec regularly picked fights with was it. There was little doubt in Marcus’s mind that groups like !nvite or Blume could find some devious way to use the name of a person’s soulmate against them.

As for the soulmate himself, Marcus didn’t really give the guy much thought. Growing up there had been plenty of guys and girls in his class that had obsessed over finding their other halves. Marcus had met a couple of people who he had even thought for a moment might be the one, either based on name or the sight of a similar patch of concealer or adhesive medical strip on their face, and sure, he had been disappointed when it turned out that they weren’t the one (or in one case, really fucking relieved that they weren’t) but mostly Marcus figured that whoever his soulmate was, he would meet him when the time was right.

--

Wrench was, without a doubt, one of the coolest, most interesting people Marcus had ever met. They flirted and bonded and got excited over the same dumb shit, and bit by tiny bit, Marcus realised that he was falling in love. 

He knew that it was stupid, but he couldn’t stop himself from hoping. After all, Wrench’s face was covered, so there was a tiny chance that somewhere beneath all of those spikes and leather the name ‘Marcus’ was branded on Wrench’s cheek, the twin to Marcus’s own soulbrand.

Marcus always ended up scoffing at himself whenever he caught himself daydreaming about such things though. Sure, Wrench might be awesome and perfect and the exact sort of person that Marcus would want to have as his soulmate, but that didn’t mean shit.

For the first time in his life he actually gave a shit about the identity of his soulmate, and it was mostly because he desperately, hopelessly wished that it was Wrench.

--

Everything seemed to be going pretty well at the moment, both for Dedsec and for Marcus. Swelter Skelter had brought them all back together and they were beating Prime_Eight into the ground. Marcus was on his way back to headquarters after taking down their most recent Prime_Eight target, on a motorbike that he had ‘liberated’ from its former Prime_Eight owner.

Everything seemed to be looking up. The sun was fucking shining, the radio was playing a rock song he really liked and Wrench, as Wrench was inclined to do while Marcus was on longer trips, had rung him up to talk.

“So Marcus,” Wrench said, and Marcus could just hear the cheeky grin in his voice. “FMK with Jabba the Hut, Emperor Palpatine when he’s old and pale and wrinkly, or Chewbacca.”

Marcus tried to stifle the laughter that bubbled up in his throat, which resulted in it coming out as a gross sort of giggle snort. The two of them had been playing ‘Fuck, Marry, Kill’ for a few minutes, and while the people and characters they were playing with had started out attractive enough, they had slowly devolved until they were at this stage.

“You just wanna hear me say I’d fuck or marry Chewbacca,” Marcus replied, taking over a slow moving family van in front of him as he did.

“Aw, come on M,” Wrench whined. “He’d be a really considerate lover. Just think about it; those big strong arms holding you tight, and all that soft fur…”

Marcus chuckled. Stupid conversation like this did absolutely nothing to lessen his crush on Wrench. If anything, it was stupid geeky shit like this that had made him fall in love with Wrench so quickly.

“I thought you didn’t like animals,” Marcus shot back.

Wrench let out an exaggerated gasp of shock.

“Are you calling Chewbacca an animal?” Wrench asked. “Marcus, that’s dangerous talk man. Calling a perfectly civilised and, you absolutely have to concede, attractive gentleman like Chewbacca an animal… What are we going to do with you?”

Marcus chuckled again.

“Just please don’t rip my arms off,” he laughed, before actually giving the question some thought. “Well, straight up let’s kill Jabba.”

“Diego Luna would be heartbroken Marcus,” Wrench interrupted.

Marcus chuckled, and was just about to continue when suddenly a valve in the road in front of him exploded in a burst of scalding hot steam and a shower of asphalt. The car in front of Marcus was thrown to the side of the road. Marcus turned the motorbike as quickly as he could, and just managed to steer around the explosion in time.

He steadied himself, and then looked behind him. It was only then that he spotted the pair of Prime_Eight jerks that were following just behind him in a beat up old sports car.

“Oh shit,” Marcus cursed, kicking the stolen motorbike back into gear and hoping that he could outrun the Prime_Eight members.

“Marcus!” came Wrench’s voice from the other end of the line, immediately worried. “Hey Marcus. Buddy! You okay?”

“Shit!” Marcus said, turning a corner and just making it. “I’ve got a couple of Prime_Eight bastards on my tail. Probably ain’t too happy that I blew up their place.”

“You need help?” Wrench asked.

“Nah, I got this,” Marcus said. He had dealt with plenty of worse situations before. All that he needed was to mess up the idiots behind him and then…

He motored through the next set of traffic lights, hacking into them as he did, hoping to cause a little bit of trouble for the Prime_Eight members. He heard the tell-tale screech of tires and honking of horns behind him, and glanced back to find that his trick had worked just as well as he had hoped. The Prime_Eight van had slammed into another car. There was no way that they were going to be able to chase after him now.

He hadn’t been watching where he was going though, and when he turned his attention back to the road in front of him it was too late to avoid slamming into the side of the car that had pulled out in front of him.

He hit the side of the car and went flying, skidding several metres along the road.

“Marcus?” Wrench screamed over their phone call. “Marcus!”

The breath had been completely knocked out of him. He just lay there for a while, gasping and trying to get air back into his lungs. His arms and legs hurt. He didn’t think that he had broken anything, but his knees and arms stung where the road had torn through his clothing and some of the skin beneath.

“Shit,” he cursed when he had recovered enough to push himself up on his hands and knees.

The owner of the car he had run into had taken off, and everyone else seemed too concerned about the three car pile-up at the intersection to worry about one lone and mostly uninjured motorbike rider. Marcus could faintly hear the muffled and garbled sound of Wrench on the other side of their phone call and reached out to find his phone lying on the floor nearby.

As he picked it up he could hear the other man’s voice, frantically muttering, more to himself now than to Marcus.

“Don’t worry M,” Wrench said. “You’re not too far from headquarters. I’m going to get you. Everything’s going to okay. I’m coming to get you and you’re going to be okay and I’m going to make those stupid fucking Prime_Eight assholes pay for daring to lay a finger on you. You’re going to be all right Marcus. You have to be.”

“Wrench,” Marcus called out, his voice a little quieter and scratchier than he had anticipated.

“Marcus!” Wrench cried out.

“I’m okay man,” Marcus said. “Well, I am a little torn up, but I’ll be fine.”

“No way man,” Wrench replied. “I’ve got your location and I’m almost there now. I’ll see you in a bit, okay M?”

“All right,” Marcus replied.

He glanced back at the chaos he had caused at the intersection and began, despite the protesting of his legs, to walk away from the scene. The last thing he wanted was to still be around when people started asking questions about the crash.

--

Within minutes Wrench had arrived at the scene and the two of them had found a back alley in which they could tend to Marcus’s injuries in peace.

The scrapes on Marcus’s arms and legs weren’t nearly as bad as they felt; nothing worse than a few scratches really, but Wrench worried as though there might still be a chance of Marcus bleeding out, immediately fetching water and insisting on cleaning off the dirt and gravel himself.

“It’s really nothing,” Marcus insisted, tearing off part of his own long-sleeved shirt so that Wrench could use the fabric to help clean off the wounds and soak up the excess blood. “I mean, it stings a bit, but I’ll be fine Wrench.”

Rather than rolling his eyes Wrench pretty much rolled his whole head.

“Just let me fucking take care of you all right?” he snapped.

“Yes Mom,” Marcus replied. He joked, but inside his heart felt as though it was glowing. Seeing how much Wrench cared about him made him think just for a moment that perhaps his crush on Wrench wasn’t completely hopeless after all.

Perhaps it wouldn’t matter if they weren’t soulmates. Perhaps, if they loved one another then that would be enough. God, he wished that they were soulmates. He wished it with all of his heart. He had never loved anyone like he loved Wrench. The other man’s touch was so gentle as he dabbed the wet cloth on Marcus’s arm; far gentler than a man who covered himself in spikes and took great delight in burning things to the ground had any right to be.

“Hey Marcus,” Wrench said, breaking Marcus’s reverie by reaching out to touch the hacker’s face with his thumb. “You got a little er…”

The other man’s mask changed from question marks to wide, round flashing eyes as his thumb brushed against the spot right beneath Marcus’s right eye; the spot where the name of Marcus’s soulmate sat, usually hidden away from the world.

“Oh shit,” Marcus cursed as Wrench withdrew his thumb. “I guess the make-up rubbed off during the crash.”

Marcus rubbed at his own cheek to discover that the makeup had smeared all down his face.

“Damn it,” Marcus cursed, already reaching into his bag to fetch the container of concealer that was tucked away in there along with everything else.

Marcus was a little annoyed, not entirely because Wrench had seen the name of Marcus’s soulmate. He trusted Wrench, knew that the other guy wouldn’t blab to anyone else and definitely wouldn’t have a problem with the fact that Marcus’s soulmate was a guy.

No, he was annoyed because this would, one way or another, put an end to his dream of Wrench actually being his soulmate. While neither of them said anything Marcus could always pretend that there was some chance of his dream coming true, but now that the name of Marcus’s soulmate was right there, out in the open, Wrench would undoubtedly, in one way or another, confirm that the name on Marcus’s cheek wasn’t his, and then Marcus would be forced to face the horrible, empty realisation that no matter who his soulmate was, there was no way that they could possibly measure up to Wrench.

Damn it. Everything about this sucked. Suddenly the scratches on his arms and legs felt worse, and all he wanted to do was get back to headquarters and have a stiff drink or two.

Marcus was therefore understandably surprised when Wrench let out a garbled sound that could only be described as a squeal and stepped back from Marcus and the newly revealed name on his cheek as though stung.

“That’s… er…” the masked man muttered before finally seeming to recover from his initial shock. “Am I looking at your soulbrand Marcus?”

“What else would it be?” Marcus asked.

“Yeah,” Wrench said. “Of course M. Cool.”

His mask and words were trying to convince Marcus that everything was cool, but his voice and body language was giving him away. Something was up. Perhaps Wrench just wasn’t comfortable with knowing the name of Marcus’s soulmate. It was a pretty private thing.

Or maybe Wrench is jealous, that part of Marcus that was growing increasingly difficult to ignore began to suggest. Or maybe, just maybe, he recognised his own name?

Marcus ignored those thoughts, knowing that it was infinitely more likely that the sight of Marcus’s soulbrand had just made Wrench uncomfortable, and turned his back to Wrench as he started to apply a liberal coat of concealer onto his cheek.

He waited for Wrench to say something; anything. Maybe, if he was extremely lucky then Wrench would make his dreams come true and claim Marcus as his soulmate. If not, and this seemed infinitely more likely, he could at least allow Marcus to stop hoping. Either way, he wished that Wrench would say something.

Instead the other man was still and silent, giving away absolutely nothing except a vague impression of discomfort.

Marcus sighed, twisted the lid back on the concealer and shoved it into his bag, before turning back to Wrench.

“Hey man,” he said, causing Wrench’s eyes to light up in a pair of exclamation marks, probably more of a reaction than those two simple words warranted. “Did I cover the whole thing? I mean, I’m pretty good at covering it up by now, but I don’t exactly have a mirror on me.”

“Huh?” Wrench said, as though Marcus had pulled him out of a daydream. “Yeah, er… Yeah, that’s it. You’ve covered the whole thing. Looks fine to me.”

Wrench’s eyes smiled, but it didn’t reach his voice.

-- 

Wrench was strangely quiet for a few days following that. He seemed awkward when he interacted with Marcus as well. Marcus wondered whether he should just confront the other man and ask Wrench what was bothering him.

Meanwhile, Marcus’s own mind seemed intent on annoying him. When his thoughts weren’t depressing ones about how this probably meant it was impossible for Wrench to be his soulmate they were annoying in their hopefulness. He had thought that he had put such stupidity aside after the crash, but apparently not.

What if Wrench was upset because he had seen another man’s name on Marcus’s face and was jealous? What if he had seen his own name on Marcus’s face and just didn’t know how to tell Marcus that they were soulmates?

Yeah right. If he had recognised his own name then it was more likely that he didn’t want Marcus as a soulmate at all and was still trying to work out how to tell Marcus that.

Whatever was going on it was annoying. Marcus just wanted his friend back.

So he was grateful when, after a week or so of weirdness, they got back to normal. They continued to laugh and touch and flirt as though nothing had happened.

Marcus continued to pine and to wonder, but at least he had Wrench at his side once more.

--

The FBI had Wrench. The fucking FBI had Wrench and Marcus had no idea what they were planning to do to him. No matter how much he cursed and screamed the panic wouldn’t subside.

Even when he was sitting there, watching the FBI interview Wrench through his phone camera he couldn’t think of anything except how to get Wrench out of there, and what he was going to do to the assholes that had taken him.

It was the first time that Marcus had seen the other man’s face, and he couldn’t help but notice how sad his eyes looked. It didn’t matter what he looked like though. He was Wrench, the man Marcus was in love with, and right at that moment the FBI were interrogating him and trying to turn him against Marcus and Dedsec and Marcus wanted to reach through the camera and fucking strangle them.

“Hey, what’s that beneath his eye?”

Sitara was the one to ask it. Marcus had noticed the dark smudge of course, just like he had noticed the red patch above his left eye.

“Have they been hurting him?” Josh asked.

But that wasn’t a bruise. Now that Marcus was looking at it he had a feeling he knew exactly what it was.

His stomach had been turning itself in knots already. There was almost no room in him for the shock of Wrench potentially being his soulmate after all.

“I think it’s a soulbrand,” he told the other two. “Don’t try to make it out, all right? We’ve invaded his privacy enough as it is by getting a look at his face.”

And then fucking Dusan had walked into the room, all sunshine and smiles and promises.

“What’s this?” he asked Wrench, kneeling in front of him and actually putting his hand on Wrench’s shoulder.

Wrench shrugged the other man’s touch off immediately.

“I should have known,” Dusan said as he straightened himself to his full height once more. “That explains a lot, right?”

Wrench was silent, his face turned away from Dusan. He refused to look at the other man no matter how much Dusan got in his face, or at the cameras stationed around the room.

“Does Marcus know?” Dusan asked Wrench.

“Do you know what?” Sitara asked. Marcus didn’t answer. He was too absorbed in what was happening in the interrogation room.

“He doesn’t, does he?” Dusan asked, leaning in so that Wrench was forced to look at him again. “You haven’t told him because you know it won’t matter to him. He doesn’t give a shit about you.”

Marcus wanted to reach through the cameras, tear Dusan away from Wrench and promise his fellow hacker that the other man wouldn’t go anywhere near him ever again. He was powerless to do anything though except sit there and watch.

“You know I’m right,” Dusan said to Wrench.

And then the man told Wrench that he was free to go; that he should run off and tell the rest of Dedsec, minus Marcus of course, that any of them could accept Dusan’s deal and turn on the rest of them at any time that they wished.

Surprisingly he seemed to actually let Wrench go as well, but not without first taking his mask.

Marcus wasn’t worried about any of his friends turning on them, not even for a moment. All he was worried about was Wrench, and getting the other man’s mask back and making sure that he was okay. There was barely any room left for him to worry about the soulbrand they had all seen on Wrench’s cheek.

--

It had taken a little bit of tech, a few explosions and a lot of luck, but Marcus had gotten Wrench’s mask back. It was only when he was on his way to return the mask that he started to think of the soulbrand they had all spotted on Wrench’s cheek.

It was probably Marcus’s name. Marcus realised that now. As he walked up the stairs to the meeting place he had organised with Wrench, mask clasped between his hands, he felt his heart pounding harder and faster in his chest.

Marcus knew that he was, once and for all, about to find out whether Wrench was his soulmate. There would be no maybe this time, no stupid hopes or stupider excuses.

By the time he spotted Wrench and moved to sit beside him Marcus was a nervous wreck. He thought he was doing a pretty good job of keeping it together though, all things considered.

“Hey,” Marcus gently greeted his friend, holding the mask out for Wrench to take back.

Wrench turned his head just a little, so that Marcus could see at least some of his face. Marcus took in the scruffy blonde hair, long nose and blue eyes as pale as ice, but what caught his eye more than anything else was the black letters that sat on Wrench’s right cheek, now right there where he could read them.

‘Marcus’

Wrench was staring at him, looking as though he was only two seconds away from bursting into tears. Marcus was so used to the mask, to Wrench’s usual energy and ridiculous humour. Seeing him so withdrawn and broken was breaking Marcus’s heart. He needed to say something to the other man, but Marcus had absolutely no idea what it was that he should say.

“We’re soulmates,” he ended up saying without ever planning for the words to leave his lips. “Huh.”

Wrench’s eyes were darting around the roof nervously, first looking at Marcus and then the plants around them or the pool a few metres away. He was clearly restless.

“I mean we are, right?” Marcus asked. “That name on my cheek; that’s your real… well, the name you were born with, right?”

Wrench nodded slowly a couple of times, not meeting Marcus’s eyes as he did, his eyes instead fixed on the mask that he clutched tightly in his own hands.

“Holy shit,” Marcus said, and then, as his own thoughts caught up with him. “Holy shit. I know your real name. Not that I’m gonna tell anybody. Holy shit no. I would never tell anybody if you don’t want me to. Holy shit Wrench. You’re… We’re…”

Wrench just sighed loudly, put his mask back on and then got to his feet.

“Maybe we should go somewhere a little more private?” Wrench suggested. “This conversation… I dunno. It could get messy.”

Marcus didn’t like the sound of that. Messy was not good. Messy made it sound as though at least one of them wasn’t going to be happy with how things turned out.

“Okay,” he said though, getting to his feet and then offering Wrench his hand. “That’s probably a good idea, yeah.”

–

They ended up back at Wrench’s garage. The drive back had been far tenser than Marcus had imagined it was going to be. Wrench was not just uncharacteristically quiet; he had failed to say anything at all since they had both gotten into Marcus’s car, and had remained silent until they were both safely back in the garage.

“So…” Marcus began, feeling more than a little awkward. Should he start with the FBI thing or the soulmates thing? In the end he settled on the most important thing; Wrench himself. “How you doing in there Wrench?”

“Better, now that I’ve got my mask back,” Wrench replied. “Thanks for that M.”

“No problem man,” Marcus replied, glancing over and sending a smile towards the other man. “What are friends for, right?”

Except they weren’t just friends now. They were soulmates, and that came with a whole new host of complications, right? Wrench’s eyes were sending a smiley emoji at him now though, so that was a good start.

“So er…” Marcus began, feeling rather awkward again. “We’re soulmates huh?”

--

Wrench had wondered if Marcus Holloway was his Marcus for about two whole seconds. The name was right, but as soon as he met the man he discovered there was no soulbrand under Marcus’s right eye to match his own. There was no point in wondering. He knew that. Marcus wasn’t his.

He couldn’t completely stop himself from hoping though. He liked Marcus. He really did. And even if Marcus didn’t have Wrench’s real name on his cheek that didn’t completely rule out the possibility, right? After all, Marcus could have had the soulbrand removed because of the whole hacking thing, or perhaps he was hiding it somehow. It was possible, right?

But no. Of course it wasn’t possible. The more Wrench came to know about Marcus Holloway, the more he understood that there was no way in hell that Marcus could be Wrench’s Marcus. 

It all came down to one simple, undeniable truth; Marcus Holloway was far too fucking good for Wrench. He was not only completely fucking gorgeous, he was a really cool guy; intelligent and a brilliant hacker with a sense of humour and taste in everything that worked so well with Wrench’s own. He was just so fucking amazing that he made Wrench wish that he was better person. Perhaps then, if it wasn’t for the fucking mask and his real fucking face and his everything, he might actually be worthy of Marcus’s friendship, but he would never be worthy of Marcus’s heart. He knew that, and after a few too many vodka and Red Bulls and an hour or so of sending a few smaller electrical appliances to an early grave with the help of a sledgehammer, he even came to peace with the knowledge.

He still wanted to make Marcus proud, and he vowed to do everything he could to earn the other man’s trust and friendship, but he gave up all hope of it ever leading to anything romantic.

And then there had been that stupid fucking mission with the stupid fucking motorbike crash and Wrench had been worried that Marcus was seriously hurt and he wasn’t but then he had seen the name he had been born with on Marcus’s cheek and it felt as though the entire fucking world stopped.

Marcus was amazing. Marcus was the best person that Wrench knew. He did not deserve to be saddled with a train wreck like Wrench; Wrench, who wouldn’t even tell Marcus his real name or remove his mask so that Marcus could see his own name resting on Wrench’s cheek. He hadn’t been inclined to reveal his face to Marcus before learning the truth. He had even more of a reason to cover it up now.

He knew that Marcus was both kind and polite enough that he wouldn’t deliberately be a jerk about the whole soulmate thing. No, when he discovered that fate had been shitty enough to give him a fuck-up like Wrench for a soulmate he would smile and act like he wasn’t horribly fucking disappointed, but how could he be anything but horribly fucking disappointed. Wrench didn’t want to see that; didn’t want to see Marcus’s disappointment disguised as joy; didn’t want to be the one to let Marcus know that the universe had fucked up so badly.

And then there was the stupid fucking mission with the stupid fucking FBI. Wrench had practically been forced to reveal the truth to Marcus. Wrench didn’t know what he had been expecting from Marcus; disappointment probably. He wasn’t so far in denial that he wouldn’t admit that he had been hoping for more. In those beautiful moments during which he and Marcus just clicked and Marcus made Wrench so happy that he managed to forget how much he hated himself, he began to imagine what it might be like if Marcus did accept him. He fantasized about Marcus immediately grabbing Wrench and kissing him senseless, even though Wrench knew that the odds of that actually happening were small enough as to be non-existent. Marcus just standing there and staring at Wrench and the name on his cheek in shock? That seemed par for the course; much more understandable than any fantasies of kissing or confessions of love that Wrench had allowed himself to get lost in.

Which lead them to now; Marcus standing in front of him and saying that they were soulmates, as though it was just that simple.

“You knew that we were soulmates, right?” Marcus asked. “I mean, after that accident you had to know.”

Wrench nodded slowly. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Marcus’s face. The other man was upset, and had every right to be.

“I suspected that we were,” Wrench replied. “Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me man?” Marcus asked.

Wrench took a deep breath, grabbed a couple of beers and tossed one to Marcus. 

Then, very slowly and with nowhere near the amount of coherency he would have preferred, he began to tell Marcus about everything, about how he hadn’t known for sure, about how, despite knowing how stupid it was, he couldn’t stop himself from hoping, about how he hid the truth away because he didn’t want to disappoint Marcus, and Marcus stood there and listened to it all without saying a single word.

–

Marcus stared at Wrench as the other man came to the end of his tale. It had felt as though his heart had broken just that little bit more with every word that Wrench said. 

Honestly, he had been expecting Wrench to tell him that he didn’t like dudes, or that he loved Marcus, but not like that, or any one of another dozen or so reasons that ultimately lead back to the fact that Wrench had stayed quiet about being Marcus’s soulmate because he didn’t want to be with Marcus romantically.

He had not expected Wrench to be so shy, so utterly convinced about his own lack of worth. Marcus didn’t know what had happened to Wrench to make him so sure that he was unworthy of love, but Marcus swore then that he would find some way to change Wrench’s mind; to convince him that he was not only worthy, but that Marcus loved him with his whole heart, and would have even if they weren’t soulmates.

“I’m not disappointed man,” he said when it was clear that Wrench was finished.

“What?” Wrench asked, his mask quickly changing to question marks. 

“I’m not disappointed with having you as a soulmate,” Marcus explained, slowly and as clearly as he could, so there was absolutely no chance that Wrench might misunderstand him. “Hell, I’m really happy Wrench.”

The two of them were leaning against one of Wrench’s work benches, their now empty cans of beer resting just behind them. Wrench had been looking right at Marcus, but at that he turned his head and scoffed loudly.

“Not you’re not,” he said. “You wouldn’t have just stood there and stared at me as though the universe had just told you the worst possible joke in existence if you were actually happy Marcus.”

“Fuck you,” Marcus replied playfully. “Yes I am. Damn it Wrench, I was caught off guard the other night. You never said anything about maybe being my soulmate, not even after the crash, so, you know, I was surprised. It was a good surprise though; a damn good one.”

“Come on man,” Wrench muttered, a hint of what might have been self-deprecating laughter or might have been actual tears choking up his voice. “You don’t have to pretend that you’re happy for my sake. God fucking knows I wouldn’t be happy with me as a soulmate.”

“Yeah, well good thing I’m not you then,” Marcus immediately replied.

Wrench froze, even the eye-displays in his mask displaying nothing but their default crosses.

Marcus sighed, rubbed at the back of his head and wondered what it would take to actually convince Wrench that he was one of the most awesome people Marcus had ever met.

“Look Wrench,” Marcus began, hoping that he wouldn’t fuck this whole thing up before it had even really begun. “I like you man. I mean, really, really fucking like you. Hell, I think I might be in love with you.”

Wrench scoffed again in response to that.

“Hey, it’s true,” Marcus continued. “Before I found out that you were my soulmate I kind of well… I hoped that you were. After all, I couldn’t see your face, so I didn’t know for sure that you weren’t so… yeah…”

“Don’t fuck with me Marcus,” Wrench said, sighing and sounding just so fucking tired. “That’s just low, you know?”

“I ain’t fucking with you Wrench,” Marcus insisted. “I think I… No, I know that I am in love with you. I love you Wrench.”

Wrench scoffed again. This time the sound came out so broken and distorted that Marcus got the distinct impression that Wrench actually was crying behind the mask.

“Wrench?” Marcus asked, immediately moving to stand right in front of the other man. He reached out, placing one hand on either side of Wrench’s face and tilting the other man’s head up, forcing Wrench to look at his face.

“I’m not lying,” Marcus insisted. “I swear Wrench, I’ve never wanted anyone to be my soulmate more than I wanted you to be that guy, so finding out that you are? That’s like a fucking dream come true man. You hear me? I’m so damned glad you’re my soulmate.”

Another choked sound emerged from behind the mask and Marcus knew for sure that the other man was crying.

“Hey,” Marcus murmured, his fingers stroking what skin they could reach around the leather and metal of Wrench’s mask. “You okay in there?”

Wrench threw himself at Marcus then, his hands clinging to the front of Marcus’s shirt, his masked face burying into the crook of Marcus’s neck. The spikes on Wrench’s mask made it more than a little uncomfortable, but if it was what Wrench needed then Marcus would be damned before he shoved his soulmate off.

“How?” Wrench sobbed into Marcus’s neck. “How could you possibly be happy with a fuck-up like me?”

Marcus couldn’t help but chuckle at that. He wrapped his arms around Wrench’s back and held him tightly.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he said, meaning it. “You’ve got the same shitty taste in movies as me, you’re one of the coolest, most unique people I’ve ever met, you’re smart, funny, just the right level of crazy and drop-dead gorgeous.”

That last comment earned him a burst of laughter from Wrench.

“How can you think that?” he asked Marcus. “You only saw me for a couple of seconds in shitty lighting Marcus.”

“Well, a couple of seconds was all I needed,” Marcus immediately fired back. “I know a good-looking guy when I see one Wrench.”

That earned him another burst of laughter.

“I think you need new glasses M,” Wrench said.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Marcus said with a shrug, to which Wrench immediately went still. “Ain’t no way that a man as hot as the one I saw would feel the need to cover his face, right?”

That was enough to have Wrench pulling back from the hug and playfully punching Marcus right in the shoulder.

“Hey, will you fucking stop already?” he pleaded. He was still for a moment, but when he turned to face Marcus again his LED eyes were smiling, which was definite progress.

“Look Marcus,” Wrench said, his voice still quiet and broken even if the crying had stopped. “I know I’m never going to be good enough for you. It’s… it’s okay really. I’ve come to terms with that already. I just… I want you to be honest with me, and… shit, this is so fucking cliché, isn’t it? We’re a regular fucking after-school special here, huh? I hope that… that you’ll still let me hang out with you and stuff.”

Marcus rolled his eyes at the other man.

“Did you not just hear me say I love you two minutes ago?” Marcus asked.

Wrench stared at him, frozen and silent once more.

“I love you,” Marcus repeated. “I’m not just saying it to make you happy or whatever you think is going on here. I love you Wrench. If you don’t want to be a couple then that’s cool. I’ll stop saying I love you and the two of us can just go back to being the best damn friends ever, no problem at all, but I ain’t backing down just because you think you don’t deserve me or whatever this bullshit is.”

Wrench still didn’t move. Marcus wished that he knew what was going on behind the other man’s mask. Was he freaking out? Was he happy or feeling shy or what? Without the LED emojis on the other man’s face and with Wrench as still as he was it was impossible to tell. 

“Hey,” Marcus said, his voice soft. The last thing he wanted to do was scare Wrench away again, but with what he was about to ask it was possible that he might. “Can I see your face again?”

The eyes of Wrench’s mask displayed two bright exclamation marks that flashed on and off. The other man’s hands formed into tightly clenched fists at his sides.

Marcus wondered whether he had pushed too far.

Then Wrench reached up to push back his own hood and start to pull off his mask. Marcus could tell that his soulmate’s hands were shaking.

“Hey Wrench, if you don’t want to…” Marcus began, reaching out to Wrench, although he had no idea what it was he actually intended to do.

“No,” Wrench said as he started to pull his mask off. “I should… I need to do this… You… you deserve to see…”

His voice had changed part way through removing the mask, immediately becoming quieter and less sure of itself as soon as it had lost the mask’s distortion.

Wrench clenched his mask in both of his hands and looked at Marcus, his pale blue eyes meeting with Marcus’s own. Marcus felt himself choking up at the sight of the other man’s face. He looked so scared, as though he was just waiting for Marcus to come to his senses and reject him.

He didn’t know why Wrench was so convinced that he was ugly. The angry red birthmark over one of his eyes might have had something to do with it. Clearly there was some sort of complex there, one that Marcus silently promised he would do everything he could to help Wrench overcome.

“Hey there gorgeous,” Marcus said, smiling over at the other man.

He reached out and cupped the side of Wrench’s face with one hand. That actually earned him a smile from Wrench, and before long the blonde man was pressing his face into Marcus’s touch and letting out a pleased sigh.

Marcus reached out with his other hand as well, his fingertips delicately tracing over Wrench’s nose and eyelids and mouth, and then finally his name, where it rested on Wrench’s right cheek, right below his eye.

“Marcus,” Wrench whispered. His voice sounded so different without the mask; so deep and smooth and shy. It was probably going to take some getting used to, but Marcus already knew that he loved it. 

“Hey,” Marcus murmured, already hovering so close to Wrench that he could feel the other man’s breath on his lips. “Can I kiss you?”

Wrench’s eyes went wide, and then he was blushing and looking away from Marcus as though just that suggestion had been enough to embarrass him.

“Yeah,” Wrench said, so quietly that Marcus almost missed it. “Okay.”

Marcus continued to cup Wrench’s face in his hands, leaned forward, and pressed his lips against Wrench’s own in a soft, gentle kiss that nevertheless had Wrench moaning and pressing against Marcus, his hands tangling in the fabric of Marcus’s shirt and pulling him closer.

They parted before the kiss could grow any deeper, both of them panting and Marcus more turned on by a simple kiss than he could ever remember being before. Wrench’s lips had been so soft and warm and perfect.

He leaned in again for another kiss which Wrench returned even more eagerly than the first, his arms moving to wrap around Marcus’s shoulder and waist and hold him close.

Before long Marcus had Wrench pinned against the workbench, the other man’s arms and eventually legs pulling him closer and refusing to let go. Their kisses grew a little deeper, a little longer, until they were full on making out like a pair of desperate and horny teens.

When they next pulled back it was only by a couple of inches. Marcus stared at the blue, heavily-lidded eyes of his soulmate and was almost blown away by the bliss and love and trust he saw in them.

“I love you,” he whispered to Wrench, because he needed to say it again otherwise he felt as though all the love bubbling up inside him would cause him to explode.

“I love you too,” Wrench whispered back. “God Marcus, I love you so much.”

Marcus couldn’t think of any way to respond to that except to kiss Wrench senseless.

--

A few days later saw Wrench feeling the happiest that he could ever remember being. Being Marcus’s soulmate turned out to be a dream come true.

They had planned to take things slow, but they had both grown so horny during their second make-out session that grinding against one another had turned into Marcus pressing their cocks together and getting them both off. They stole kisses whenever they could, and beneath Wrench’s hoodie there was a rather large red mark that Marcus had left on his neck. They had yet to spend a whole night together, but Wrench knew that it would only be a matter of time.

Their relationship as lovers had proven to be just as easy as the formation of their friendship had been. They fit together so seamlessly, like two pieces coming together to form some sort of glorious whole.

It was so beautiful and perfect and far more than Wrench had ever expected he would have. He was head over heels in love with his soulmate, and found himself wanting to be around Marcus even more than he had when they had just been friends.

So when Marcus told Wrench that something had been bothering him, Wrench was more than a little confused, especially when Marcus refused to fully explain what he was talking about and instead dragged a still very confused Wrench to a nearby tattoo parlour.

“Marcus,” Wrench began, looking at the front of the tattoo parlour with more than a little suspicion. “What the fuck are we doing here?”

“I’m getting my soulbrand tattooed over,” Marcus said, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

For a moment Wrench felt like his heart had stopped; like his entire world had been turned upside-down by Marcus uttering just those few words.

Why? It didn’t make any sense. Marcus kept saying that he loved Wrench, and Wrench had thought that everything was going so well. Why the hell would Marcus want to do something like that?

Luckily the absolute terror that arose at the thought that he might lose Marcus’s love was banished when Marcus continued to speak.

“I’m gonna get ‘Wrench’ tattooed in its place,” Marcus said. “I mean, that’s your name now, right? And the original brand was way small anyway. The new one is gonna be much bigger.”

Suddenly Wrench was incredibly fucking glad that he was wearing his mask. Mostly because it only took a moment for Marcus’s words to really sink in before Wrench started crying.

“Damn it Marcus,” Wrench said, his voice breaking despite everything he was doing to try and hide it. “That’s so fucking stupid.”

“I don’t think so,” Marcus said. “Thought I was being pretty smart actually. This way I don’t have to keep putting fucking concealer over the thing. I can be open about being head over heels in love with you without worrying about giving away your identity. I’m yours Wrench.”

Wrench couldn’t take it. The other man was being too damned perfect. The idea was so stupid and so wonderful and so Marcus that Wrench didn’t know what to say or do. He just knew that he loved Marcus and that even if he spent the rest of his life trying he would never deserve someone as wonderful as Marcus Holloway.

Wrench threw himself at his soulmate and clung to the other man, nuzzling into his shoulder and trying to bury himself in the feeling and smell of the other man. It was a stupid thing to do considering he still had his mask on, and it was only when he pulled back that he realised he had torn a couple of holes in the woolen vest that his soulmate was wearing.

Marcus didn’t seem to mind though. He just smiled at Wrench. Wrench smiled back, both with his mouth and the mask. 

“Unless…” Marcus began, his smile faltering, and Wrench almost panicked when he realised that his soulmate was perhaps not quite as happy as Wrench had originally thought. “If you don’t want to let everyone know we’re together then that’s cool too. Ah hell. I probably should have cleared this with you before dragging you over. I just got so excited thinking about it man…”

“No, no, no,” Wrench said, squeezing Marcus in a tight hug. “This is brilliant Marcus. This is amazing. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!”

Already he was thinking whether or not he should get Marcus’s name tattooed somewhere on his body that was more visible than his face. Now that he was starting to get used to the idea that Marcus did actually love him back he wanted to shout their love from the rooftops, he wanted to tell all of Dedsec… No, fuck that; he wanted to tell all of San Francisco that he had the best fucking soulmate in the entire world.

“Stay here and hold my hand while I get it done?” Marcus asked.

“Yeah,” Wrench said, immediately grabbing Marcus’s hand and holding it tightly.

He fluttered his eyelashes, knowing that would make his mask display two less than three style love hearts at Marcus. He had a feeling he would be doing that a lot over the next few weeks… or months… hell, hopefully years. They were soulmates after all. Assuming Marcus didn’t realise what a horrible mistake he had made in accepting Wrench and ran for the hills then they would be together for the rest of their lives. That was how it worked, right?

It should have scared Wrench. It didn’t.

In fact, spending the rest of his life with Marcus sounded like absolute bliss to him.

“Totally gonna hold your hand,” Wrench continued. “This is your first tattoo, right? Don’t know if you know this M, but getting one on your face? Ooh, buddy. That’s gonna sting like a bitch. I’m here for you though babe.”

And I always will be, he added silently.

[rex101111]

🎬 with sorikai :3

(okay technically a high school romcom but close enough :P)

Riku was used to his friends catching him by surprise, it was simply in their nature to defy common sense and do something either utterly reckless, ridiculous, or just plain stupid.

Oh alright, that last one was mostly Sora, but Kairi was no stranger to doing something boneheaded and justifying it after the fact with the excuse of “I thought it was a good idea!” while the results of her blunder burned around her.

(Kairi isn’t allowed to use the Bunsen burner in chemistry class anymore and Riku will never let her live it down, but that is neither here nor there.)

Point is, he’s used to being on the back foot and having to pick up the pace when his two best friends in the whole world decide to do something utterly manic.

Thing was, they usually did so separately, which usually meant he had the other to act as a back up brain cell to hopefully negate the incoming damage. 

The key word there would be, of course, “Usually.” Sometimes, all the stars would align in the sky, shake hands, and unanimously decree that it was “Fuck Riku Around O’clock” and both Sora and Kairi would have their own uniquely stupid idea pop in their head, leaving Riku to fight a two front war he was destined to lose.

(Riku will never look at a meat loaf the same way again. And he, to this day, has no earthly idea what Kairi did to make Professor Eraqus’s hair puke green for a week and not get expelled for it, he suspects puppy dog eyes were involved.)

But even those calamities did not compare to those thankfully rare moments where they would both have the same stupid idea at the same time. Riku still shuddered at the memory of them being teamed up into a trio in that “egg babysitting” assignment.

(The egg, named Chirithy, was, thank the lord, perfectly alright by the end of the week. Riku’s sanity, his room, his dignity, and most of his clothes, were not.)

Point was, Riku was well used to being the “reasonable one”, the one who actually had at least half a clue and keep his friends from going too far.

And last week, the stars decided it was high time for another rousing lighting round of “Fuck Riku Around O’clock and so it was that, a few days before Valentine’s day, both Sora and Kairi had the exact same idea pop into their heads, and they both wanted Riku’s help with it.

Secretly.

Privately.

Riku is beginning to wonder why he still bleaches his hair because it would probably turn grey on its own with friends like his.  

The idea they both had, unknown to the other person, was to make homemade chocolate for Valentine’s to give to the other person. They did so because they both had the biggest crushes on each other, and they both had, through some convoluted happenings fit for a JRPG plot, no damn idea the other person liked them.

This lack of knowledge had been going on since they were all twelve, and Riku was absolutely sick of this high school romcom nonsense. He’s been watching these two bozos tap dance around each other for literal years and was making every effort to fix that since he figured it out before the both of them.

(Of course, he did that after having his own little crisis of identity when he figured out that he liked both of them, quite a bit actually, and was able to push his own feelings down in favor of making his friends happy. Their happiness was more important, their happiness was possible, and so they needed to figure their shit out so Riku could finish properly burying his own steaming pile and move on with his life.)

The problem, well, one of about a dozen problems, was that neither of them was exactly the best when it came to making any kind of food.

Sora had all the grace and consideration of a hungover elephant when it came to making food, if he intended to make use of an egg it was an inevitability that the fragile shell will implode almost as soon as he lays his fingers on it. The less said about the time he tried to juggle those damn pepper shakers the better.

And Kairi? Oh, Kairi was hopeless. Her head had a tendency to run ahead of her and pull her towards all sort of bizarre ingredients to add to the chocolate, melons and chilly peppers and celery being the least of her suggestions to worry Riku on a primal level.

It was a weary few days, Riku having to juggle with helping each of his friends without the other catching wise, running himself ragged in the process. It was a mercy that there wasn’t a pop quiz during those few days before Valentine’s, because Riku was sure he would have fallen asleep on the pencil.

It would be worth it though, he was sure of it, there was no way to misinterpret a homemade Valentine’s day chocolate, there was no way that the message would go over their thick heads.

They would get together, they would be in love, and Riku would be happy for them, happy to stand with them as they lived their lives together. 

Finally, he could move on.

…or, at least, that’s what he thought would happen.

That was a mistake.

He thinking that he could predict what his friends would do…he should have known they were very, very good at surprising him.

This time, they did it by coming to him during lunch break, big, goofy grins on their faces, and giving him a big pile of chocolate, exclaiming as one, “Riku! Will you be our Valentine?”

Riku blinked.

He looked at the chocolate, messy and mismatched and lumpy but genuine, wrapped in a plastic bag with a sticky note on the front, the words “YOU’RE IN OUT HEART VALENTINE” made with two colors of glitter pens were very hard to miss.

He looked at his friends, smiling down at him with those same dopey, lovesick grins he saw them direct at each other more times than he can count. Kairi’s right hand and Sora’s left were intertwined between them, while their free hands were displaying the chocolate with a flourish.

He blinked again, his brain a spinning record on a player with a bouncing needle, the tune skipping and repeating because none of this made any sense.

“You…” He started, voice faint, pointing at the two, “you were supposed to give chocolate to each other…” He looked between his two friends, their bright grins beginning to get on his nerves (and not making him blush be quiet), “so you would both know how you felt about each other.”

“We did give our chocolate to each other!” Sora chirped happily, pecking Kairi on the cheek and gaining himself a cute giggle from the girl in response, “though we actually confessed to each other a little while before we came to you for help,” he smiled wider, ignoring Riku’s jaw nearly dropping through the floor,  “thanks again for the help with that Riku!”

“A little while…?” He mumbled, spine straightening at the implication, “what do you mean a while-”

“And now!” Kairi jumped in before he could finish, “we’re giving you chocolate! So you know how we feel about you!” They both blushed when she finished, Kairi twirling a lock of hair between her fingers and Sora scratching his chin with a peppy smile. “It’s been a long time coming honestly, right?”

“Yeah!” Sora chuckled quietly, grinning at him with all of his teeth, “we’ve both been trying to confess to you for a while and…well, what better time than today?”

(Why were they so cute. That wasn’t fair. Whoever decided that was fair deserved a write up.)

“About…me?” The gears in his head were beginning to shed a few flecks of rust and starting to move a half inch at a time, “how you two feel…about…me?”

The two looked at each other with soft smiles, and then turned those smiles at him again, and his heart was starting to pick up on the atmosphere and was pounding in his ears.

“You two…like…me?” 

“Yeah!”

“A bunch.”

Riku blinked again, because he was sure if his eyes got any wider they would tumble out of his dumbfounded head.

“…Seriously?”

Kairi’s smile faltered for a moment, “oh come on Riku, me and Sora have been trying to clue you in all week!” She stopped and looked at Sora, “you were trying to drop some hints at him right?”

“All the time!” Sora defended, “but he was so focused on the baking he wasn’t paying attention.”

(A vague memory of Sora asking Riku to help him with cleaning his shirt after he spilled whipped cream over it popped into Riku’s head and he never felt more victimized by his goal oriented mindset.)

“How about you?”

“Licking spoons and commenting on how hot it was, no reaction at all!”

(Another memory came, this time of Riku snatching a spoon from Kairi as he saw her tongue leave her mouth, and he never felt more jealous of a piece of silverware in his entire life.)

Kairi sighed, “Who would’ve thought Riku would be so oblivious huh?”

Sora nodded, not noticing Riku snapping into a agitated stance, “Yeah! He’s usually so smart about most things, but I guess matters of the heart just kinda fly over his head-”

“Are you kidding?” The two stopped and looked at him, blinking owlishly, “I spend years, literal years, going along with your crazy schemes, cleaning up your messes, and still finding time to try and play matchmaker for you two so you could stop dancing around your feelings, and you’re telling me I’m the oblivious one!?”

Kairi and Sora blinked at him.

Then blinked at each other.

And then went back to looking at him. Sora first, “You…you did?”

Then Kairi, “you were trying to…get us together?”

Before he could yell that yes you morons and I’m pretty sure it had aged me two decades from the stress the two threw themselves at him in a lung crushing hug, kissing his cheeks and singing his praises.

He was in love with a couple of idiots.

And they were, miracles never cease, in love with him.

…ah, well, who said life and love were ever simple?  

“…Happy Valentine’s day you two.”

[wolfpawn]

I Hate You, I Love You. Chapter 151

Chapter Summary - Danielle has a day that literally just keeps going bad to worse and it all culminates with Tom telling her something.

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long.  This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously.

Copyright for the photo is the owners, not mine. All image rights belong to their owners

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog​ @jessibelle-nerdy-mum​ @nonsensicalobsessions​ @damalseer​ @hiddlesbitch1​ @winterisakiller​ @fairlightswiftly​ @salempoe​ @wolfsmom1​ @black-ninja-blade

Tom poured the water into the kettle and turned around again. “And what dates are they?”

“The seventh of September,” Luke responded, looking at the diary in front of him. “Does that work for you?” Tom nodded. “And Danielle?” Tom winced and cursed. “No?”

“It's two days before her Ironman.” He thought for a moment. “Can I get back in time?”

“I guess?” Luke looked at the dates, making note of her sports events in case it became more relevant in the future. “Didn't you say she has a few more beforehand?”

“Yes, sort of warm-ups,” Tom explained. “I can't miss that one though.”

“You'll need to talk to her.” Luke acknowledged. “Speaking of her, where is she?”

“At Emma's. She is doing a few things for her today.”

“Such as?”

“Cleaning, laundry, cooking. Letting my sister get a shower unmolested by Lucy.”

“So she is okay with babies?”

“She was a medic.” Tom chuckled. “No, she loves children.”

“Children and small babies are different though.”

“Danielle is great with them, she's one of those people that can interact well with children.” He smiled. “She's the same with Ben and Sophie's boys.”

“So I take it if you ever have the sense to ask her and she has the lack of sense to say yes to marrying you, kids would someday be a subject up for discussion?”

Tom gave him a bemused glance knowing that Luke was teasing regarding if he would ask such a question. “If such ever comes to pass, then yes, children are indeed on the cards.”

“Tom Hiddleston, talking about settling down and having kids, did I ever think I would ever see the day” Luke goaded. “And with a no-nonsense woman like Elle. No actually, the only woman that would endure you is Danielle Hughes.”

“Good thing she's the only one I would want anyway.” Tom chuckled. As soon as he ceased speaking, he noticed the dogs looking curiously at the door. He turned and put on the kettle again and took out Danielle's favourite mug.

It was a minute or two before she came into the room, when she saw Luke and Tom, Danielle gave a tired smile. “Gentlemen.”

“Everything alright?” Tom asked worriedly.

“Just one of those days.” Was all she commented.

“How was your training?”

“There was an issue with the pool so it was closed and a spin class used all of the bikes, so that was something of a washout.” Danielle laughed. “That can happen though.” She shrugged.

“And Emma?”

“Emma had to go to the doctor because Lucy has gunk in her eye, so rather than help her with her home, we spent the afternoon in the doctors. And I got a call from work, there was an issue I need to look at that apparently was faxed through, but the fact you have not mentioned it to me would suggest that it hasn't.” She put down the items she had brought home with her. “So what is new here? Luke, how was Venice? I haven't seen you since before you left, you got some colour anyway.”

“Yes, some much-needed sun and wonderful Italian food, of course. It was good, thank you.”

Danielle smiled, pleased to hear he had a pleasant time. When she looked at Tom, she frowned. “What?”

“Are you okay?”

Danielle laughed at him. “Do you ever get that day that it just never stops going wrong, I mean it just is one thing piled on top of another? That is my day and I can get angry and upset and negative which seems to only ensure further negativity, or I can accept that it is what it is and continue on and make what I can of it all and I choose the latter. I assisted Emma, I helped her bring Lucy to the doctor, we also got some shopping and I will cook and clean hers tomorrow instead and if work is really having a shit fest, we have a department for that now so I don't fucking care and I am going to cook my dinner and not stress myself about it.” She explained.

“Good plan.” Luke commended.

“After tea though, I really need a cup right now.” Tom moved, revealing to her that her mug was ready by the steaming kettle. Danielle smiled at him but quickly noticed the manner in which he was not really looking back at her. Then she looked at Luke who also looked slightly awkward. “One moment.” She put a tea bag and hot water into the cup for her tea before turning around, folding her arms and leaning back against the countertop. “Right, what is it?” Both men said nothing. “Look, there is clearly something to be said and with the way today went, I know it will stay true to form and be something negative so just come out with it and tell me now.”

Tom looked at Luke for a moment who had an expression on his face that showed how greatly he felt his earlier comment regarding Danielle as Tom's partner was made apparent by her current actions. Tom decided to just be honest. “I have been asked to attend the Ralph Lauren fiftieth anniversary show in New York in September.”

Danielle processed his words for a moment. “What dates?”

“It's on the seventh.”

“Right.” She sighed.

“I am going to be home in time, I promise.”

“Tom, don't promise something like that, please.” She stated. “I know you will do everything to try to get home.”

“You're annoyed though?”

“See it from my point of view, Tom. Your big premiere and I miss it for a fashion show, how would that feel to you?” She pointed out. “I better check the fax machine, excuse me.”

Tom and Luke said nothing as she left.

“If you are not in Wales on the 9th of September, you may lose her.” Like declared. “If you need to get a private jet, you better be back.”

“Just keep that small block free,” Tom ordered, which caused Luke to nod.

*

Tom walked upstairs and listened to the sound of paper whirring through the fax machine. He walked to the office room and looked at Danielle. He swallowed as he looked at her.

Her hair was tied up and she wore an open cardigan and comfortable tracksuit pants. If the papers saw her, they would ridicule her immediately, but he liked seeing her like this, this was Elle, who only cared about getting work done and being comfy doing it, not Danielle, who worked tediously and had to uphold a certain professionalism. She was wearing her glasses and chewing on one of the small snack meals her dietitian had planned for her. When she looked up, she noticed him there and waited for him to speak.

“How much in the dog house am I?”

“At present, you're on a rehoming advert for Dog's Trust after being surrendered to them.” She stated, picking up the papers and putting them in a file.

Tom walked into the room. “I will be there, Elle, I promise.”

“I know that. You have thirty-six hours, even with delays I know you would make it. It doesn't make it any less of a slap in the face though, does it?” She pointed out.

Tom was going to argue that they had cut it close on a few events before but stopped himself and reminded himself that she was being honest and communicating with him and that her opinions and feelings on the matter were valid too. “No, it doesn't. I am sorry. I am going to cancel.”

“You can't, you have a contract with them and you did sign in that you would do a few of these. I don't blame you, you know, I blame whatever power in the universe that has caused this day to occur.”

“So you're not sending me to Dog's Trust?”

“Tempting, but no.”

“Is the idea of getting a new boyfriend that daunting?” He joked.

“Oh if this goes belly up, I am joining the fucking nuns or something, I genuinely couldn't go again, it's exhausting.” She laughed.

Tom chuckled, walked over and pulled her against him. “I'm sorry you had a bad day.”

“We all get them.”

“How is Lucy, I forgot to ask. Is her eye sore?”

“Probably just irritated more than anything but she seems to just be herself. She is good, she seems to have a strict routine. I never met a baby to stick so rigidly to a natural schedule. Two weeks she has been like it every day. It's not perfect or easy, but it's consistent so they can plan around it.” She smiled. The machine continued to whir next to her as more paper began to come through. “Dear Jesus, this will take half a forest.” She growled.

“What happened?”

“Some bollox to do with apparently falsified paperwork by one of the guys. I know his work, he's not someone to do that, I am getting a copy to see what happened, the internal affairs department is checking over it, but I want to see if there is something dodgy in my office, but I really doubt it.” She explained.

“You really are having an odd day.” Tom acknowledged. “What about your training, you didn't get much if it done?”

“I will have to check this then go for a cycle. Tomorrow is supposed to be an easy say so I am going for a five k then.” She looked at Tom who looked around at her. “Care to join me?”

“Would you mind?”

“Not at all.” She beamed. “We should get you cycling too.”

“I would look like the crazy frog.” Danielle erupted in laughter at the image. “I'm sorry, Elle.”

“Don’t, we can't help some of your work stuff, the same with mine. We will sometimes miss things. I mean, I have not seen Nacelle in six weeks because of conflicting work schedules.”

“When is she around again?”

“In a fortnight.”

“While you're in LA?”

“Yep.”

“That's a pain.”

“And most of the summer I am going to be by the sea and she will be home. But we talk most days so that's something.”

“Poor Becky.”

“They are used to it at this stage, they have always juggled it.” She smiled.

“Will that be us?”

“Not as drastically, I think, but we have those times too. I fear your next major movie. Up to three months or more without my handsome, kind and loving Tom.”

“Yours?”

“Mine.” She reiterated with a cheeky smile, leaning up and kissing him.

[courage-a-word-of-justice]

HGPC 17 - 21 | Koi to Producer 2 - 6 | Appare 5 - 8 | Fugou Keiji 4 - 6

...only just realised I was missing some tags. They should be there now or soon.

HGPC 17

Why do I get the feeling the Sawaizumi family will be held hostage one day…? (Maybe I’m just being negative?)

The episode title mentions Chiyu by name, so I wonder why the translation didn’t…

Customer service! You can’t get away from it, even in COVID times…! (Impressive!)

Hmm…you can actually read part of the booking for the Smiths in the book if you know the kanji.

I thought the Smiths would speak in English, but they actually speak in fluent Japanese if the word “susume” was any indication.

Ah, Sukoyaka sweet buns! (from the other episode about the festival)

HGPC 18

Don’t burn down your house with scented candles, kids!

Also remember to use your knees when lifting heavy boxes! (<- says a charity store volunteer, who does this stuff on the regular)

These days the mascots usually have a human form. I wonder if this is implying that particular direction…? (I woke up today and was craving a certain oneshot I’d read during my scanlation days…if it is, it would fill that niche nicely.)

I wonder if the kids will recognise this Ashita no Joe parody…?

HGPC 19

“…since you were young?”

Oh! Element of Wind again!

Koi to Producer 2

This almost feels like Victor is assigning a school project to Protag-chan…it’s a bit sad, really.

It’s nice they let Protag-chan have a personality.

It’s fine if you can’t read the katakana, but Gavin’s name is Haku in Japanese, so it throws out the immersion somewhat…also, I know I shouldn’t be complaining – I’m the target audience here – but do these guys look kinda similar or what…? (partially kidding)

High school sweethearts, huh? “Childhood friends” is my favourite angle of a romantic relationship, but it gets so overused by harems it comes around to being boring…!

I-Is this Stand My Heroes…?! (LOL…?)

Can we not with 1st person cam…?

As cute and dorky as this stuff gets…how does Gavin never get found?! Does nobody ever look up in this city?!? (I thought Evolvers were meant to be a secret…?)

GPS tracker? That’s no better than large corporations using your location data…Isn’t that creepy…?

Hold on, when did she get his phone number? You would assume it was before this entire chase after the boy happened, but still…?

LOL, the English on the board.

This anime is gonna cause me some frustration, but it gives the good stuff in roughly equal measure. It seems to omit the fact you interact via phone with your bois for intimacy (in the game).

Koi to Producer 3

LOL, that’s so clearly Gavin…

By googling, you find out Uptown and Queens are in New York.

Ohmygosh! Did the creators know I love the trope where only people with superpowers can move in certain circumstances?!

Uh…his name is Kira in Japanese? Did someone read the katakana wrong?

Pictured: Depressed bishonen eating bad pudding. (…That joke sounds better in my head. I forgot what meme I was meant to be parodying there, but I had a meme in mind.)

Lemme guess…this man (I dunno if it’s one of the previous bishies with an identical face or a new one) is looking for MC-chan. *sigh* Update: Yep, just Victor again. To be honest, I don’t like anyone who calls harsh words “their sign of love” – love should be honest and upfront. That’s how it becomes heartmelting.

Koi to Producer 4

Okay, in order, it seems to be hexadecimals, Javascript (you can tell from the “const”), some kind of profiles which are apparently for human lab rats (which seem to have some kind of nonsense filler text), a DNA model and DNA bases (ACGT).

The text on the screen says something along the lines of this being an official broadcast of this man’s arrest and this man was a genetic researcher. Obviously, if I wanted to put more attention into what it meant, I would, but I won’t sweat the details this time (because it doesn’t seem to impact the plot).

The guy’s name is Minor because minor key (geddit?)…that’s my guess.

I started playing the game due to this anime, if you didn’t know, and I unlocked an expert in ch. 2. I thought he was Minor, but turns out his name is Spine (an older man).

The diary, true to form, contains details about either one case or several cases, two involving children. The bottom of the 1st page says “if it’s fake, I’ll laugh”.

Hey, I once told Crunchyroll I wanted an anime about hacking (so is this a dream come true? I reveal all in the next sentence!). Hackers don’t congregate like this…they’d be too conspicuous, even with the secret hideout!

The code in the top left appears to be…C? I think? (Note they declare “unsigned int”.)

Kiro sometimes reminds me of Masayoshi (SamFlam)…it puts a derpy smile on my face.

*blah blah blah I’m Key* - Wuh…? F*** you, Kiro!!! (There is such a thing as piling too much cool stuff on to a character, y’know – I’m guilty of it in my own writing.)

3684 isn’t a very safe password (says someone who once aspired to be in cybersecurity).

What bugs me is that Simon is a perfectly fine name…it’s just a bit boring. Kiro/Kira I get (a bit), but Lucien/Simon…? *shrugs*

Ohh! Based MAPPA! Thank you for making this adaption look great!

Koi to Producer 5

Oh, I got an SR in the game recently and it has a line like, “Only a fool stays up all night to do others’ work. Victor talks like that a lot…

The sign so obviously says “Renka”, meaning “love flower”. “Loveland” really is a step down from that…

Where’s Gavin’s guest badge…?

“Happiness Noodle Store”…?

“…the end of our first year…”

If this weren’t a Chinese work by origin (or Japanese work by translation), I’m sure Protag-chan would have gone after Gavin, despite being told the contrary.

Kanya = Minor. I’ll take a note of that.

One of the books behind Minor says “Gale Start”…hmm…

That GPS tracker is still unintentionally creepy, IMHO.

Koi to Producer 6

…oh. (dejected) Probably a beach episode or something.

What the actual heck was going on with Lucien…? It’s like he was having a tiny stroke there…

Lucien’s power is listed as “???” in the game. I thought he was an aura-reader when he said “show me your colour”, but that shield thing he did means he might just have various psychic powers…? *shrugs* We’ll find out eventually.

Running in heels is hard…

LOL, that’s so clearly recreating a CG from one of the cards.

This is the 2nd time this has gone pseudo-isekai. As much as I like to joke about it…I fully expect someone to be sent to another world at this point.

I couldn’t possibly see Victor on any kind of game show, come to think of it.

Appare 5

This guy’s middle name is “Rich”! That’s silly!

A boombox from the 19th century…makes sense, somehow.

I only just (?) realised Al has a tiny tie on his usual outfit.

Back to the beginning already…just start!

Appare 6

…I just realised Appare mouths “I got it!” in the OP.

Al Lion (sic…?)

Isn’t Sofia in that train…? Update: She might have been, she might not. Hard to tell when they don’t confirm.

This series seriously could’ve done with a dub…Even with weird hokey Hetalia accents, it would be good stuff.

These bunches of people at designated points…reminds me of the book I was reading while in Japan. The Long Walk by Stephen King (part of a compilation). It still gives me shivers down my spine when I remember it.

This “leave in the middle of the night” thing reminds me of the Amazing Race.

“Valley of Despair” is made-up, but Death Valley exists. It’s one of the hottest places on earth, hence the name.

LOL, Kosame scores himself one (1) prarie dog and two (2) Hototos.

I thought Appare was being inconsiderate at first…but he’s being considerate, in his own way.

Oh! I didn’t realise, but Saito Soma is Al.

Appare 7

“It’s not one plus one, but one times one!” – LOL.

Hybrid engine? In the 1900s? Hmm…

LOL, I think Al just did a hadouken.

This stuff’s like an animated Galaxy Brain meme! It’s amazing!

I managed to successfully predict – without watching ahead – Appare would catch himself with his traps.

Kosame with his hair down…is rare. Not exactly attractive because we have to care about the racers rather than lust after them (and the artstyle actually prevents me from doing so, because it’s deliberately quite cartoony), but it’s rare.

Appare is surprisingly childish…that’s what makes him more than a Sheldon Cooper, I think.

The spelling of the place is actually “Ely”, if Google-sensei is any indication. C’mon, subbers! You’re American (most likely)! Can’t you put in the legwork (or the Google-fu) to discover what place in Nevada this is?!

Subbers make characters say “shit” a lot in this show, hmm? (contemplative)

Now this evil guy here *points to screen*…that’s hair I like.

Appare 8

I just love this OP…don’t you?

I like how the steam/gas boat/car has Chinese numerals on its dial.

Kosame means “small rain”, so “heavy rain” is obviously to contrast that.

The Hototo joke never gets old.

I thought I just saw someone leave the saloon…

Nice hair + terrible face = bad equation.

I can almost imagine the wee-oo-wee-oo-ooooooo…wah-wah-wahhh…(You know the one sound snippet, right? The one theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly - or whatever movie it is – that maybe involves a tumbleweed rolling across the screen, and then a huge shootout? If you don’t know it, play a sample on this Wikipedia page!) playing in the background.

It’s convenient the prarie dog didn’t appear when Hototo (old) had his revenge spree.

I noticed there’s a bit of a mark under Kosame’s left eye…it suggests that he’s been crying (or maybe it shows tiredness from the race…?), but it’s not that noticeable.

So that’s the real Gil…and tose were his henchmen that threatened to hang everyone bar Kosame. Got it.

(notes to self) So, for charting a course with Appare Ranman!, it’s Los Angeles -> Death Valley -> Ely -> Denver -> ??? -> New York. Got it.

Fugou Keiji 4

“Daisuke-sama” isn’t “Lord Daisuke”, it would be “Sir Daisuke”, I think…but “lord” has a proper translation in Japanese.

The truck has a Shinagawa licence plate. Anime really does like Shinagawa, huh? (Based on ID: INVADED and this.)

I think it’ll be interesting to see Kambe handle this without HEUSC.

The board for Sanchome (which is equivalent to a suburb…or a county, I guess?) has posters saying stuff like “take your dog poop home” and “let’s protect the environment!” (technically, it says “let’s protect the region/area!”, but that doesn’t translate right. There’s even a flea market. Still, those posters don’t have any big hints…not that I know of so far.

I kind of forgot that dude was the gardener for Kambe’s house…er, mansion.

I noticed a poster in the kouban says haru (spring) on it. That’s probably the same one that Haru’s name is signified by, assuming that’s not in combo with another character or few.

Oh great…the sister is an overbearing one.

Ahh…he doesn’t like natto. So that’s the problem. Daisuke is childish (like Appare)…Note I don’t like natto either, but I wouldn’t run away from home (or similar) because I was fed natto.

I noticed Kambe uses shinseki (which doesn’t refer to close family). “Relative” is a correct translation of that word, I just wanted to check that word was the right one for the context.

There’s a green tea bottle by the sink…I don’t think I’d mistake that shade of green for anything else.

LOL, I didn’t think we’d actually get to see Kambe with his hair “down”, so to speak. It’s…an interesting look, for sure.

Oh my gosh! It cost him (Haru) $15!!! (LOL, cheapskate…says the cheapskate…*suddenly droops and stops laughing*) Update: Sorry about the sudden downer there. I was having what the kids these days call a “woke moment”…at least, I think that’s how they use that term.

…I’d watch that crime drama. It’s funny.

Just realised Kato has an older model of phone than Kambe does.

This episode was kinda like a Tokyo Sonata kind of thing, huh? The sensational in the middle of the not-so-sensational…”sensational” for this show, anyway.

Those kids look like the ones from Erased.

*lightbulb goes off in brain* What if the dog went to Kambe’s…?

Can Suzue actually hear HEUSC while Kambe is using it…? $2.46 though…that is cheap, in comparison to the ham.

This was the cheapest episode so far (about $550)…probably because it was an insight into Kato’s life, more than Kambe’s.

Fugou Keiji 5

The flag seems to be based on Cameroon’s (which is in Africa, not America) and the “Arita Kinen” seems to refer to Arima Kinen, meaning this episode is set around Christmas-ish. Credit goes to Kambe Zaibatsu on this show.

I-It’s a Humvee!

Polyadoll (sic)…?

The Poliador guy speaks perfect Japanese…(?)

The star! It’s a key thingy!

I thought Kamei was the 1st Division dude with the reddish hair. Turns out it was the blonde…? Update: Redhead is Hoshino.

Ummmmmm…he was reading porn…? Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh…okayyyyyyyyyyyyy…

…oh, the costs for Kambe’s tuxedo are on there. So’s the cost for repairing the bike Suzue rode.

Fugou Keiji 6

I never knew there were so many money proverbs to be used as episode titles…

What is Kambe doing with his hands…? He’s not even using the computer.

Imura seems to use a Windows 10 with Cortana on the taskbar.

HGPC 20

What’s with all the Naruto running this episode…?

HGPC 21

(no notes, sorry!)

[fruitz]

johnten: a phrase that seems like it has existed since before the sands of time. it’s provocative, it’s excting, it’s.... fake?! yes readers, everyone’s favorite little jock x twink interactions were the brainchild of something even worse than a classic SM-planted gaybait, and I, user SorryJohnny am here to singlehandedly put a stop to the abomination that we currently call johnten. I have information that I intend will cause you little freaks known as johnten shippers to go into extinction. i know what you’re thinking: but user Sorry Johnny, ten had an intense sexual attraction to johnny! no you fucking donkey! this was all an illusion put into your tiny little pea brains that are so quickly satisfied with even an ounce of male on male flirting and angst that you’ve been blinded this whole time. let’s pull up the evidence. my suspicions of johnten began with the infamous vlive titled  "💚쟈니 텐 출사 준비중 시즈 니 도와주세요💚" braodcasted on july 12, 2018, which is otherwise titled as “johnny and tennie’s photo club” by YouTube creator brickbackstrony. it makes me sick to my stomach. yaoi-consuming freaks with no free time flocked to create edits & AUs based off of ten referring to johnny as a “top model” & saying he “lit his fire”. in fact, YouTube creator bringbackstrony claims ten *shivers in gay*. YouTube editors make me incredibly nauseous. straight kboos who have never spoken to a gay person in their entire live were too busy leaking their panties to pay attention to the cold hard proof at hand. when ten accidentally cut the crap. at timestamp 42:27, the slander begins, with ten bringing up johnny’s “thin lips” resulting in johnny looking visually offended. it only gets worse from there. at 43:13 ten releases an utter truth that he has been holding since SM rookies: “I think you look very weird.” no, user SorryJohnny, he quickly corrected himself and meant the drawing! no, reader, he went on to say “like sometimes, sorry.” he couldn’t cover up what he had done, so all he could do was apologize. that powerful statement, ringing through my ears as i lie to rest at night, “i think you look very weird” is the most genuine string of words that have ever come out of that pot-stirrer’s mouth. and i mean that sincerely, as someone who would, sadly, get gunned down in the street over that little shit starting fairy. he goes on to reveal a horrendous drawing of “johnny” that i can only describe as This Man, you know, the one with the unibrow that we see in our dreams? ten the man who designed his own tattoos. ten, the man who wants to create his own jewelry line. ten, the man who forced us all to witness his drawings of softcore porn peacock feather pussies 2 months ago... wait, you’re a johfam and you don’t know that ten did that? i’m sorry, it’s best you don’t try to find it. you’re telling me ten, the multilingual main dancer main vocalist sometimes rapper illustrator put out that visceral steaming pile of dog shit into the world and called it JOHNNY? do with that information what you will. so where does this leave us, reader? ten thinks johnny is very ugly. what now? what caused this entitled little f- to act like that exactly? that’s where things get interseting, and honestly, quite brutal. i firlmy believe that ten does want to have sex with one  bitter, pretentious, ancient old hack known as wayv’s qian kun, which is something i find very abysmal in and of itself, and should be considered beastiality, but that’s obviously for another time. so this brings us to the question at hand, how does ten flirt sincerely? openly and fruity, or by pining and angst? given his pisces placement, the latter is the correct answer.  given this information, we find that ten in fact did not find john suh sexually or romantically attractive. we’re back to the square one; what caused that little fruit to publicly say he wanted to have sex with him and utter abhorrent visual statements such as that of the nightmare-inducing “john’s banana?” why, you ask? it’s simple: ten is a bully.  why would ten make a bunch of 16 year old straight girls with blue hair and fujoshi kinks think that he found johnny suh to be the sexiest man alive? and why did he make an entire population of women age 18+ with daddy issues and stockholm syndrome believe the same thing? he answer is self explanatory. why does the republican jock pretend he has a crush on the ugly pimple-ridden sjw in a nyan cat shirt? harassment, bullying, and an unhealthily high sense of self. ten is a narcissist. he walked into SM one day to meet one 6’0 tall chicagoan accented john jun suh with as much sex appeal as mr. rogers and thought to himself “this is the ugliest man i’ve ever seen in my god-given life. i think i will pretend i want to have sex with him.” and thus, the terrorism that some like to call “johnten” and others like to call “a visual abomination to the gay population and mankind as a whole” was birthed, by none other than the manipulative, gas-lighting little bundle of nerves with a name that fits the entire alphabet; chittaphon leechaiyapornkul. the bastard.  it’s hard to say if the little fruit started this act out of malice or pity. either way, the inflation of that plastic surgery monster’s ego was a strategically targeted hate crime on us all. why would he do that? why would he make an entire population of innocent nctzens trying to thirst over sexy little lee taeyong in silence endure the inflated ego of a 25 year old straight man that dresses like a geriatric patient? this, i cannot say. but one thing i do know for sure, is that ten deserves extended jail time for this horrid act of what, pity? ego? malice? on 10velys and johfam alike. all that’s left to say is,  i’m sorry johnny suh.

[shes-soparticular]

Might Just Be My Everything and Beyond

Shawn’s girlfriend leaves town for a bachelorette party. He’s left to his own devices.

A/N: Just fluff. P.S. I’m now taking requests and am happy to start a tag list for anyone interested :)

Words: 4180

     He’s never wanted to be that boyfriend. The hopelessly co-dependent kind that can’t be left to his own devices without his girl around to entertain him. But today? Watching Alex throw sunscreen and sandals into her suitcase? He’s feeling a little like that boyfriend. Their bed is presently covered in a pile of her summer clothes, her pointer finger pressed to her lips as she ponders the fabrics like a complex equation. Feeling that familiar wave of neediness come on, he walks up behind her, wrapping his arms tight around her shoulders to stop her as she throws another pair of shorts into the suitcase.

     “I know you’re going to have blast in Vegas with your girlfriends but you know what else would be super fun?” Shawn rests his chin on the top of her head, trying his best to hide the pouty tone of his voice. “If you stayed home with me instead.” When she initially announced she was planning her best friend’s bachelorette party as a liquor fueled weekend in Las Vegas, he’d thought it was a great idea. Alex had been busting her ass at work over the last few months in addition to putting up with his insane tour schedule for the better part of a year, so a long weekend to blow off steam with her girls was well deserved. It wasn’t until he started listening in on all of her planning that he got a little nervous. The club crawls, the all day pool parties, the front row seats at Magic Mike…and if he’d overheard her conversation with her raunchiest friend, strippers weren’t completely off the table. Regardless, he knew he had nothing to worry about. She was an adult, she had more than earned his trust over their two years together, and it wasn’t like he had any concern she was going to run off on him with a Vegas stripper. More than anything, Shawn selfishly felt like he would be missing out. He wanted to hold her hand in front of the Bellagio fountains, wanted to slather her in sunscreen poolside, wanted to carry her out of the club on his back once she refused to wear her heels. (Because this happened every single time Alex wore heels.)

      “And what benefits are in store for me if I stay home?” She inquired, leaning her head forward to deliver a soft bite to his forearm. Her attention was still mainly focused on her wardrobe choices, but as the queen of multi-tasking, she could manage to entertain his pouting.

     “Well, we could stay in all weekend watching conspiracy theory documentaries. Order your favorite Chinese food…” Dropping his arms from her shoulders, he let his hands settle on her hips, thumbs hooking under the top of her pajama shorts. “Have all the sex.”

     “Mmm…you really know the way to my heart, don’t you?” She places her hands over his, momentarily pushing them teasingly further under the hem of her shorts before pulling them away completely, earning a frustrated groan from him. “Let’s put that plan on hold until next weekend? You know I have to go to Vegas, this is my best friend’s bachelorette we’re talking about. I have to be there to make sure it’s a weekend to remember.”

     Something about that statement makes his brow furrow. “Why don’t I like the sound of that?” Watching as Alex resumes her packing, he flops down on the bed next to her suitcase, giving up on sidetracking her. At least for the time being.

     “Don’t worry, this weekend isn’t about me. I’ll be good. You know that.” Her statement is matter of fact, but as she holds up a pair of bikini bottoms that look more like a thong than swimwear, Shawn doesn’t feel especially at ease.

     “But that whole “no talking to boyfriends” rule? Is that really a thing? You’re really not allowed to talk to me for three days?” This was by far his least favorite part of this Vegas trip. Although those bikini bottoms were giving this rule a run for its money. The concern in his voice is enough to catch her undivided attention, bringing her to stand between his knees where they dangle off the edge of the bed.

     “I know, it sounds dumb but we all made a pact. We’re going to have a true girl’s weekend which means not reporting back to the men at home.” Resting her hands on his thighs, she leans forward to give him a soft consolation kiss. “I’m sure I’ll post plenty to Insta and Snapchat. You’ll have proof that I’m alive.” He won’t challenge her now, but he already knows there’s not a chance in hell she’ll obey this rule. Even with his exhaustive touring, they’d never gone a day in their relationship without speaking to one another. Without at least checking in.

     “What if I came with and just hung out in your hotel room? You wouldn’t even have to tell anyone.” Reaching up to her with grabby hands, he simultaneously locks his legs around hers forcing her to lean all the way forward. With an indignant sigh, she lets herself collapse on top of him, her hair hanging around them like a curtain. “It could be our little secret.” Shawn knows how much she loves an opportunity to sneak around. It could be that she’s simply an exhibitionist, or, more likely, it takes her back to the beginning of their relationship when dodging his fans and the media made their romance something of a team sport.

      “I’m sharing a room with two other girls, I think they’d notice you in my bed.” She momentarily lifts herself up, moving her legs to straddle him more effectively. She may not be giving into his requests, but she’s also not strong enough to deny him attention. No matter how much packing she has yet to do or how early her flight leaves the next morning. “You’ll be fine here on your own. It’s just three days and we’ve spent far longer apart.” Even though he knows she’s right and that he’s being far too dramatic, he still can’t shake the sulking feeling. “You’re just getting a taste of being the one stuck at home.” Her eyebrows raise with her statement, amused by the role reversal. Of course she’s right. He rarely thinks twice about leaving for weeks…months at a time. That’s not to say that it isn’t insanely difficult to be away from her. Obviously if he had his way, she’d travel with him for the entirety of tour. But regardless, it’s a thousand times easier to be away from the one you love when you’re moving at such a fast pace you barely have time to reflect on it. Yes, there were days and nights that the urge to hold her nearly drove him to cancel a show and fly home. Yes, there were days and nights that hearing her muffled voice from across the ocean was enough to rip his heart out. But at the end of the day, there was an entire team of people relying on him to keep his shit together.

     This would be different though, considering there’d be no performance to focus his nervous energy on. Instead, he’d be rambling around the condo on his own, with little else to think about than what she was up to. And not even being able to call her? That would make it infinitely worse. “Fine, leave me here. All alone.” Just because he knows that no amount of pouting is going to convince her to cancel her trip, doesn’t mean he’s not going to give it his best effort. “Have your fun.”

   While she won’t admit it, his plan is almost working. His puppy dog eyes are melting through her and it’s nearly enough for her to fake the flu and call the whole trip off. But considering the bride-to-be has been her best friend since the third grade, there’s really no contest. Shawn will be fine on his own for three days, she knows that. As long as he stays away from the stove. “My mopey boy.” Alex pouts right back at him, leaning in to kiss that look right off of his face. “I’ll be back before you know it.” She punctuates her statement with another kiss, her hands taking their own initiative to roam underneath his shirt. Just as her lips start a trail down his neck, she catches movement out of the corner of her eye. Shawn’s hand has somehow found those bikini bottoms, which he is presently trying to shove under the blankets to hide them away from her. He can deal with her going to Vegas. He can deal with her dancing all night with her friends. He can even deal with her throwing singles at some oiled-up dudes. But he cannot deal with seeing her in that thong of a bikini through his phone screen without any means of taking it off. She catches his wrist in the nick of time, holding it down on the bed as she tries to wrestle the bottoms away from him. Unfortunately, he’s got them in a death grip, his other hand free to tickle her side in the exact spot that makes her unable to function. “Okay, okay, but if you make me forget my swimsuit, I’ll just have to skinny dip.”

              Immediately, he releases the bottoms in defeat, tossing them back towards her suitcase. Fine. If he’s going to be subjected to that evil piece of fabric from a thousand miles away, he’s at least going to make up for the lost opportunity in advance. Without warning, he rolls them over, her back landing on top of a pile of clothes yet to be packed. “You’re the worst, you know that?” Giving her no time to respond with her signature sarcasm, he captures her lips in a hungry kiss. She’ll make it to Vegas, but if he has any say about it? It’ll be on no sleep and smelling of him.

      Day one starts off fairly easy. For starters, Shawn absolutely gets his way and they’ve only been asleep for an hour or two when her alarm goes off at 7:00am. He watches with tired satisfaction as Alex rushes to finish packing, throwing items into her suitcase without consideration. He’s pretty sure that in her haste, his jeans from the night before end up in the mix, but he keeps that to himself. He’s not proud of it, but he takes advantage of her guilt long enough to con her into granting him one last quickie rather than taking a shower. So when she gets out of his car at Toronto Pearson, she’s still flushed and smelling of sex and he feels pretty good about sending her off that way.

      At first, time passes quickly. Mostly because he spends most of the afternoon catching up on sleep. It’s around 5:00pm when the updates start rolling in, beginning with a wholesome group photo that Alex has posted to Instagram. He has a sneaking suspicion that this will be the last photo taken in Vegas where they collectively appear sober and bright eyed. In any case, he’s glad to see a sign of life from her. As the night pushes onward, he’s quickly proven right as he watches several of her friend’s snap stories as they go shot for shot with one another, the sound of their woohoo’ing driving him to turn down the volume on his phone to the lowest setting. Okay, so maybe he’s relieved he didn’t go and hide out in her hotel room. Granted, it’s not like he’s any stranger to the sound of screaming women. Around 11:00pm, he nearly chokes when he comes across a video of Alex taking a shot of tequila with her hands held behind her back, the whole bar cheering her on. At midnight, there’s a photo of her holding back the bride-to-be’s hair with in the backdrop of an opulent marble bathroom. He checks for the last time shortly after 2:00am to see that they made it out to the clubs in one piece, though he takes note that Alex has already taken her heels off. Predictable. With one day under his belt and two to go, he drifts to sleep surprisingly quick considering her fingers aren’t threading through his hair.

     Day 2 becomes a bit harder. Not only is he bored out of his mind, but when there isn’t a single update from Alex or any of her friends by 1:00pm, his stomach starts to churn. He knows these girls, they live for social media and a bachelorette party is prime content. Reminding himself of the time difference, he’s soothed temporarily but it’s not long before he’s refreshing each social media account desperate for updates. Just as he’s about to break the rules and call her, the bride starts posting video after video of the group poolside at a day club. He swipes past all of the photos of obnoxious inflatable pool toys and selfies of the other girls until he finds a video starring Alex. From the cover photo alone, he recognizes the cut off short covered ass belonging to his girlfriend. Honestly, he could pick it out of a lineup with ease. The way there’s just a flash of cheek peeking out from underneath the faded denim, the shorts completely filled out to the point that his breath hitches in his chest. As if he hadn’t kneaded that ass in his palms less than 48 hours before.

      Eagerly, he hits play on the video only to instantly hear the beginning of the Lost in Japan remix. The camera zooms in on Alex as she turns towards her friends, a giant, open mouthed smile plastered on her face. Instantly, she raises her comically large, neon colored drink into the air, hips already swaying suggestively to the song. “That’s my man!!” Her voice is hoarse but full of pride and excitement, and he swears his heart almost can’t take it. Without shame, he replays the video over and over, maybe a dozen times. There’s a matching smile stuck on his face as he hears her shout “that’s my man!” again and again. Alright, so maybe Day 2 isn’t so bad either. At least not until he sees the group photo of the girls hanging all over the dancers from the Magic Mike show. Alex, in particular, is sandwiched between two incredibly buff dudes that would put even Shawn’s physique to shame. The way her hand rests on the tanned abs of one of the guys causes a rush of jealousy to burn upwards through his chest, but all he has to do is rewatch the pool video for the twentieth time and the feeling fades away. “That’s my man!” Do people still use personalized ringtones? Because he’s pretty sure he’d like to hear that sound bite all day, every day. Some would call it odd to be this infatuated with someone this far into a relationship, but every glimpse of her gives him butterflies.

      By Day 3, he swears he’s about to lose his mind. The minutes seem to crawl by and nothing helps pass the time any faster. In typical Shawn fashion, he spends a while juggling. He does an Instagram Live for 20 minutes. He tries to figure out how to make this chicken thing Alex always cooks, but he burns it and turns to cereal instead. He screws around on the guitar for awhile but inspiration never strikes. Finally, he calls in the reserves and invites his buddies over for a boy’s night. He also swears to himself that he’s not going to check in on Alex…because he knows if he does, he’ll end up calling her. Since he has a feeling that she’s expecting him to fail at the three day communication embargo, he’s doing his best to power through this final day without proving her right. Inviting his friends over turns out to be the right call, as his mind finally leaves Vegas and joins the world of X-Box and craft beer. It isn’t until he hears Brian snickering from the corner of the room that Alex is brought back to his thoughts.

     “Dude, Alex’s friend Chelsea is live on Insta right now…I think you might want to see this…” He passes his phone to Shawn, the rest of their friends leaning in to see what all the fuss is about. Sure enough, there’s Alex, on a karaoke stage with the bride-to-be, microphone held sideways in her hand. She’s…rapping? Not just to any song, but the incredibly raunchy Ludacris song “What’s Your Fantasy?”. “She’s getting every. Single. Word. Right.” Brian can barely catch his breath he’s laughing so hard, and Shawn isn’t sure whether he wants to laugh along or rub his temples. Alex would. She’s almost more of a ham than he is, always the person in the room cracking jokes the loudest, always willing to make a fool out of herself to get a laugh. Based on what he can see from the video, the crowd is LOVING it and he almost feels a weird sense of pride? For his girlfriend performing a dirty song? It doesn’t make a lot of sense but this is one of those strange, inappropriate moments where the only thought in his head is I’m going to marry this girl.

                The next morning, he wakes up long before his alarm, energy already coursing through his veins. Boyfriend energy. There’s a notification on his phone, only a few hours old, for a text from Alex. He grabs his phone so fast he nearly fumbles it, trying to swipe into the text message to see what was finally important enough for her to break her silence. It turns out to be a video, just a few seconds long. Clicking on it, he’s treated to the sight of Alex climbing into her hotel bed, hair piled in a top knot and sheets pulled up to her chin. “I love you. I miss you. One more sleep, baby.” She blows a kiss to the camera at the same moment one of her friends shouts at her to shut up. The video cuts off just as she yells a “make me” back, face twisting from puppy love to bitch, try me. Jesus, where did he find this woman?? Just like the pool video, he plays this one several times before texting her back. No more sleeps. See you soon, honey. Travel safe. Love you. He is whipped. Completely. Shamelessly. Happily. Whipped.

                      When he finally sees her coming down the escalator, he has to fight to stifle a laugh. Half of her face is obscured by a massive pair of sunglasses, the hood of her sweatshirt pulled up over her head and tied around her face. A baggy pair of sweatpants he’s never seen before and a sad pair of flip flops complete her outfit. She moves slowly when she steps off the escalator, a slight limp in her walk as she favors one ankle. She doesn’t notice him at first, but the second she does, her shoulders slump even lower.

              “I am…not okay in this particular moment.” Alex wheezes, voice barely above a whisper and clearly lost from all of the drinking, screaming, and rapping she’d been doing in Sin City. Leaning directly into him, it’s clear that she’s wiped out and wrecked from her three-day bender.

              “What? My girl can’t rally like she used to?” Shawn readily accepts her into his arms, relieved to be able to feel her again. And also, maybe, a little relieved that she made it home in one piece.

              “The problem is that I did rally. For 72 hours. Now I never want to see vodka again. Or tequila. Or champagne.”  She pauses for a beat, head still pressed into his shirt. “Whiskey is still okay though.”

              This time, he allows himself to laugh at her expense but pulls her in tighter all the same. “Well as long as you’re not claiming to swear off all alcohol. That I wouldn’t believe.” She whimpers into his chest, understandably unable to match his energy. “Come on baby, let’s get you home before you drop.”

      By the time he gets her into the apartment, he realizes that she might still be a little bit drunk. Trying in vain to convince her to lay down on the couch, she attaches herself to him once more, arms slung around his neck, doing her best to climb him like a koala. “I missed you. Every second. I should have let you come along.” While he’s touched to hear this admission from her, he really is happy that she got to spend the weekend on her own, letting loose with her friends in her element. There will be plenty of other vacation opportunities for the two of them, a few that he may or may not have started researching when he was climbing the walls on Day 3.

              “I don’t know, it looks like you had a great time. Especially at Magic Mike,” He leans back far enough from her so she can spot his raised eyebrow. “You seemed pretty damn enthusiastic for that, by the way…”

      An incredulous squeak escapes her, face turned up to look at his. “I was only hyping it for the bride! Why would I be horned up for those meatsuits when I come home to this?” Her hands settle on his cheeks, giving his face a soft squeeze. “And this…” Her statement is punctuated by her pelvis grinding into his.

              His hands instantly catch her hips, stilling her before she can go any further. “I’ve had three days of blue balls watching your stories. Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

              There’s an actual look of shock on her face, considering she’s not used to being turned down. “Who says I can’t finish?” There’s a determination on her face that makes him second guess himself. But upon giving her a once over, he pauses long enough to think of the most delicate way to let her down.

      “For starters, while you look like the most beautiful train wreck, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you this tired.” He bites his lip, hoping that critique won’t upset her. But she seems to willingly accept it, blowing the loose hair out of her face and rubbing her tired eyes. “You need a shower and a nap. As much as I want to make up for lost time.” There’s a mixture of disappointment and gratitude on her face, which he answers by patting her butt towards the bathroom. “Go shower. I’ll nap with you after.”

              As she showers, he gets busy making her a cup of tea with a copious amount of honey to sooth her throat. Being the king of using YouTube to teach himself new skills, he watches a few videos about wrapping sprained ankles until he feels confident. By the time she’s finished, he’s ready and waiting to fix her up. She complies with his orders, relaxing into their headboard, cup of tea balanced on her chest while his hands gently affix the wrap around her injured ankle. Fingers ghosting over her skin once he’s satisfied with his work, he grabs a pillow to rest underneath her foot. “I’m glad you had fun. But. I’m calling it now, no Vegas for your bachelorette party.” He chuckles, crawling up the bed to join her. “I hear Calgary is a great bachelorette destination. Maybe Winnipeg.”

              Swallowing the last of her tea, she discards the mug on the nightstand and rolls to pull herself into him. “You know, there’s this key thing that needs to happen before it’s my turn for a bachelorette party.” It’s a lighthearted statement which she follows with a soft kiss to prove as such. She’s never been the type to put any pressure on their relationship nor has she ever been preoccupied with any timelines. As evidenced that weekend, Alex was more of a “live for the moment” type of person. That was one of the many things he appreciated about her, considering so much of his life had to be tightly planned. With her, there was never any pressure.

              “Just putting it out there. You might want to give it some thought.” He flashes her a knowing grin, bringing his face to hers for just one more kiss. There isn’t a single doubt in his mind that this is the woman for him. And sooner than later, much sooner, he’s going to make sure the whole world knows it. “Now go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up and you can tell me all about Vegas.” She settles into him once more, head on his chest and ear over his heart. “And we can talk about your karaoke performance…it’s given me…some ideas…” The last sound he hears before her breathing turns deep is an embarrassed laugh and a murmured I love you.

     Yep, he’s definitely going to marry this girl.

tagging @fourtristattoos for boyfriend!week 

[grownups-are-the-real-monsters]

Home For The Holidays

Summary: “Oh, don’t remind me.” Ray frowned, setting his knitting aside. His mother was due for a visit because she’d been dying to see his new apartment. And though the roommate was expected…she did not know he’d been dating his roommate since Junior Year of high school. Which was a long time to not know about something considering they were both Juniors in College these days.

(I turned this request into a full fic, oops.)

Chapter 1: Ramblin’ Rose 

Words:  4,816

Ships: Gavries. Stephen King’s ‘The Long Walk’. 

‘Life is a rock but the radio rolled me

At the end of my rainbow lies a golden oldie…’

The music poured in from the small radio sitting atop the side table on Garraty’s left. Lyrics were coming at him with lightening speed but the man could only focus on the pile of red yarn that was to become a scarf.

Calmly and serene, Ray leaned back so the pea green recliner would rock back and forth and glanced up to catch the afternoon light hitting through the picture window & into the living room. But it blazed across more than just a plaid family-style couch and the matching glass lamp set.

It also bled through the canvas’s Pete had laid across the hardwood to dry while he made himself a peanut butter sandwich. There were about five or six medium sized paintings bathing in the sunshine that Ray had to paused and admire.

He craned his neck towards the kitchen area behind him in their tiny apartment. “You sure you don’t want me to make you something…like a real lunch?” He rolled his lips together.

Pete leaned on the counter, getting into the intimate space of their laundry basket which they’d yet to empty since it’s last trip to the Laundromat. “Save your energy, Ray-baby.” He chuckled, biting into the bread and coming over to lean on the side of the recliner. “You got a whole dinner to whip up for good ol’ mom.”

“Oh, don’t remind me.” Ray frowned, setting his knitting aside. His mother was due for a visit because she’d been dying to see his new apartment. And though the roommate was expected…she did not know he’d been dating his roommate since Junior Year of high school. Which was a long time to not know about something considering they were both Juniors in College these days. 

“Personally, I’m excited.” Pete ruffled Ray’s hair and sat back in his spot on the hardwood and went about poking at his paintings.

Ray sighed, head falling to lean on his open palm with a dreamy look of distance. He stared at the back of McVries head for a few seconds. He squinted one eye when the sun glared back at him. “I’m tired.”

“Isn’t that somethin’?” Pete laughed. “Man has barely moved all afternoon and he’s tired.” He knew the man had just rolled his eyes because he almost always waved his hand about when he did so, it danced in the light with the floating dust particles.

Ray tilted his chin and chuckled into his hand. “Call it domestic bliss taking it’s toll.” He reached his leg out and gently kicked Pete’s back for attention which was gladly accepted with the man’s new twisted position, palm flat on the floor.

They stared at each other for a few moments before Pete turned his body comfortably and started rubbing his hands up and down Ray’s ankle. “I take good care of you, Don’t I Ray?”

Garraty leaned back into the chair and stretched his leg out further. “Oh yeah, asshole.” He gently smirked and crossed his arms over the yarn in his lap. “You sure do.”

Pete’s grin was wild yet softly earnest. It kinda made Ray’s heart flutter in his chest. He knew the man was shoving all his own nerves down to appear as if this ‘meeting-mom’ situation wasn’t bothering him.

“Mom’s gonna dig you. I bet.”

Pete nodded, waiting to smile until his head pointed the floor that time. The radio had since faded into the next song which played on & on…

‘It happens all the time

This crazy love of mine

Wrapped around my heart

Refusing to unwind

Ooh-ooh, crazy love, ah…’

“They’re gonna start with the Christmas stuff soon, huh Ray?” Pete asked as he let his hand water-fall down Ray’s leg to rub small circles with his thumbs at his ankles. His palms rested against his boyfriends wool socks and were semi-covered by the green flannel pajama pants that Ray loved so much. 

Garraty nodded slowly and let his eyes flutter shut. For it was still early enough in the day that he still felt loosely tired from their late night adventures. Soon it would be late enough to be pre-tired for the upcoming night. 

“My boy fucking loves Christmas.” Pete let go of Ray’s leg and heaved himself to stand once more while Garraty let out a small huff of a protest and winked one eye open.

“I told you that nickname sounds a little weird.” 

The sun-rays outside shifted just a touch and some of that late autumn light escaped the boys. What remained was hitting McVries’s back and framing him with a mellow orange light. It reminded Garraty of the chalk tracings police did when they found a body laying somewhere. ‘Did they still do that though?’ He wondered to himself. 

Pete smiled again, showing his teeth. “Sorry.” He swiped the pad of his thumb under his nose and smoothly tilted his head in that mysterious kinda way he used to in high school. “You thinkin’ we get the tree up and running around...?” 

“We’ll go to the farm tomorrow. Also, remind me to pick up a Christmas sweater for Stebbins, yeah?” Ray finally set aside the knitting and stood from his comfortable chair. McVries raised a brow. 

“Why are we buying our neighbor a sweater?” Though the two of them had known the guy since high school, Stebbins remained a mysterious character that never failed to surprise them. 

“Oh you know he’s coming to our family party, he’s like our dog. At least he’d look nice this year.” Ray giggled on his way over to the coffee machine on their counter. That had been a purchase he’d never dare to regret. The two of them used the it way too often and served themselves a lot of steaming cups. He heard the sweet sound of Pete’s crazed laughter pour in from behind the loud machine. “By the way, What’s the status on your family’s attendance?” 

Pete stopped giggling and reached for the mug Ray had prepared. “Well, my mother...” He paused to sip the hot cup of black coffee and felt the afternoon roll over him. “Said she’s dying to attend and that checks off my father too, he’s always with the ol’ lady. And they’ll be bringing Katrina along. She’s seven now and doesn’t take well to sitters, you know?” 

Ray grinned and leaned back against the counter. “Think she’ll take well to me?” 

“Oh, she’d better. I think you’re sticking around for the long run, Ray-baby.” Pete reached out to tap Ray’s cheek but his cheeky boyfriend slipped away and sipped his own drink which was in a long travel mug. 

“I’m going to put some real clothes on and get the last few things I need for dinner.” He set his cup down next to where Pete was dipping his finger in his own. “And you are...” Garraty let his hand gesture to his boyfriend who simply smiled. 

“Going to put on some Nat King Cole like a romantic bastard and wait up for you...?” 

Ray rolled his eyes and bumped their hips together as he shoved past McVries. 

“Dean Martin?!” Pete called after him and ignored the annoyed huff coming from the bedroom. He leaned over the kitchen island “Volare, oh oh....” He paused, not sure of the way to finish the lyrics. 

Ray came out, fresh from the green plaid and sporting an expression that told of the smile he was trying to hold back. 

“I will actually go to my doctor’s appointment this time. Promise.” Pete heaved himself off the counter and gave Ray the softest kiss on the cheek. “Now you hurry back.” He patted his back and walked Ray on up to their door. Pete glanced up to the window and took note of the dusting of snow that was just beginning to fall. As Ray shoved his arms through his coat sleeves, Pete grabbed the front and helped him pull it to a comfortable position. Making sure he was snug and warm. 

“Take my car, will ya? Your car’s lack of heat is going to have you catching your death, Ray-baby.” He sniffled, as if for emphasis and smiled. 

                      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ray tried not to worry about McVries proving himself to be an honest man this time but he couldn’t help but have a little dilemma over it...starting in the cereal aisle. 

Pete was no stranger to skipping out on doctors appointments. They made him uncomfortable and...itchy...according to him. But Ray hounded him several times to get himself a check-up. After all, it was important to know your own status. He glanced over an expiration date on a carton of milk and frowned. 

He was reaching for some pie crust when his phone started ringing. 

“-What’s my social security number?” Pete’s voice filled his ear before he could even think. Ray opened his mouth but quickly closed it when he realized he was not sure how to answer. “I’m in the waiting room-which is horribly crowded by the way, I feel like the room might pop, and I can’t fill this form out.” 

“Ummm, how many numbers is it?” Ray asked lamely and scratched the back of his ear. He was twenty years old and should know this kind of shit now but he found his mind blanking. 

“Nine...” Pete’s voice was unsure. 

Ray sighed and blew air out towards the dirty ceiling of the grocery store. “Are we idiots?”

“Probably.” Pete laughed and Ray felt a little comforted. 

“Give me a second, I’ll call you back.” Ray said a quick goodbye and dialed his weirdest option that just might work. “Hello, Stebbins?” 

Their neighbor was quite the character but Ray kinda loved having him around just as much as he got creeped out by it sometimes. “I need you to do me a favor and get the spare key for our apartment-”

“oh, no need. I have a key already.” 

Ray paused. ‘When did we give him a key...?’  “Ok well, can you go in and look through the paperwork in the left kitchen drawer. I need Pete’s Social Security number-”

“Oh, I know that already. Got a pen?” Stebbins voice was bouncy and Ray smacked his palm to his forehead. 

“How-? Stebbins, I-...never-mind. Tell me.” 

After that, there seemed to be no more hiccups in the day’s routine. Garraty loaded his groceries and drove home feeling relieved yet a little nervous for the dinner that night. But nothing he couldn’t manage. 

                       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ray was welcomed back into the apartment by an overwhelming flood of Nat King Cole’s voice. ‘Ramblin’ Rose’. 

He set the bags down on the counter, dreading having to pack them away and gently leaned over the back of the couch to kiss Pete’s hair. “That was a quick appointment. How’d it go? Dr. Marcy say anything worth noting?” he asked, coming round to take the seat next to him. He tried to hold back his intense curiosity. 

Pete shrugged and grinned as he leaned into Ray’s traveling arm. “Nothing much. You better start on dinner, don’t want your mom waitin’ on you.” 

Ray quirked his brow and trailed his fingers up and down McVries’s arm. “What aren’t you telling me?” 

“Nothing. It’s not a big deal, Ray-”

“Is it nothing or something that’s not a big deal, Peter?” Ray narrowed his eyes and sighed when Pete wiggled out of his grip and moved towards the record player. 

Their apartment had gotten slightly darker and if Ray wanted to serve his mother something warm but not too hot, he’d better start Dinner soon. Pete had been right about that. 

“Dr. Marcy talked to me about...” He broke off and sighed, screwing around with the volume dial. “She thinks I might be...depressed. And so she prescribed me a low dose of some medication to try out. No big deal.” Pete waved his hand about but Ray was at a loss for words. 

“Depressed?” 

Pete nodded and shrugged at the same time. “She’s kinda old that Dr. Marcy though...so who really knows?” He chuckled. When that sound faded out, the boys were left with nothing more to do but stare at each other. 

“How can you be depressed-? I mean, we’re happy...How can you be sad when...-” Ray gestured around their apartment and Peter gave him that gentle, admiring look. It meant he was too busy being fond of Ray to talk. So Ray frowned. 

“I don’t think depression works like that, Ray.” He slipped the record back into it’s sleeve and shrugged like he wasn’t sure of anything he said but Ray knew that was just a front. “I don’t think it matters how great your life might be.” He tilted his head back and sighed. “I’ve been through some shit, you know. Priscilla....during our break-up.” 

Garraty nodded. He and Pete had briefly went separate ways after high school graduation when McVries decided he was going to take the year off and travel. Ray realistically figured ol’ Pete wouldn’t ever find the right time to come back for school and they’d broken up for quite some time. 

Pete had experienced a whole relationship in that time with a girl that had broken his heart and left a scar on his cheek. 

“I think I’ve been aware of some of these things that were bothering me....just not how much, y’know?” McVries shrugged. “School, changes...and all that jazz. Sometimes depression falls upon you, Ray-baby. It doesn’t have anything to do with you or...our life together. It’s just...-I don’t know. Could be nonsense.” 

Ray felt his stomach drop. “Pete, it’s not nonsense. Your doctor is a smart lady and...” He let out some air and frowned again. “I’m sorry, I just don’t know how to talk about this. I’ve never...-I never had to deal with anything like this before. I don’t get it.” He shrugged, trying to be honest. Pete only raised his brows and shrugged back. 

From a floor below, they heard another neighbor and good friend, Art Baker, start up his own record player. A muffled version of Neil Young’s ‘Sugar Mountain’ briefly filled up their space. 

Ray opened his mouth but before anymore words could come out, there was a knock at the door. They shared a look before he darted up from his seat. “Shit!” 

Pete got up from the floor and prepared himself for an early visit from Ray’s mother which he was sure that knock suggested. He sat on the back of the flannel couch and pooled his hands together in his lap. 

“Raymond! I seemed to have left the house too early but forgive me, I was a little antsy because you seemed all excited on the phone.” Her voice was soft and sweet. “Is this that roommate you’re so fond of?” 

Pete paused some of his racing nerves and general muted lowness to smirk and reach for the kind woman’s hand. Ray blushed. “Peter McVries, nice to meet you.” 

Pete honestly wasn’t sure what the plan for the evening was and it was already off to a rough start since she’d come before dinner could even be started. But, he also wasn’t sure when his boyfriend planned on explaining to his mother just how fond he was of him. 

"Nice to meet you, young man.” She smiled and gave her son a polite and apologetic bump to the arm for coming so early. 

“I haven’t even started Dinner yet, mom. Hope you don’t mind the wait.” Ray bashfully shook his head. 

“Of course not.” She shrugged and Ray gestured for her to take a seat which she gladly did. 

“I’ll get you some tea.” 

Ray took off for the kitchen area, grabbing Pete’s arm as he sped off. “This is off to a bad start, huh?” McVries chuckled and hoped he’d at least get a grin but Ray looked positively rattled. He dropped his shoulders and rubbed a hand against his forehead. “Hey, hey, hey...” He made sure Ray’s mother was turned off and gently slid his hand against Garraty’s cheek. “I know the last few minutes have been chaotic but...it’s gonna be just fine, Ray.” 

“But...this has got me all worried about you and-” He could tell his boyfriend was getting all worked up and Ray didn’t need that. He was the best man that Pete knew and he deserved to relax. 

Pete rubbed a small circle against his skin. “You don’t need to worry, Ray-baby. We take care of each other, huh? I take care of you just the same as you do for me. And maybe this is just the start of a time where-...” Pete swallowed “Where I need the ‘takin’ care of’ part.” He shrugged and let his hand slide back down Ray’s cheek to clasp his raised hands to his own.

“Now, let’s go about our day. We’re gonna chat with your ol’ mom and maybe find the right time to tell her about us. Then...” He tapped their noses together for a brief second and enjoyed the tiny sigh Ray let out in response. “We get to be alone again...in our pajamas....oh, and the radio’s gonna start on that Christmas stuff soon, huh? Maybe tonight?” Pete pressed a soft kiss to Ray’s temple, gave him a small pat on the arm and took off to deliver the tea they’d promised. 

Ray softly and slowly turned on the tips of his toes, feeling the slight slip of his socks. When his eyes found Pete who was again back-lit with golden light and stirring a steaming mug for his mother....Ray let a satisfied sigh escape his lips. With the stream of air, he sank back on his flat feet and floated over. 

“Here you are, it’s chamomile!” Pete hovered the hot drink in front of Mrs. Garraty who gladly stole it with a polite smile. “Only the best for our guest-”

“Mom, I have something I want to tell you.” Ray interrupted and took a seat on the arm of his favorite recliner where Pete had planted himself but thirty seconds ago. 

“Oh, alright. What is it?” She patted his knee and took a careful sip out of her pea green mug. 

His partner looked up at Ray with wide and questioning eyes that only spurred Ray on further and gave him a new shy smile. “Pete isn’t just my roommate-” Ray ignored the adorable way Pete was tugging on his sleeve and trying to hide his fond grin in favor of a questioning expression for Ray’s sake. “He’s my boyfriend. We’re dating.”

Ray’s mother quieted and held strongly onto the pea green mug. Ray had been her son long enough to know that her expression meant that she didn’t know what to say. “I didn’t-...well, I didn’t know that you were...-you never told me.” 

“Yeah...” Ray nodded, picking at a loose thread on his pants. “I just never....-I never found...the time...” he trailed off and met Pete’s wandering, lovely eyes. “Oh hell, Mom. Honestly, I just didn’t want to.” He turned back to her and shrugged because that was really the only answer he had to give for that. 

She widened her eyes and set the mug down on the coffee table. “How long?” 

Pete and Ray turned to each other, eyes meeting for confirmation for a few seconds. “Since the start of Junior Year-”

“Oh, that’s not so bad. You’re still just Juniors-”

“-Of high school.” Ray finished, a little ashamed. 

His mother coughed, planting her palm on her chest and trying to recollect herself. “My son has been in a relationship for that long...with a man...and never told me?” She narrowed her eyes and Ray felt a rush of nerves. She opened and closed her mouth, looking nervous herself in the presence of Pete.  

“If you want, I could just go for a quick walk while mother & son discuss some things?” Pete shrugged himself up and ran a quick hand down the front of his jeans. Ray attempted to tug his sleeve just as he’d done before but Pete seemed set to go.  

“That’d be really kind of you, Peter. Thank you.” Ray’s mother gave him a warm look that McVries felt very comforted by. He hoped his smile read the same to her. He decided it was permission enough to risk it and leaned over to kiss the top of Ray’s head, ruffling his hair once more before going for the front door. 

Ray would be fine. He squeezed his hand reassuringly before he’d slipped out of grip. 

                      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Apartment 15′s door came to a creaky close behind McVries’s back and pressed the wreath into his neck. It was refreshingly itchy and maybe a little hot from the tiny multi-colored bulbs that were littered throughout the green. 

The long tan hall of their building was decked out with a long train of red & white beads and the soft glow bouncing off the silver tinsel scattered on the carpet below him was blinding. But Pete had a friend in the blow-mold Santa that stood against Stebbins wall with a kind gleam in his crescent moon eyes. The ol’ bastard was laughing...

The tiny window just at the end was surrounded by larger bulbs and from where he was standing, through the paned glass McVries could see the end of autumn bleeding into a chilly winter. Dusty flakes of snow were falling and starting to nestle right up against the tiny window ledge. 

They hadn’t been in this apartment long & it was sorta shitty. But it was what they could afford...it was perfect. There was something so heavenly about doing the dishes after a home-made waffle breakfast disaster and your boyfriend knowing exactly where the Ibuprofen was...in your home. The one where you both lived. Knowing you would wake up with them for every special occasion. The morning of your birthday, the morning of an anniversary, The morning of the dentist appointment they rescheduled for you....just...the next morning. Every night with them, there’d be a next morning with them. 

McVries almost couldn’t take how much that made his heart swell. He couldn’t wait to check Christmas Morning off the list. He glanced back at their door and sighed. 

When a door opened just over his shoulder, Pete didn’t even have to venture a guess to know who it was. 

“You wanna sit on my balcony with me?” Stebbins leaned against his door-frame and grinned like his request was the most normal thing in the world. 

“It’s snowing, Stebbins...” Pete gestured to the window and looked back to the smiling blonde and sighed. “You know what, I’ll come in but no balcony.” He shrugged and followed him into his apartment. 

Stebbins apartment was shining. His Christmas tree was wide and strings of bubble lites straight from the 1950′s bridged every branch gap. The long, skinny tubes bubbled the rainbows of liquid and dazzled his living room. 

Nearly all of his tables were covered in miniature blow mold Santa’s and collectible Holiday figurines. McVries let a smirk slowly cover his face when he heard a small whistle and found a toy train track around the Tree skirt where the tiny-locomotive was speeding in circles. “You do this all in a day, Stebbins? I was just here like yesterday-” 

Stebbins nodded and flicked the cheek of a blushing elf figurine. “Try an hour.” He smirked, crossing his arms like this was the proud he’d ever be in his life. McVries sorta admired that about him. “Why were you kicked out? Ray sick of you?” 

Pete chuckled and made himself comfortable on the guys couch, arms behind his head as he sighed deeply. “Not yet. His mother is over...” He bit into his lip and Stebbins made an ‘O’ face. “Yeah, so he’s trying to explain how gay he’s been this whole time without her knowing about it. Thought it was best to give mother and son some alone time, you know?” 

Stebbins hummed. “Is all still well in paradise?”

“Seems so. She didn’t seem...startlingly pissed or anything, anyway. But Ray’s got himself all worked up in the last hour so he might be losing her on the ‘calm-chat’...” Pete shrugged. 

“What got him keyed up? You try to stick another fork in the toaster?” Stebbins pursed his lips. 

“That was one time and I didn’t even do it. I forgot you weren’t supposed to do that shit and my toast was stuck.” McVries huffed and rolled his eyes as he laid back on the couch. “No. I just...-my doctor told me that I might have depression and gave me some medication. You know how touchy and sensitive Ray can be. He’s just making it too big of a deal.” 

Things between them were quiet again. Stebbins leaned his chin onto his open palm and hummed once more. There was something in his tone that read interested and it gave of his eerie calm nature. “Been there.” 

Pete quirked a concerned brow and felt a weird type of understanding covering each of them like a fog. Neither of them felt eager to actually discuss the situation. “When?” 

The blonde rolled his lips together. “It got very present during that period after our graduation-” 

“That long? You didn’t tell us and you sure as hell didn’t have any family to help-” his voice was angry but he couldn’t help it. Stebbins put on a good show sometimes but he was their friend. Part of McVries didn’t think hiding that shit was ok. Just from the knowing smothering kind that lived deep in his chest that he hadn’t realized was kinda killing him, he knew Stebbins must’ve been going through some tough shit. 

Stebbins leaned back. “Didn’t want to talk about it. Plus, you were leaving and Ray was busy focusing on school preparations. Besides, I handled it myself. Got some medication...it seemed to even me out just fine.” 

“You still take it?” Pete asked in a low voice and Stebbins gave him a soft smile. 

“Not at the moment, no. I got back on the ‘happy track’” He rolled his eyes. “But it’s not the same for everyone and there’s no shame in needing medication, Pete-boy. Sometimes we can’t deal with it alone.” Stebbins patted his friends arm in a kind and gentle way before leaning back on the arm of the coffee brown couch. 

Pete thought on that for a minute or two and hoped that the conversation could die on that note for now. He’d think about it in bed later. Stebbins seemed to read that on his face as easily as ever. 

“So, you get Ray’s Christmas gift yet?”

Pete hummed. “Not his actual gift but I got him a good stack of those vintage Christmas cards from that vintage shop, you know how he likes those. Just a little bonus gift.” 

“They got the writing in them from all those years ago? Ray likes feeling connected to old people from the past or something like that.” Stebbins chuckled and bit into a chocolate covered strawberry that McVries didn’t remember him having a moment ago. 

“Of course.” Pete rolled his eyes because that was obvious. 

“What’s his big gift? If it’s a book about Urban Legends that you found in my closet...than one of us needs to switch.” Stebbins swallowed his hunk of food and McVries wondered again how they’d ever become friends with such an odd character. 

“No, you dimwit.” 

“Oh, you’re proposing than. I got it.” He nodded to himself, blonde hair flicking about. McVries choked on his own spit. 

“What-? No....no. He just told his mom about us like five minutes. Why would I be proposing?” He sputtered his words into the calm face of his friend who was still smiling like that damn Cheshire cat. “It’s too soon...”

Stebbins raised a brow and sucked on another strawberry. 

“Unless...do you think that’s what he’s expecting?” McVries was suddenly opened up to a whole new world of anxiety. 

“I can’t read minds, McVries.” Stebbins winked. 

Pete put his head in his hands and erupted into a long, frustrated sigh. The blonde ruffled Pete’s hair and went to answer the door five seconds before the knocking even started. 

“Pete here?” 

McVries looked up and met Ray’s beautiful eyes. He gave him a concerned and curious look and Ray nodded softly. ‘All’s well’ it said. 

“She wants to know the story of how we got together. I figured you’d like to tell that one with me...?” Ray giggled in that irresistible way which had McVries up and across Stebbin’s apartment in seconds flat. 

“Of course! That’s the best story, Ray-Baby!”