#and I got to see Vegas get his ass beat Yet Again as he fuckin should!

[witski]

im not gonna lie and say I wouldn’t want a season 2 but honestly, I am okay with just this. I am happy in my little gay corner

[saxxxology]

Freedom | oneshot

PAIRING: Sam Winchester x Reader WORD COUNT: 2,446 WARNINGS: spoilers for “Inherit the Earth,” character death, drinking to cope, minor trauma processing, smut, post-sex feels, stress/anxiety NOTE: This fic is set post 15x19 - “Inherit the Earth.” Do not save or repost my work without my consent. This work is 18+ only.

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“So we’re free.”

Sam glances up, casting his eyes over the rim of his beer bottle to where you’re perched on the edge of the counter. Legs slightly parted under the hem of your knee-length nightshirt, back slouched, eyes boring into him like you can see right through his skin and into his soul.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Chuck’s gone, Jack’s… doin’ his thing, I guess. There’s nobody calling the shots for us anymore.”

You hum, tipping back your bottle of vodka to take a long swallow. The clear alcohol burns your throat, and you let out a sigh that turns warm in your chest. “Where’s Dean?”

“Holed up in his room.” Sam swipes his tongue over his teeth. “He hasn’t really been able to process Cas, I figured we could give him a few days.”

“Yeah.” You swallow thickly and raise the bottle to your lips again. “Fuckin’ Cas, man.”

“I know.” Sam chuckles. “He was one of the good ones.”

You nod in agreement. “I’ll second that.”

There’s a long silence, interrupted only by the dull clink of glass on metal, the swish of liquid in an almost-empty glass, and a repetitive shuffle of paper as Sam flips absentmindedly through a two-day-old newspaper.

“How are you?” you ask, eager to break the quiet. Sam’s eyes flicker up to you once again, and you shift a little on the counter. “I’m just asking because you haven’t said much since we got back.”

Sam tightens his lips and takes a deep breath. “I don’t know, really. I feel numb. Like, I don’t know if it just hasn’t hit yet, but… yeah, I feel numb.” He rolls his shoulders back and downs the rest of his beer in a single swallow.

“Same here.” You sniff, screwing the cap back onto the tall vodka bottle and setting it aside. “I’m so tired of it. Dean said Cas died and I felt nothing.”

“You’re in shock,” Sam excuses, “and we’ve been dealing with so much shit, we can’t process all of it at once. Cas deserves to be… he deserves for us to grieve for him, without thinking about anything else.”

You chew on your lower lip, surveying him as he rubs his forehead with one hand. He’s tense, the relief of having Chuck gone only half-there. All three of you are used to things being too good to be true, only for shit to hit the fan right after you’ve booked a beach vacation or a weekend in Vegas.

But hell, you deserve to take a little bit of this newfound freedom for granted. Besides, it’s been a while since you had the time or energy to get laid. Sam’s hot, you’re needy… one night of not considering fallout from anything might be nice.

“Sam?”

“Hmm?”

You take a quick breath, leaning back to brace one hand just behind your hip. “If I asked you to fuck me, would you?”

He stiffens, unable to keep his gaze from drifting over to you. He looks beat; tired and lost and just a little scared of the world. For a second you regret asking, thinking he might just say no and get to blame it all on the alcohol.

“I…” he blows air through his lips as pink stains his cheeks. “Are you drunk?”

“Not really.” You speak a little too soon, as your focus begins to drift and you blink twice to clear your vision. “Well, maybe not enough.”

“No, don’t drink any more.” Sam stands up, abandoning his empty bottle on the table as he shuffles over to you. The toes of his boots drag on the polished concrete floor; he’s so cautious about it, like he’s scared to indulge in something other than people prying him for answers or questions. He hates selfishness, and taking this, taking you… it’ll be the ultimate self-indulgence that he may or may not come out of feeling like he deserved it.

“You scared of me?” you tease, tipping your head back as he leans a hip against the side of the counter.

“Never.” He chuckles softly. “You really okay? You want this?”

You lick your lower lip. “Am I ever okay?”

“That’s true.” He sighs heavily, raking his eyes down the column of your neck, over your nipples pressing through the dark blue fabric of your shirt, your stomach, the rise of your thighs, and then right back up to yours…

It’s like he’s a virgin all over again, you think to yourself. He needs a little help getting into it.

You reach for his hand. He lets you take it, guiding his fingers under the hem of your nightshirt. The tips of his fingers are still cold, chilly from his beer, and you shiver a little when he guides them against the inside of your thigh, creeping closer and closer to your core.

He inhales sharply through his nose when his fingers slip against the smooth, warm lips of your pussy. Your thighs part a little more, and you let out a little sigh when he takes the lead, nudging the tip of his index finger down into wet heat.

“Why are you not wearin’ any panties?” he asks.

You arch an eyebrow. “Why are you questioning it?”

He chuckles, bracing his free hand on the metal countertop next to your hip, and slips his fingers a little farther into your folds. You shimmy a little to encourage him, and he lowers his head, the tip of his nose pressing against your cheek to nudge your head back.

He kisses you hungrily, humming against your lips as you reciprocate eagerly. You can taste the beer on his lower lip, and he deepens the kiss, licking into your mouth as his fingers explore deeper between your legs. He finds your clit, targeting smooth, gentle rolls over it as your hand wanders over the front of his jeans.

“Fuck me,” you whisper, “please, Sam, I need you.”

He growls, stepping quickly between your thighs. “Not here.”

He scoops you up, striding towards the steps and feeling his way into the hall. You wrap your legs around his waist. The door to his bedroom is open, and you giggle when he kicks it shut, lips still glued to yours. He lowers you to the ground, waiting for you to stand still before running his hands under the fabric of your nightshirt.

“Get this off,” he murmurs, stripping it roughly over your head and tossing it to the floor. He palms your tits, thumbs rubbing over your nipples, and you arch into the sensation, pulling at the buttons of his flannel, popping each metal clasp until he can shrug it off. He cups your face with both hands, pushing his hips closer as you tug at his belt. His jeans fall to the ground with a dull thud, leaving him in just a pair of navy blue boxers.

He pulls back when you slide a hand into the waistband of his boxers, wrapping your fingers around the hard length of his dick. His pelvis jerks into your touch, and you grin up at him, stretching up onto your toes to claim his mouth in a deep, dirty kiss.

“Condom,” he whispers, “in the nightstand—”

“No,” you reply breathlessly, “I’m on the pill.”

Sam smirks, his hands sliding down to grope your ass. “That works, too.”

He kisses you hard, lifting you up just enough to dump you on the bed. He crawls over you eagerly, reaching down to stroke himself, and you whimper when the thick tip drags through your folds.

He sinks inside with a loud sigh, fisting his cock to push deeper as you squirm underneath him. Your knees fall open, giving him as much room as possible, and his hand falls beside your waist to brace when he gets himself deep enough to thrust comfortably.

Your nails dig into his hips on the first deep, desperate grind. He hisses at the sting and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your lips, panting hard as he thrusts into a rhythm that has the frame of his bed shuddering under the force.

He feels like heaven. Thick and hot and hard as his belly slides against yours, skin already dotted with sweat. His hand comes up to cup your face, fingers curling against your hair as his lips dot a line down your throat, over your chest, and then wrap around a swollen nipple. Your head falls back against a pillow, and you plant your toes firmly against the mattress for leverage. He grunts when you push up against him, allowing him to move even deeper inside until he bottoms out.

“Stay right there,” he mutters. He heaves himself up in one smooth motion, eyes locking on your face as he drops his entire weight into his thrusts. The loud slap of flesh on flesh echoes through the room, and you’re unable to stop your gasps and moans when you feel the ache of it. He grabs your wrists when you try and touch him, pinning them down on either side of your head, and you let out a long sigh of his name that earns a feral growl in reply. The roll of his hips changes when you squeeze around him, deep scoops that have your belly clenching.

“Oh my God, don’t stop,” you breathe, “make me cum, baby, please…”

“That’s the fuckin’ plan.” Sam dips his head to kiss you, and you wiggle playfully in his grip, the tease only making his fingers curl tighter. “You need to touch yourself?”

“No.” You catch a breath when he pauses, lips feather light against yours. “Just keep movin’ like that.”

He chuckles, shifting his weight for balance before resuming the same delicious, expert strokes. His eyes drift down your body until they land between your legs, and he groans at the sight of his cock plunging in and out of your cunt, shiny with your slick.

“Yeah, that’s it, honey,” he murmurs, “c’mon and cum for me.”

You push up against his thrusts, mouth falling open as the hot skin above his dick rubs against your clit. You’re almost there, you can feel it brimming in the pit of your belly, and when Sam’s thrusts turn into hard, bestial shoves, you spiral into bliss, convulsing between Sam’s body and the mattress as he fucks you through it. His grip on your wrists loosens, and you wrap your arms tight around his shoulders, dragging him down on top of you. He slows, then stops, lifting his head from the crook of your neck to press a lazy kiss to your cheek.

“Good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you reply breathlessly, “you didn’t—”

He stops you with a kiss. “I will. C’mere.”

He rolls onto his back, keeping you close with an arm looped around your waist. You situate yourself on top of him, eyes falling closed as your head spins.

“Whoa, there,” he chuckles, “here, baby, put your hands right here.”

“I know how to ride a dick, dummy.” You arch your back, leaning forward far enough to brace your palms over his shoulders, tits just inches away from his kiss-swollen lips. He huffs, fingers splaying out on your hips as you begin to ride him, rolling your hips and bouncing down on his cock. He grunts, mouth opening in a soft O, and you moan when he gives an instinctive little push of his hips, meeting you halfway as you find your own rhythm.

“Fuck,” he moans, craning his neck to lap his tongue against one nipple. You pull back before he can get a real taste, scraping your nails over his chest as you work him harder, faster, until his soft pants and grunts turn into full-fledged moans.

He cums with a strangled groan, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. You keep moving, giggling when he arches and bucks underneath you, breathing high in his throat as he crosses the brink from pleasure to overstimulation. Unable to take any more, he pushes you off with a hoarse laugh, and you collapse beside him, giggling with your lower lip between your teeth.

“Fuck, I needed that,” you sigh, turning your head to gaze at him.

“Me too.” He stretches one arm under your head, allowing you to scoot close into his side and rest your cheek against his chest. His heart is a steady beat, thumping slower and slower as his body calms, and you tip your head back to kiss under his jaw. He smiles, allowing his eyes to flutter closed, and skims his thumb over your shoulder.

You lie together in silence for a long time, calming down with soft kisses and touches. You’re the one to break the silence, running a hand over a small scar on his opposite shoulder.

“I don’t know why we never did this before,” you comment.

“Me either.” Sam kisses you tenderly. “It was good.”

You sigh against his lips, gazing up into his eyes as an ache suddenly builds in your throat. “Cas died.”

He nods slowly, exhaling long and slow through his nose. “Yeah. You wanna talk?”

You shrug. “I guess.”

“Tell you what.” Sam props himself on one elbow, leaning down to nuzzle your shoulder. “How about we take a shower, put something on the TV, we can take our time.”

“Uh… yeah,” you sigh, trying to keep your voice steady. “You go ahead.”

Sam gives you a soft, sad smile. “Don’t take too long, ‘kay?”

“I won’t.” You let your head roll back onto a pillow and close your eyes. “I just… I need to cry for a few minutes and I wanna be alone.”

He clicks his tongue and grazes his fingers over your cheek. “All right. I’ll save some hot water for you.”

“Don’t steal it all.”

“I won’t.” He kisses your cheek. “It’s gonna be okay.”

You sigh deeply. “I know. Go on, I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay.” He slides out of bed, and you watch him tread slowly to the door and disappear into the hallway. Rolling onto your side, you bury your face against his pillow, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath and holding it.

Your strokes of luck lately have been too good to be true, and there’s a weight in your stomach that usually only means one thing. All the big, heavy-hitting players are gone. It’s just you, Sam, and Dean now, left alone to form your own little path in the world for the first time ever. It’s terrifying.

Shit’s going to hit the fan, and when it does, this time, it’ll be the worst thing to happen to you.

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[flatstarcarcosa]

Reese... i am absolutely clueless but i don't WANT to be. so. please explain to me who Zaeed is. i wanna know everything. what's his story. where is he from. what does he do. what is he like. literally use this as an excuse to talk about him at length and also tell me how he came into your life, pls and thank u!!! -heavenshipped

@heavenshipped

he's an old pissy mercenary with a fucked up face, a fat ass, and one good eyeball.

"isn't that just slade?" you may be thinking and the answer to that is........

no, but actually, yes.

also there do be light mentions of drugs and general Junkie ShenanigansTM below

he's a dlc squadmate that shows up in mass effect 2. unfortunately being dlc means there's a lot of content and ideas that were originally cut, and there's not as many dynamic conversations w him as there are with others. he's also not romanceable but it works for selfshipping because any of the romanceable characters (and one other who isn't) are too tied to my shepards for me to ship with them.

i've actually been Looking Respectfully for a while but it was before i started selfshipping so i didn't really do much aside from curse bioware and the home of phobia of not letting us romance him.

i'm still fleshing out the details of our ship but i'm thinking i grew up on earth, it was inherently BadTM so i jumped at the first chance to hit up a colony. it did not go any better, and i just spent a lot of time hopping from place to place, causing mild chaos and abusing Many, Many substances.

when we do meet it's because i was running a con/hustle to get some quick credits, and zaeed thought i was a Literal Child that was about to Get Murdered by some pissed off aliens and intervened. i lost out on my money marks, he discovered i was actually An Adult and it left us in an awkward position of 'well, what now?'

for reasons he cannot immediately parse, he decides to give me a place to crash, initially just temporarily. we're having a grand ol time when i suddenly inform him mid sentence that i may have Taken Too Much and proceed to hit the floor and have a mild drug induced seizure in the middle of his kitchen.

for reasons he also cannot parse, he decides against his initial thought of dumping me in an alley and instead locks me in his bathroom and proceeds to detox my ass after he digs through my bag and sees just how many drugs i have on me.

(later on we pointedly ignore any medical professional who comments that detoxing someone in this way is dangerous as hell and you're more likely to kill them anything else because like. we know. it was fine. move on, we sure did.)

i spend the first three and a half days beating on the bathroom door and telling him all the ways i'm gonna eviscerate him if he doesn't open the door and give me my fucking shit back.

all total it takes about 10 days to clean me out, with him opening the bathroom long enough to make sure i'm at least drinking fluids if i won't eat. withdrawal kills your appetite, and makes you prone to puking for no reason.

the 11th day, i'm sitting at the table in the kitchen of the shitty rental apartment on whatever crappy colony we're on while he scrambles eggs and fries bacon and i ask him why the hell he bothered with any of this.

"beats me," he says. "i'm normally not one for doing anything that doesn't have a payoff in the end."

"i guess it beats waking up behind a dumpster again," i say.

after that we kind of just fall into a natural rhythm with each other, a weirdly comfortable fit despite his usual aversion to others and my inherent skittishness around them.

it takes a while for him to think about it, to realize that maybe it was just the timing of everything. maybe even he of all people was tired of never being able to put anything back into the galaxy. maybe the way i just calmly announced 'oh shit, i'm ODing again', with more annoyance and exhaustion in my voice than panic just stuck out to him. made him think of all the people he's run into before, lost and strung out and on their own.

all of them dead or dying and none of them knowing it yet.

maybe he just wanted to know if he could even keep someone alive, rather than being a walking curse and death sentence for anyone he meets.

maybe he was just lonely, and figured i was too.

he never really settles on one single answer that seems like it fits, and after a while, he figures it doesn't matter. what happened, happened.

and more importantly, it happened exactly the way it needed to, and thats all that really matters.

by the time the events of ME2 start, and commander shepard comes to recruit zaeed, i'm figuring him and i have been together about 5-7 years.

after the events of me2 and 3, and after the reaper war is over, zaeed uses his money he's been hoarding all these years and we buy a plot of land of bekenstein. the only thing on it is a dock on a lake that needs some TLC.

we build a two story cabin bit by bit, and zaeed of course builds a weapons bunker underneath, "just in case". there's a porch on the second story, a hot tub in the back yard, and a fireplace in the living room.

he spends the mornings drinking coffee and watching the sunrise, and the evenings with scotch and a cigar, watching it set, and every time he's amazed the both of us lived long enough to get to settle into something as mundane as this.

there's also stuff obviously related to me2 and 3 that i'm fleshing out of course.

also, this is some of the best content of the whole game and it's a simple fact.

also related to the above video:

i have a cheap ass, well worn, purple plush krogan toy that probably ended up costing him as much as a case of heat sinks and a whole fucking box of other prizes from the same claw machine.

oh!

we both got drunk one time and ended up at a vegas style space chapel, and neither of us have any recollection about it. he doesn't even know until he's visiting the citadel one day and the citadel tourism VI has his name hyphenated to massani-wilson.

"fuckin wot did you just call me?" "records indicate you and reese wilson-massani were married three years ago at-" "the goddamn hell we were-" "-Slicky Rickys Love Shack" "oh goddamn it. well, that explains the matching rings."

i also love the idea this comes out after shepard's recruited him, and shepard is just like

"wait you two have had matching ring for three years and didn't wonder what it was about?" "reese gets sentimental about weird shit, i figured it was just that." "well, cerberus didn't hire you for your critical thinking skills, i guess." "keep talkin' shepard and you'll be learning to do it out your arse." "i do that well enough already." "fair enough."

[brittle-bone-gabe]

You Sick Fuck

I just got a shit ton of adult Reddie prints in the mail from Redbubble and since they hang up at my desk and I’m always looking at them I’m now inspired to write a Reddie oneshot.  Read it on AO3: Here

Pairing: Adult Reddie  (Richie x Eddie)  Summary: Richie comes back home from a show and obviously has come down with a simple cold; of course Eddie freaks out, but is trying his best to help his boyfriend through this rough time. 

It wasn’t uncommon for Richie Tozier to come back from a show feeling groggy and exhausted, especially when he came back to California from Vegas, which was about a four hour drive in itself with no breaks. He did a double show this weekend, so he was ready to get back home to Eddie and pass the fuck out. Although, knowing his hypochondriac, germaphobic boyfriend there was no way he was going to be able to crash anywhere in the house until he takes a shower to make sure he doesn’t spread any illness or germs around the clean house. As much as Richie hated that about Eddie he still would respect his wishes and do whatever he could to make him more comfortable. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to pick on Eddie every chance he got though. 

The moment Richie stepped into the house he dropped his black backpack on the floor to his feet, kicking off his shoes before moving into the living room. He didn’t see Eddie, so of course he took that chance to take a seat on the couch to stretch his legs from sitting in that cramped car for four hours. 

Letting out a sigh, Richie was about to take a seat, until... 

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” Eddie’s voice came from behind Richie. When he turned around he saw the shorter man standing in the hallway that led out of the living room. He had an ‘you know better than to do that’ look on his face. 

“C’mon, I’m tireeeed...” Richie whined, “I had a twenty hour drive, Eddie Spaghetti, I deserve to sit.” 

Eddie’s eyebrows knitted together, knowing that something Richie said didn’t quite add up. Twenty hours? Well, that was bullshit, trying to make him feel bad for him so he could sit on the couch with his dirty clothes. 

“Dude, fuck off,” Eddie finally said, rolling his eyes, causing Richie to crack a smile. Eddie opened his mouth to speak again until Richie sneezed a couple of times into his arm, a twisted, disgusted look now on Eddie’s face. “Are you sick?”

“...No,” Richie answered slowly, rubbing his nose and clearing his throat. “No, I’m just-” he cleared his throat again, “I have something in my throat.” He walked over to the hallway where Eddie was still standing so he could take a shower and finally take a minute to relax, as he did, he took off the light coat he was wearing. He tossed it on the couch, knowing that it would surely piss Eddie off. Before he could protest, Richie planted a quick kiss on his cheek. “I love you!” He said loudly before going into the bathroom without waiting for an answer.

                                                         ---------

Almost thirty-minutes later, Richie finally came out of the bathroom with fresh clothes and damp hair. He plopped on the couch next to Eddie who was flipping through channels trying to find something to watch to distract himself while waiting for his boyfriend to come to accompany him. Richie sniffled, leaning his head on top of Eddie’s head with his eyes closed, suddenly not feeling 100%. It was as if he was cold yet warm at the same time, it felt as though there was something constantly in his throat even though he knew there wasn’t. Richie couldn’t help but jump a little when Eddie wrapped himself around him, leaning his head against his chest, listening to his heart beat. Yeah, it’s only been two days that Richie’s been gone, but goddamn he missed him so much. 

“I love you too,” Eddie finally said, closing his eyes as he started to relax, feeling Richie’s arm around him, using his thumb to stroke his shoulder. 

Richie opened his mouth to speak, a stupid smile on his face, but was left empty as he went into a coughing fit, sitting up as he coughed into his arm. Of course, Eddie scooted backwards, his eyes wide at this. There was no way he was getting sick, he wasn’t risking it for anybody, not even Richie. 

“Aw, c’mon, Eds,” Richie said once he was finally able to speak, but once he did he instantly went back to coughing. “Fuck...” he mumbled. 

“You are sick!” Eddie stood up from the couch, backing away by the TV.

“I didn’t know!” Richie watched as Eddie used the large tub of sanitizer, rubbing it on his hands and up his arms. “Are you serious?” 

Eddie took a deep breath, and Richie knew, he fuckin’ knew, that he was going to go on his rambles. Y’know, the ones where he speaks a million miles a minute and nobody could stop him? Yeah, that’s the one. 

“Do you know how fuckin’ contagious the common cold is? One. Single. Touch. And someone could catch it,” Eddie started quickly, taking Richie aback since it took him a moment to actually process what he was saying. That’s how fast he was speaking. “You know what most doctors visits are made up of?”

“Eddie-” 

“Do you?” Richie kept his mouth shut, looking up at Eddie, knowing that he was going to keep speaking even though he won’t respond. “The cold! And-”

“Eddie-” 

“And! We can get up to four colds a year. A year, dickweed!” 

“Fuck you.” 

“If I get sick because of you I swear to God I’m gonna kick your ass!”

“Eddie!” Richie said loudly, standing up from the couch, “you’re not gonna get sick, okay?! Chill out!” 

That was a mistake. 

“Chill out? Chill out? You put your... contagious saliva on me!”

“Well, fuck me for kissing my boyfriend.” 

“I’m...” Eddie closed his eyes for a moment, letting out the breath he’s been holding, “I’m sorry,” he said calmly, “you didn’t know. But you’re still contagious.” Richie couldn’t help but laugh, rubbing his eye. “Hold on.” 

Eddie moved past Richie, making sure he doesn’t accidentally touch him as he did. He went to the closet in the hallway, taking out an extra pillow and an extra blanket before going back to the living room. He put the pillow down on the arm rest, unfolding the blanket before nodding towards the couch. 

“Awww,” Richie said as he laid down on the couch, “are you gonna take care of me?” 

Eddie’s face turned pink as he spread the blanket across Richie, still being sure not to make skin-to-skin contact with him. He felt bad for going off on him, but by god if he got sick there would be hell to pay. It’s not like Eddie wanted to be like this, growing up with his overbearing mother who fed him lies about how “sick he was” made him much more paranoid about his overall health. The littlest change in his health, any small aches or pains would throw him into a panic, constantly asking Richie to feel his forehead, constantly checking his own temperature and taking pills to stop the sickness before it really starts. Nine times out of ten he never actually got sick, which just fuels his paranoia even more, so that’s when Richie has to come save the day by reassuring him over and over that he’ll be okay. Remembering all the times that Richie’s helped Eddie he came to the conclusion that it was his turn to return the favor.  

“Yes...” Eddie mumbled, moving his sleeve down over his hand before attempting to stroke his hair. “Because I love you.” 

“I didn’t hear you,” Richie said with a stupid grin on his face, “what was that?” 

“...I said I love you.” 

“I love you too.” Instead of touching Eddie, Richie used his hands to form a heart, getting an eye roll from Eddie in return before he went into the kitchen.

Richie laid there, watching whatever was on the TV as he could hear Eddie open up a couple of pill bottles, dumping some in his hands. It was hard to keep his eyes opened, even while waiting those five minutes for Eddie to come back with the medicine Richie had dozed off. Which was absurd since it was only 8pm and it was too early to go to bed. Guess that’s what happens when you get sick. 

“...huh?” Richie said, getting startled awake when Eddie bumped his shoulder with the cup of Sprite. 

“I said...” Eddie started speaking again, dropping the pills in Richie’s hand. To be honest, Richie was zoning out since his boyfriend was just rambling about sickness again, explaining how these pills would work and when they should start to kick in. “However, they don’t cure the cold, but it’ll just help-”

“If you say one more thing I swear to God I’m going to duct tape your mouth shut,” Richie said, pulling the blanket over his head after taking the meds. 

“Fine, I’ll just go.” 

“No, no, no, no...” Richie whined, looking out from under the blanket. “I’m sick, by law you have to stay with me.” When he looked up at Eddie he was giving him that you’re joking, right? look, Richie getting lost in his big brown eyes. “You’re so cute, you fuckin’ dork.” 

“I...” Eddie trailed off, turning away so Richie couldn’t see his face turning red. “Yeah, well... you’re handsome, even though you’re sick and gross.”

“...Thanks, Eds.” 

                                                        ---------

Eddie spent the rest of the night sitting in the recliner chair that was next to the couch while browsing through his laptop. Richie had been going on about his trip and his two day shows. Eventually he was starting to slow down, the cold pills were finally kicking in, putting him to sleep. When his soft snores filled the living room, Eddie glanced over at him, the blanket rising and falling with every breath he took. There was something simple yet pure about watching him sleep on the couch; he was finally quiet and not annoyingly loud with his stupid jokes. 

Letting out a defeated sigh, Eddie put the laptop down on the coffee table before standing up. He stretched until his joints popped, gently taking Richie’s glasses off his face before flipping off all the lights in the living room then he headed back to their room. 

It felt strange crawling into bed alone knowing that Richie was only in the living room. Normally they would stay up with each other, waiting until they were both ready to go to bed so they could sleep together. That’s why Eddie didn’t enjoy when Richie left to go for shows, he hated sleeping alone. Richie did make it more bearable though as he would FaceTime him every night and would fall asleep with it still going with their laptops next to them on their beds.

Eddie must’ve spent two hours tossing and turning in bed. While he felt tired he just could not sleep for the life of him. The empty space next to him felt even more empty and Eddie would catch himself reaching out for Richie even though he knew he wasn’t there. It was out of pure habit. 

He couldn’t take this anymore. Eddie climbed out of bed, grabbing his pillow and blanket, wrapping it around him before heading back out to the pitch black living room. Cursing when he stubbed his toe on the end table next to the couch, hopping towards the front of the couch. He pushed the light coffee table out of the way in front of the TV before making a spot on the carpet floor next to where Richie was laying. 

Yeah, the floor surely wasn’t comfortable, but it was better to be near Richie than to spend the night alone. Eddie let out a grunt as he was trying to make himself comfortable, but it felt like that was an impossible task. He let out a sigh, looking up at the ceiling, the fan spinning slowly. Next to him he could see Richie’s arm dangling off of the couch. 

Any and all fear of what germs he could possibly get by touching Richie’s skin went out the window when Eddie decided to reach up and grab his hand. Yeah, he was going to regret this if he ever got sick, but at that point he couldn’t blame Richie. He just needed some kind of physical contact with him. Even if it was just this. The overwhelming feeling of being close to Richie finally sunk in, now Eddie was starting to feel exhausted. He let out a yawn, turning towards the couch still holding onto Richie’s hand. 

“I love you, Richie,” Eddie said into the darkness. 

“’ove you ‘oo,” Richie mumbled in his sleep, turning over so he was facing Eddie. 

[snarkwriteswrasslin]

FFT : p.s I lo-; jon moxley

Notes:

so this originally came from @vonschweetz​ on my main’s asks... and it gave me yet another chance to play around with Jon and Jane, which is something I personally enjoy doing a lot. Perhaps I’ll get inspired to sit down and actually re-work their entire universe at some point, who knows.. until now, it’s here.

Summary:

Jon and Jane have been apart for years until finally... They’re not. Jane decides that she can’t take it anymore and she’s tempted to do something about it, but as per usual, Jon beats her to the punch...

Warnings:

uhh, alcohol tw - bc takes place in a bar.

Pairing:

Jon Moxley x OFC, Jane - from my vast universe for the two of them.

The paper fell out of his locker backstage, and before Mox could bend and pick it up and shove it back inside where it belonged, Sami was grabbing it off the floor and reading it, leaned against the door of the adjoining locker, using a cheesy narrator voice to really call attention to the good parts.

Mox snatched for it but Sami dove out of his way, snickering. “What’s your deal, man? It’s just an old note.”

“It ain’t just an old note. Give it back before I knock ya teeth down ya damn throat, Callihan.”

Sami eyed his friend and then the paper in his hand and a realization hit him. About a forgotten drunken conversation when they were both talking about regrets and things they’d do differently.

The letter in his hand was a break up letter, so it begged to question, why would Mox hold onto the damn thing?

Unless it belonged to Jane, the source of his friend Mox’s  one regret. “Jane wrote this, didn’t she? The night she packed up and left while ya were gone to a show in the next town..”

“Give me the fuckin note.”

Sami thrust it at him. It was either that or Mox bust his nose and frankly, Sami wasn’t into a trip to the ER that night.

“Still say ya oughta find her. You guys are gettin time off after this pay per view.. maybe ya head back to Ohio a few days, hmm? I can take ya, since I’m goin back after I watch your ass win this pay per view… Not like I got anything else goin on right now.” Sami offered his friend.

“And I said it’s in the past. I keep that to remind myself that this really is all I got, okay?”

“You got me.”

Mox snorted and Sami pretended to look hurt. For the time being, he dropped the subject.

It’s just too bad Mox’s mind didn’t. Instead, he found himself doing it again, just like he did a lot lately, and he found himself wondering what might have happened if he’d just… Tried a little harder, stopped fighting her so much and keeping her at arms length back then.

He thought she’d left because he was always gone. He was only just really realizing that it wasn’t him always being gone that had driven her away. It was him, keeping her at a distance, picking fights, doing stupid shit, making her doubt how he really felt. He was older now, so he could see the situation for what it was and he knew he was totally at fault.

Before, he kept the letter as a reminder that he’d literally given up everything for wrestling. Now, he kept the letter because it reminded him that he’d come a far cry from the guy he used to be. He was better, because of her.

And tonight, he kind of wished he’d be leaving the arena and going home to her. All the other guys had someone waiting. Mox was only going to have his empty Vegas apartment.

Maybe that dog who hung around the alley waiting for someone to throw food down.

And Sami’s simple question nagged at him again.

Why not reach out to her?

It was worth a shot, right?

He found himself opening and reading the letter again, furrowing his brow over the bottom of the page where the paper had gotten old and torn away at some point.

“Ps I Lo..”

( LE TIME SKIPPE)

The bar was playing his match tonight. The owner, Phil, he had a thing against WWE, but when he found out that hometown boy Jon Moxley switched over to AEW, he said he’d start showing their pay per views, so now, every few weeks, Jane found herself sitting at the same old bar her old man had when she was a kid on football weekends, nursing a Guinness and watching a sport that she only kinda loved because it made the man she loved happier than anything.

… sad part of it is, it made him happier than I did… the thought surfaced and Jane rolled her eyes at herself, ordering another beer and more hot wings. “Extra blue cheese this time, Phil. I see you skimping on it, I’m not stupid.”

As she dug into the plate of wings once they got bought out to her, she stared at the tv, watching Mox in his latest PPV match, yelling at the screen, prouder than anyone could possibly be of a man that while not hers, she still very much considered her man.

If she thought he’d have her back, she’d reach out. She was older now, she realized just how childish she’d been back then, how much she tried to force him to be and do things that he wasn’t and couldn’t at the time.

… if I had a chance to do it over… i’d just be happy he was mine… if he walked through the door right now, I’d go to him so fast…

What happened next shocked her.

The owner came out, walking towards the door.

Jane was torn between watching the Pay per view and watching where Phil went for some reason. When she saw who Phil was talking to, and saw both of them looking her way, she quickly turned her attention back to the television, busying herself with the last of her hot wings and the remainder of her beer, waving over a server for another.

She already had the beginnings of a decent pyramid in front of her.

The chair across from her own screeched as it was pulled out. Her heart was hammering in her ears. When she looked up, her eyes got lost in the endless baby blue of his and she swallowed hard.

“You’re on…”

“They film ‘em a day or two before they show ‘em, doll.” Mox explained calmly. Well, as calmly as one could be, given what he was doing on a whim.

Everything changed, and yet.. She was still as devastatingly beautiful as she’d been the day he spotted her dancing in the dance studio down the hall from the room he’d been sparring with Sami and some others in.

“Mox..”

Jane was still shocked. She pinched herself, swearing when it hurt. And then her thought from ten minutes before came rushing back and she didn’t think, she reacted.

Leaning in, she grabbed hold of the collar of his leather jacket, pulling him across the table and over the remaining plate of wings. Her lips crashed against his greedily and all she could do was this bizarre mixture of crying and apologizing and telling him over and over that she still loved him and she regretted leaving every single second since the night she’d done it.

The kiss broke and Mox smiled. It felt foreign, wearing a smile. He hadn’t really smiled in a long time. “Had a little time between shows and I happened to come back.. I had to see ya.”

“You did, hmm?”

“I… wanted to tell ya I was fuckin dumb. I shoulda come to ya the night ya left and went back to ya dad’s place. I shoulda fought harder. We… we coulda made it work. I coulda tried… something.”

“It’s my fault too.. I was putting too much pressure on.”

“No, all ya wanted was to know ya were loved. I guess that’s why I came… Wanted to tell ya I never stopped.”

“I never stopped loving you either.”

“You wanna get outta here, maybe take a walk?”

“I’d love that, actually. Your match is the only reason I came down to watch tonight. Fuckin cable is out at my place. Guess my post dated check of Fuck You didn’t go through.”

Mox snickered and stood, holding out his hand, pulling her off her seat and against him as they walked out of the door.

[ontheline-ff]

1 | wyd?

Whoever invented buzzers was a fucking asshole.

For the last two minutes, a non-stop staticy buzz rang through the loft that housed Venus Carter. It reverberated off of the brick walls into one long buzzing sound that wasn’t helping anything right now. It sounds too much like an alarm in the dark, blackout curtain assisted bedroom, and it makes her head spin a little as the little lines of sunshine that fight to fill more than just slices on the floor put everything into perspective for just a second.

It’s morning now. Last night, from the jibberish staring back at her as notifications on her phone as she pulled it from underneath her pillow, she was definitely more drunk than she usually allowed herself to be. The inquiries from her followers lets her know that she was definitely on one last night. She’d love to open her phone and try to figure out what was going on, but she can’t.

Not yet, anyway.

The buzzing is the only reason she’s up, really.

“Ughhhh…. Fuck, okay, I’m coming.” Venus whined pitifully as she pulled her body up from her bed, and jabbed her fingertips into her eye sockets.

She pressed her fingers there for only a second, but it’s enough to see dots of color when she pulled back. Small feet with black and blue glittery toes stuffed into Nike slides and her hands reflexively snatched down a purple and black ombre robe as she walked the long walk to the front door, all while cursing the fact that this loft had floor to ceiling windows that wouldn’t dare allow her to miss out on the sunlight.

Usually, she wouldn’t complain, but right now, it just needed to be dark. The darker, the better, actually. She felt like shit. She felt horrible, and promised herself that she would never fucking drink liquor again.

It was eleven AM in Brooklyn, and Venus had a hangover. Like, a bad ass hangover, one that not even a Postmates delivery of Gatorade and Chinese that she was still drunk when she yelled for Alexa to arrange could help with. She still shuffled across the floor and sighed softly as she finally opened the door, and winced at the sight of the sunlight that was determined to break in through the front door.

The guy standing in front of the door pulled his finger away from the buzzer and stared at her.

“Here’s your hangover cure.” She was still wincing as the bag was thrust into her hands without much else being said.

She silently thanks him for his patience. There was a look of understanding that passed, and a nod from the driver as he walked back to the sidewalk. He looked like he knew her, or understood her struggle. Most likely both, from the way it lingered. She just shrugged it off and served him her back.

Venus cursed softly as she closed the door behind her, shutting out the bright sunlight, and going back into the inescapable brightness of her living room. She slumped down on her couch and groaned before opening her bag, and pulling out a carton of chicken fried rice and a bag of egg rolls.

The grease probably wasn’t going to help her general overall feel, really. She would try to convince herself that it would, though. After a few minutes in cherished silence, she was killing her carton of rice with the occasional chew of the still hot egg roll without a care in the world. Everything was going good until she realized she hadn’t touched her phone since she got up.

She still had to put two and two together, still needed to recount how the fuck she ended up so drunk to where she was suffering from a massive hangover. Her phone buzzed across the living room table as she stared at it, and caught it before it fell.

215-667-8890: Wyd?

Her nostrils flared in annoyance as she glimpsed at the message on the lock screen, which came from an unsaved number with a 215 area code. Who did she know from Philly?

Her tongue rolled around her lips as she pulled herself up to sit up straight, and pressed her lips together as she unlocked the phone. It wasn't unlikely for someone to text her out of the blue; she’d had the same number since she was thirteen years old. But, she couldn’t recall giving anyone from Philly her number, or giving her number out at all, really.

She tried to think - was it work related? An internet friend, maybe? Someone from Plenty Of Fish, even though she’d deleted that app months ago? Did Juju give her number out again to some nigga she didn’t want to talk to? Curiosity was getting the best of her as no person in particular seemed to jump out at her. She decided to text back anyway.

Just woke up. Fighting a Hangover. Who is this?

The phone hiccuped as the message was sent, and the bubble was blue, which made her eyebrows raise. If she didn’t get an answer within the next couple of texts, she was definitely going to accidentally facetime the number to see who answered.

Venus wet her lips as she leaned over to the side of the couch and grabbed the forgotten, room temperature bottle of Glacier Cherry Gatorade and drank from it as if she had been lost in the desert. She nearly choked when the phone pinged back with a response.

215-667-8890: Nobody told you to do a waterfall of Don Julio like you're a big dog, V.

Oh, so this person knew her name? That made her head tilt a little as she switched away from the Messages app, and went straight to Snapchat. She immediately opened up the snapchat thread between her and her cousin, her best friend, and sent several eye emojis before she started to snap.

Vdotcarter: Juanita, who in the fuck did you give my number to?

“Fuck did I do last night?” She questioned the empty room as she looked around and tried to get any reminder of how last night went.

It was just as clean as she recalled working hard to pull off, with no trash around the room, no mess littering the table, or even her clothes or shoes lingering in the doorway, where she’d usually strip as soon as she got in the house. Juanita’s message of “GO HARD, OR TAKE YOUR ASS HOME!” from like three weekends ago was still up there on her dry erase board, and there hadn’t been any new pictures pinned up to the corkboard square of memories that stuck out to her either, so what the fuck did she do last night?

Her honey brown eyes scanned the room again as she wedged her tongue in her cheek, almost annoyed by her lack of memories. It had been that way after drinking since that night in Vegas, but, it never took this long to flood back into her head. If Juanita knew what had gone down, she definitely wasn’t fuckin’ helping, not telling her what was up.

She scanned the room again, past title momementos, old UFC promotions, newspaper clippings, and still, there was nothing that jumped out to her. She might have gotten drunk, but as she looked down at her fingers and hands, she knew she didn’t beat anyone’s ass, so, maybe that was a good thing.

Everything seemed the same, really. It didn’t smell any different, and there was nothing that really stuck out to her, until she took a look over at the ottoman she had arranged on the other side of the living room set up. There was a white, long sleeved thermal, with a little rip in the neck area. She tilted her head at it, and stood up, walking over to it. She picked it up and inhaled it, but knew it didn’t belong to her, yet smelled too familiar for her to admit as to who it did.

“Motherfucker…” She looked around, now looking for things that didn’t belong to her.

Masculine things. Little things. Like the sparring gloves hanging next to hers, bigger, red. Not her color. An extra water bottle, with an obnoxious, star spangled meshing around it. There was also a diamond link chain that hung almost ominously over one of the taller cat statues that rested over her TV that she knew didn’t belong to her.

“Fuck.” She sucked her teeth, not wanting it to be him, but knowing it was.

Now, it was just a matter of confirmation.

Her phone was still idle in her hand, and she tapped at the screen and glanced back down at her snapchat feed, and flicked through the stories. Instead of trying to tap on anything that stuck out to her, Venus opted back to her own story, and watched through slightly drawn eyes as she relived her entire night.

In the span of a few minutes, she saw herself going through the motions of locking up at the gym, or at least, the departure from her building to her car in the parking lot. There wasn’t much there, but she remembered the sparring session. She remembered kicking ass, and talking shit the entire time. She didn’t need that to be recorded to know that.

Then, she was driving, debating if she wanted to go out, ‘cause she hadn’t in a while, and then, she was home, pregaming with shots of tequila and doing lip-sync karaoke to songs from the early ‘00s. She was cursing out Juanita for not wanting to come out with her, and the rest of the snaps went like a quick, but familiar blur.

The phone buzzes again, and she doesn’t hesitate to switch screens to get back to her inbox.

215-667-8890: why didn’t you save my number?

Her response is immediate.

Because I don’t know who this is??

If she was being honest with herself, it was literally only two people. Maybe it was Tony, who came with Adonis when he made the move from Philly to Brooklyn. But, Adonis had been claimed, fucked her cousin on the regular before they broke up, and spent the majority of the time acting like he didn’t miss his shot, shooting for the wrong cousin. Tony was just there for the ride, interested in the girl who could fight, even determined enough to ensure that she still could after almost losing everything a year back.

Thinking emojis follow, and seconds later, a video pops up in response. She doesn’t hesitate to play it. Her eyebrows raised as she watched herself do exactly what she had been accused of earlier.

A large triangular bottle of Don Julio that she knew went for about $150 was being poured into her mouth with reckless abandon, and her eyes narrowed as she watched herself drink until she needed to pull away. After she threw her head back from the tequila stream, the phone shook with hoots and hollering, and the camera rotated to a smiling face, complete with bottom and top golds that made her curse softly.

She knew Adonis when she saw him, and she knew that this? Was no good.

“Oh Venus, you dumb bitch.” She cursed softly as she covered her mouth with her hands, tenting her hands as she groaned into them, but she couldn’t stifle the sound.

She went back to her snapstory with determination to figure something out. There was an appearance by Tony, who she sang loudly to, and took some shots with, and then later, Donnie was there, pipin’ it up for a second before slinging his arm around her, and pulling her into him. When the bottle of Don Julio was brought over by the bottle girl, V knew it went downhill after that shit.

Venus remembered some of this; she remembered getting dressed and leaving in an uber, heading to a club. She remembered saying, “fuck it,” and getting ready to go have some fun. After Donnie made that ignorant ass purchase though, shit got blurry after that. There was a lot of shots taken, captions that were incoherent, and a bunch of black screen requests, until they just stopped. She shook her head.

The phone hiccuped again. More video came from the unsaved number, this time, explicit at that. There was her hair wrapped around a fist, and her mouth was way too filled to do anything else than take what was being fed to her. She felt a familiar tug on her scalp and hissed. Shit.

Shit.

Donnie loved doing that shit, trying to get a rise out of her. He always had, since they first met, and he asked if it was real, ‘cause it was long, and stupid for her to have long hair, when all bitches knew how to do in a fight was go right for it. They flirted like that. For years.

But, all of that skirting around? It was a waste of time. She knew eventually they would stop bullshitting, but she wanted to fucking remember all of it. She sat her phone down and threw her head back against the couch cushions as she cursed again, in partial disbelief as to what she saw.

215-667-8890: We’re not going to fuck around with details just yet. It’ll come back to you.

215-667-8890: It might not jump right out to you, but, it will. Save my number, Venus.

She had no idea how she was going to explain how she slept with her cousin’s ex-boyfriend, but she knew she needed to figure something out. She flattened her body against the couch and cursed softly as the need for chinese and gatorade turned into a long desire to curl up, and sleep it off.

She saved the number with her tongue wedged in her cheek, and her eyes darting back across the room, trying to figure out all of the hows and whys, and if there was more video that didn’t make Snapchat...

Adonis: Since you’re acting like you don’t remember things, I promised you breakfast in the morning, and it’s not too late for french toast. Meet me at LB’s in twenty. Let’s talk about this.

[tarnishedhalo]

☪

Five Times Our Muses Almost Hold Hands, and the One Time They Do:

{{Spectrum}}

I.  HollowHe’s sitting there, head down, ends of his hair spilling over his hands, and for the first time Riley notices they are darker than the rest of him. Years of oil and grease and wrenches have built up callouses but it’s built something else. Shadows of all the things those hands are capable of that no matter how much pumice-soap he scrubs with it doesn’t wash away. Only closer inspection shows that there’s more. Hints of rust under his nails…no. Rust is a different shadow of red. Rust doesn’t leave someone scourged and empty. Rust doesn’t cause shoulders to shake. Hesitantly, Riley reaches out and Baz pushes him away, shakes his head. Saying with actions he doesn’t need this.

Riley nods and grabs whiskey instead.

II.  Two Man TeamThe rain was coming fast, hard and heavy. A storm brewed in the background, lighting striking haphazardly in the distance. But the thunder isn’t from crashing clouds. Riley holds up a fist. Holds up a finger. Then two. Makes a fist, and he’s moving. Low crouch, rifle braced shoulder high. Kevlar soundless. They move and breath as one.  Riley doesn’t have the luxury of wondering how exactly he’d gotten here, on this Strike Team. It’s a by product of too many late nights spent worrying. It’s because Baz is transparent as glass. When the younger walks into a room and looks around before his blue eyes finally fall on him, Riley knows it’s gonna be an issue some day. Riley’s not stupid. He knows that look well. And he loves the guy, really he does. It’s just…just…. So this is the best he can do.

Rounding the corner, he scans through the scope. He reaches behind his back. Hand glances off the fucker’s wrist, just shy of his intended target. There’s no sound over the comms, but he feels his head duck forward as the fucker tags his helmet.“Got this. Laying down cover fire. Go.”

III. Paradox

It was the turkey sandwich that woke him up.

He stares at the unholy alliance of bread, turkey, lettuce and cheese, thinking I’m stuck. Stuck in this perpetually shifting span of time, in which the same day is repeated over and over again. Like Groundhog Day which was a stupid movie. Only worse because time was actually continuing to move forward. Mondays became Tuesdays which turned into Wednesdays. Months still passed by synonymously with the changing of seasons. Children grew into adults. Adults still sank in their depression.Yet the events that occurred in each individual day were exactly the same. Every day Riley would wake up and go to work. He’d be stuck with the same case as the day before and the day before that. Then he’d eat lunch with people who talked in a language he did not understand.  Then he goes home to a world that chooses not to understand. Sleep.

Rinse and repeat.But that turkey sandwich. Something inside of him had gone missing. The anger rises in response. He was sick of the sandwich. Sick of the watery-crunch sound the lettuce made when he chewed it. Sick of the cheese. Sick of soggy bread that almost dissolves in his mouth. The same thing he’s eaten for years now.

He averted his gaze and looked around. He saw fellow cops sitting at the same tables, wearing the same clothes, conversing with the same people about the same things. Amidst the sea of voices he could make out snippets of conversations he’d heard countless times before. All the meaningless gossip and small talk wrapped around his brain.His head begins to throb furiously, a circuit board overloading with too much data. Squeezes his eyes shut only to see the sickening mirrors reflecting infinity on the back of his eyelids. It was like someone had put the feeling of deja vu in liquid form and shot it through his veins. He gets up and sprints.

In the men’s room, there’s silence. He looks at himself in the mirror and his reflection stares back, seemingly surprised by direct-eye contact.“Are you done yet?"What?”“Are. You. Done. Yet?”“I don’t know what you’re talking-”

The mirror splinters in cobweb fragments.

He only just manages to throw his arm up to shield his face.

“"Fa'fuc'sake s'only a'sandwich, asshole. Don'want it? Don'eat it.”

If Baz only knew. His first instinct to grab the kid’s hand, make sure he’s real. But that’s a whole lot of crazy he doesn’t want to get into, because how do you explain Quiet, a mage’s version of metaphysical time-out for bad behaviour?

He eats the sandwich.

IV.  Six

“Be there n'six”The last thing B says to him. He wonders, after six minutes has passed, if the shithead meant six hours, but somehow that couldn’t be right.  He doesn’t remember there being a job out of town.

An hour later and he’s worried. Calls his cell, sends texts, wonders what else he could do.  The worst part about it, Riley broke his word. Long distance knocking around the castle walls, even though he promised he wouldn’t. But the gates are all shut up, the windows bricked up and despite the power he commands, he can’t find a way inside.

And that sparks a wildfire of well…not jealousy exactly. Nor anger.

Hurt, asshole, the word your looking for is…hurt.Normally sleepers have little resistance to his magick, though Baz isn’t technically a sleeper. Nor is he awakened. The best way he could put it was the kid’s a kind of sorcerer, and that’s not right either. It is what it is, but the point was…to get around Riley like he’s doing… SOMEONE has to have shown him how. And that someone isn’t Beth because she couldn’t will her way out of a wet paper bag without him knowing about it.

So that means Baz has been hanging out with someone else.

Someone who’s deliberately shutting Riley out.He paces his way through a half bottle of Glen Livet before he switches to Vodka.Two hours.Three.At this point Riley’s grabbing his keys and his jacket, mentally composing a missing persons report for his missing person, because the inner cop won’t let this shit go.Throws the door open and there’s a strange collision of puffed up chests. There’s a spectacular display of juggling as the plastic sack hits the floor, ass over tea-kettle, though Baz manages to retain his grasp on the bottle, because of course he has priorities.

“‘Y'fuckin’ kiddin’ me? S'fuckin’ dinner, jackass.”The words don’t matter. Riley grabs his hands, and then takes it a step further by dragging the fucker into a hug, arms like vices around his neck and shoulders. 

“Next time, fucking call.”

This is how Baz discovered Riley doesn’t do surprises well.

V.  HettiquetteRiley’d heard, knew Beth and Jay went to these kinds of things in support of their friends, but it’s goddamn fascinating. Like if someone took Carnival and mated it with Mardi-Gras and somehow incubated the result inside of a Vegas Strip floor show. It was absolutely mesmerizing.  And there’s a lot he didn’t inspect. There’s a man and his wife not far away, a group of teenagers. A couple wearing 'Theirs’ and 'Theirs’ tee-shirts that he makes a mental note to ask about later.

And Riley has to wonder if he’s even got a right to be here, that maybe his attempt to offer B moral support isn’t actually having the opposite effect, even if he laughed in his very Baz way over the 'Not Gay but my Boyfriend is’ shirt. Beth had given him one piece of advice before they separated for the day. 

“No dare aks wen Straight Pride is. Jus’…no. If ya do… no gonna be let out of da hale wi'out woke adult supervision, yeah? An’ wha'evah ya do…no embarrass. If I hear ya make him uncomfortable….I will make YOU uncomfortable.”Then she vanished into sequins and feathers and flower crowns.She hadn’t needed to warn him.

Despite everything that marks him as out of place, the people are welcoming. They’re warm and beautiful and the beer flows. Sees a couple people he would never have thought ought to be here. The only awkwardness is when he comes across Wojakovitz. Riley’s not usually intimidated but the rookie is six foot seven and about as wide across. Apparently, his partner…boyfriend… is a school teacher at PS 182. Good on them.At some point, in the bar later, Riley’s managed to hit his limit, and teeters his way over to Baz whose been strangely quiet most of the night, more so than usual. Arm around the younger’s shoulder, Riley leans down and lays his cheek atop Baz’s head.“C'mon asshole. Dance with me. This is a good song.”The look he gets  from both of them would have curdled paint.

He asks twice more in variations.

Twice more he’s rebuked.So he sits down next to B and his hand falls to the other’s side. Trying not to make an issue of it, one pinkie curls around Baz’s and then Baz is up and muttering something about hitting the head.“Did I…say something wrong?”No one answers him. Not even his sister.

VI. The Hang of Thursdays

         “Pick sum’m else dickhead.  Shit’s kill yer dog depressin’.”

There’s a point where his face is pale and haggard, where lack of sleep has left him looking five days dead on a three day weekend,  and the next line of the song stutters into a choking breath. He doesn’t imagine it, Baz’s mouth had moved, had formed the words and it’s stolen all of the oxygen from Riley’s brain. He doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry or …there was a phrase for this, they used to call it 'don’t know if he should shit or go blind’. 

His hands tighten around the fucker’s, careful not to dislodge the IV shunt.It’s a process. Rough palms sliding against each other. Long, blunt fingers seeking the crevices between the other’s hand. The grasp is as tight as he can make it, a warning that if Baz slips out of consciousness, he’s dragging Riley’s two hundred and five pounds with him.Baz’s scarred and battered knuckles are brought up, pressed against Riley’s lips. They’re dry and chapped but gentle as Riley bows his head over their joined hands. It takes him long minutes to compose himself enough to actually speak.

“You EVER scare me like that again, fucker, and I will beat your ass into the fuckin’ ground. You hear me?”He doesn’t mean a word of it.His eyes squeeze shut, lines spiraling around the corners and for the first time since they’d gone and recovered Baz Barton, he can breathe.What he can’t do is let go.