#but also like homemake shit like sauces

[flustersluts]

recently i have realised that. cooking is so good 10/10 actually 1 of my main sources of (non-social) joy. if u do not cook try and cook just a little somethin somethin. it can be so so easy i promise it can be a little rice with sum broccoli. it can be whatever u want. it is so fun

[catfishandthebottlefan]

#9 - Touring. Part 1 - Airport.

A/N - This is my first attempt at a chaptered fic! So it’s like the diary of the American tour. I’ll release it in parts :) This first part is when they’re at the airport <3 ~ A x

“You ready to go, babes?” Van calls softly from the hallway.

You’re still upstairs, taking a deep breath to inhale the sweet, homely scent of yours and Van’s bedroom for the last time in 3 months. You try to notice the plush feeling of your grey carpet between your toes, and you force your brain to remember the exact position of certain trinkets, such as framed photographs of you and Van, or ornaments with sentimental meaning to you. Van, a confident Leo, didn’t seem bothered by constantly leaving for tours - if anything, he preferred to be on the road. But you, a shy Cancer, were a homemaker, treasuring sentimental values, and needing a comfortable nest to retreat back into whenever your comfort zone felt under threat. It seemed cliché to blame it on zodiac signs, but fuck it, you believed in that shit.

You dust the heart-shaped photo frame containing a photo of you and Van when you first started dating. You look at your 16-year-old self. You were short and slightly tubby, but, in Van’s words, “in a cute kind of way”. You wore denim shorts, with fishnet tights underneath, and a pair of Timberlands. Most importantly, however, you wore a slightly too big t-shirt with “Catfish and the Bottlemen” printed on the front. 

The first t-shirt Van ever sold was to you. 

In your left hand, a lit cigarette smouldered, and on your right, a lanky, 18-year-old Van stood leaning against you. Clad in a black, cold-shoulder jumper and black skinny jeans, his cigarette hung out of his mouth lazily, as both of his arms were wrapped tightly around your waist. A moment of pure love, captured sneakily by your local undercover photographer (as well as Catfish’s drummer), who went by the name of Bob Hall. You remember how your parents hated Van, believing he was a bad influence. Well, to be fair, he bought you cigarettes and vodka when you were clearly underage. However, after getting to know him, your family quickly fell under Van’s spell of charm, and his clear adoration towards you. Who couldn’t love him?

You go to replace the photo back onto your nightstand, but change your mind, hastily shoving it into your handbag. You take one last look at your bedroom before shutting the door and walking downstairs. 

“Yep, I’m all ready.” you say, meeting Van’s cheek with a kiss as you pull the handle of your suitcase up.

“You’re gonna miss the place, aren’t you?” Van asks, almost sympathetically. He couldn’t understand your need for home comforts and security, but the boy tried, and you loved him for that.

“A little,” you reply, “But I’m ready for the American adventure!”

“We’ll be back in no time.” Van reassures you, not quite believing in your optimistic tone.

You follow him out of the front door, and shiver in the cold night’s air as you drag your suitcase towards the cab. As if out of instinct, Van places his grey trench coat over your shoulders like a cape. Larry was already loading his bags of both clothes and guitar gear into the boot of the taxi. Van loads two guitars and a big suitcase, leaving just enough room for your little bag of clothes. Fuck gender stereotypes, you, the only woman, had the least luggage of all.

“Christ, yous two took your time!” Larry teases, cheerfully, “What were you doing?”

“Y/N was just making sure she’d said goodbye to the house.” Van laughs.

“Gotta make sure he knows we’re not leaving forever!” you giggle, “Was just telling him we’d be back soon and all that shit!”

“You’ve got serious attachment issues, Y/N,” Larry laughs.

“Oi, at least I make my bed and do my own washing!” you joke back at him. Larry was notoriously bad at housekeeping, and was probably the messiest person you’d ever lived with. You and Van made sure he could confine his mess to one room and his own en-suite when you bought the house. There was no question that Larry would move in with you both - he was a right laugh and kept the mood jolly even when everything seemed to be going wrong.

“Right, are we ready to go?” Van asks, hopping into the back of the taxi next to you. 

You sit in the middle, with Van on your right and Larry to your left.

“Yep!” you reply.

The taxi pulls slowly away from your driveway as you begin the 2 hour drive to Heathrow airport.

--

You awake to the sound of Larry giggling beside you. You lift your head slowly from Van’s shoulder. Van remains asleep, and you take your phone from your lap to check the time. 4:31am - you had half an hour until you’d be at the airport. 

“What’s so funny?” you turn to Larry, suspiciously.

“Nothing,” he replies, “Look at this Vine.”

The Barbecue Sauce On My Titties Vine plays.

“I’ve already seen that one.” you croak, your voice still sleepy.

“Never gets old though.” Larry chortles.

“You’re right, that one’s a classic.” you laugh back.

“Look at him.” Larry motions to Van, whose head lolls against the window. He looks so peaceful, and your heart flutters with love for your boyfriend. You kiss his cheek gently, and watch him stir sleepily. His nose twitches first, then his right eye, before he opens both his eyes sleepily.

“You’ve woke him up now!” Larry says, half-annoyed, half-amused, “Oi, Van, have you seen this Vine?”

Van simply groans, placing his hand in yours.

“How long left?” he croaks.

You check your phone. “Approximately 24 minutes.”

“’Approximately’.” Larry snorts.

“Do you ever shut up?” Van asks, and Larry pulls a face in mock offence, “Actually, I know the answer to that - no.”

--

The taxi pulls into the airport at 5:04am. It’s still dark outside, and the November air bites your cheeks as you stretch and get out of the taxi. You begin to shiver - you always do, not only when you’re cold but also when you’re excited or nervous. You feel all of those emotions, thus your whole body shakes. 

“Babe,” Van gets out of the cab, handing you his grey coat again “Put this on.”

You weren’t cold, and although the jacket wouldn’t help you stop shaking, you loved wearing Van’s clothes, so you take it and wrap it around you like a cocoon. 

Van disappears for a split second, returning with a trolley for the luggage.

“Larry, mate, we might need another one of these.”

Larry returns with a trolley, and you help the boys stack the suitcases carefully onto each one between shivers. If not, they’d stack them so haphazardly there would be an accident somewhere in a terminal.

“Where are the others at?” Van asks, concerned, “They were supposed to get here before us.”

As if on cue, Bondy appears at your side, pushing a neatly stacked trolley full of suitcases and some musical equipment. 

“I guess this was your doing?” you gesture at the trolley, looking at Bob.

“Of course it was him!” Bondy laughs, “Imagine if me or Benji tried to stack it!”

“Well, I don’t think Benji would be so bad,” you say, “But you, no way!”

Bondy looks offended. “I’m not that useless!”

“I had to stack the trolleys for these lids too, I wouldn’t worry about it.” you reply, laughing.

“Let’s go lids!” Larry shouts, sprinting ahead with his trolley. 

“I’ll race you!” calls Van from behind, sprinting and pushing his trolley into the terminal.

You and the rest of the gang are in peals of laughter as you see families usher children out of the way, and elderly people tut disapprovingly. 

“I guess we better get a move on then.” Bondy says, and you all follow Van and Larry into the departures section of the airport.

--

You eventually catch Larry and Van up at the baggage check in. The airport’s not too busy with holidaymakers at 5:30am, so the queues are fairly short.

You hold Van’s hand as you watch the bags disappear down the conveyor belt. You must’ve looked worried as you lose sight of your luggage, as Van says, “Don’t worry, you’ll see them again tonight.” The woman behind the desk laughs, as you wait on the other side for the rest of the boys. You stand, daydreaming about duty-free shopping, when, all of a sudden, you feel a gentle tap on your mid back.

“Y/N?” a voice says, “Van?”

You both spin around to see a pair of young girls, who look about 15. They remind you of yourself at your age - one wears fishnet tights, shorts, Timberlands, and, most importantly, a Catfish t-shirt. The other wears ripped skinny jeans and a The Kooks t-shirt.

“Hi!” you smile, cheerily.

“Oh my god, Emma! It’s actually them!” the Catfish girl grins, grabbing onto the Kooks girl’s hand.

“Nice shirt.” says Van, smiling at the Catfish girl initially, then both girls, who look dumbfounded.

“Can we please have a picture?” the Kooks girl asks, shyly. The Catfish girl looks lost for words.

She pulls her phone out, and takes a selfie with you and Van. In the background, Larry waves at the camera, Bondy also smiles at the camera, but Bob and Benji are in a world of their own. Typical.

“Want me to sign anything?” asks Van, as the Catfish girl hands over her iPhone.

“Can you sign the case?” she grins.

“Of course.” Van replies, reaching for the Sharpie he keeps in his shirt pocket for special occasions like this one.

“When I was your age, I used to dress just like you.” you tell the Catfish girl.

“What’s your name?” Van interrupts, halfway through signing.

“Grace.” she replies shyly. 

“I’m Emma.” the other girl smiles.

You remember the photo you’d snuck into your handbag earlier, and pull it out to show Grace.

“I’m 16 here, look,” you say, showing her the picture, “Same outfit! That’s the first t-shirt he ever sold.”

Grace looks stunned, and leaves you slightly stunned after she enthusiastically throws her arms around you.

“It was so nice to meet you.” says Emma, “Have a great tour!”

“Thank you, Emma.” Van replies, “Keep buying t-shirts, Grace!”

The two girls laugh, their brace-covered grins stretching from ear to ear as they trot back to whoever they were travelling with.

“They were sweet.” Van says, wrapping his arm around your shoulder.

“Very.” you reply, as you and the boys advance towards the boarding gates.

--

[streiknine-blog]

Task 001.

BUT RED WAS WHAT YOU WRAPPED AROUND YOU. BLOOD RED.

—Ted Hughes

BASIC INFORMATION.

Full Name: Vincent James Ouellet Nickname(s): Vin, Vinny, Strychnine, Striker; Strike Age: 28 Date of Birth: 13 February 1990 Hometown: Québec, Québec, Canada Current Location: Dertosa, California Ethnicity: white Nationality: Vincent is Canadian, but his mother was American, so he’s got dual citizenship Gender: cis male Pronouns: he/him Orientation: Vincent is bisexual — but also fun fact he’s never had sex Religion: agnostic — he doesn’t think too hard about it, but I could see him going for something like Roman Reconstructionalist if he actually put thought into it. Political Affiliation: (I don’t know stateside politics and neither does Vincent) Occupation: full-time Poison babey — see also: hitman Living Arrangements: he’s got a small apartment with sparse decorations — really what he was looking for when he got it was somewhere that he’d be able to relax and cook.

The kitchen is the most put-together part of the one-bedroom place, with well-loved pots, pans, and bakeware. A couple nice dishtowels in a white with navy stripes pattern hang from the handle of the oven, and a much more ragged bleach-worn dishtowel is usually seen on the counter (used for wiping up messes as they happen). Little (fake bullet) shell casing salt and pepper shakers sit on the back of the stove, along with a little porcelain rooster — “You have to have a rooster in the kitchen.” Vincent would say, “It’s good luck.” — which its paint is chipping from how old it is.

The living/eating area has a navy and grey rug that looks like he’s had it since he was in his early twenties (and, honestly, he has) and a dark-stained wooden table with four chairs — the insert to make it into a six person table for if he ever had the Poisons over sitting against the far wall, in plain sight — and just a single placemat, that is pastel and multi-coloured and looks like he stole it from a sixty year old’s kitchen décor, sitting on the table at all times.

He’s got a small, grey, apartment-sized couch that he likes to curl up an nap on, so there’s a throw blanket and a single pillow always on it.

Language(s) Spoken: English; French Accent: Light buzzing on ‘TH’, ‘Z’, and ’S’ sounds — a holdover from his Québécois upbringing; for the most part has a fairly neutral “Seattle accent” that he’s taught himself as a consequence of being around Americans and wanting to sound less ‘different’. Still has a light Québécois accent tinging his words.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE.

Face Claim: Zane Holtz Hair Colour: dark brown Eye Colour: blue Height: 6’1” Weight: 220ish lbs Build: lorge Tattoos: n/a Piercings: n/a Clothing Style: Simple, dark sweaters (navy, forest green, maroon, black), white dress shirts (buttoned to the top), dark sports coats, charcoal or black slacks are the standard, but he’ll wear dark wash jeans occasionally. Usually the jeans are paired with a crisp dress shirt (in any of the sweater colours) that may be rolled to to the elbows. If he’s doing the sweater + dress shirt + jeans outfit, his favourite combination is his maroon sweater with a navy dress shirt. He thinks he looks fancy in it. He’s not opposed to wearing light, airy colours (like powder blue, or dusty pink) but he gets a bit self-conscious when he wears them — thinking that they don’t suit him well enough for him to pull it off. So he sticks to dark colours and neutrals. They’re easier to hide bloodstains anyway, and the white shirts can be bleached.

Fan of French cuffs but never wears them because cufflinks are easy to lose at a scene. When he’s not on the job he’s totally breaking out the French cuffs and his silver cufflinks. There’s the occasional t-shirt + sweatpants combo but usually reserved for when he isn’t going out anywhere/not seeing anyone but the other poisons or the flower he’s booked.

For accessories, he’s got a dark grey tungsten carbide band that he wears on his left ring finger.

Usual Expression: neutral, vaguely aggressive leaning. His eyebrows make him look mad when he’s not holding them up in some form of expression. Distinguishing Characteristics: I’d say his biggest distinguishing characteristic is that he is tall and wide — like not only is this kid over six feet tall, he’s jacked as shit too.

HEALTH.

Physical Ailments: needs glasses, and he’s nearsighted — it’s partly why he prefers knives to guns. Neurological Conditions: nothing I can peg but I’m sure there’s Something. Allergies: n/a Sleeping Habits: king of the cat nap, and honestly whenever he can knock out he’s gonna. He snores too. Eating Habits: he eats a Lot and he’s decently healthy… please see his favourite food section for a more detailed food thing. Exercise Habits: Boy loves to workout — gotta keep fit for murder, y’know? He’s fond of free weights, and bars… boy loves a heavy deadlift, and he’s gotta bench press his friends at least once. He’s also one to do sprints for his cardio, especially resistance sprints. Gotta go fast.

He works until it burns and he’s comfortably sore. Totally one to have a protein shake with oats added after a hard workout.

Emotional Stability: Vincent isn’t necessarily the most emotionally competent but he’s also not especially volatile. He’s got his moments — blind fury or just enjoyment of a kill can cause him to go a lil overboard. When he laughs it’s a whole body laughs — boy’s gonna feel things all at once if he’s going to feel them at all. Sociability: He likes to be with other people but he is just so painfully awkward. He doesn’t quite realize sometimes that he’s making jokes that aren’t funny and that he should stop making poisoning jokes to the flower that is eating the meal he prepped himself but, hey, we can’t be perfect and Vinny certainly isn’t. Body Temperature: I’d say he’s a slight onto the warm side — summer is hell for him. Addictions: can I say the high of a kill? But nah he ain’t a straight up murder-obsessed guy, he just really loves that feeling. In all honesty, he loves sweet things. Drug Use: Never Alcohol Use: Rarely drinks — he doesn’t like the feeling of being drunk/tipsy, but he will go for a lite beer or two, or a mixed drink that is “light on the alcohol, heavy on the mix, please.”

PERSONALITY.

Label: the aggressor; the cold-blooded; the loyalist Positive Traits: Fearless, determined, willing Negative Traits: Ruthless, detached Goals/Desires: his biggest thing is having a balance to things, it’s a driving force behind his actions. Fears: spiders — too many legs they creep him out. Hobbies: cooking, reading, watching movies Habits: absently rotates his wrists/cracks his fingers when he’s focused on something. Mutters in French under his breath if he’s trying to figure something out.

FAVOURITES.

Weather: cold, crisp winter day with large snowflakes floating down lazily — not a flurry, just pleasant and relaxing. Probably around -15C / 5f. Colour: navy and light blue Music: top 40 hits — 22 year old Vincent was the type to sing along to ‘Call Me Maybe’ in his car by himself. Movies: comedies, supernatural themes, French and Québécois cinema. Sport: Lacrosse; hockey (fan of the Canadiens and the Maple Leafs) Beverage: Hot chocolate!

He’s one to pick the drink up from a coffee shop on the way to an appointment, or to make himself a fresh one after he’s back home. He has several different kinds of it — from those hot chocolate wands, to tins of powdered mix, to single-serve portions of it for a on-demand coffee machine — and he’s not picky. He likes the sweetness of it, and, if he’s getting one from a coffee shop, makes sure to ask for extra chocolate sauce. At home it depends how tired he is. It’ll either be basic, with just hot milk and melted chocolate or fancier on his days off with tiny marshmallows or peppermint syrup. He especially likes to make hot chocolate for those he considers friends.

Food: He’ll give most things a try, honestly.

He’s definitely fallen back on the ‘pan seared broccoli with wild rice and baked chicken breast (with smoked paprika, thyme, and black pepper)’ as a basic dinner meal for when he’s feeling lazy. If he’s not feeling lazy the sky is the fucking limit. He’ll make everything from a whole chicken or a roast with accompanying veggies, to stir-frying tofu and veggies. For lunch he’s usually eating something he’s packed — quinoa, lemon-dill salmon, asparagus; rare steak, sweet potatoes, broccolini; Cobb salad with an extra hardboiled egg or two; homemade “instant” ramen in a jar — and for breakfast he’ll either just straight up have a protein shake with oats and fruit, or some of the egg muffins he makes every few days (mushroom, cheese, ham,, quinoa) or he’ll really go all out and have French Toast or waffles.

Homemade stovetop mac n cheese is a comfort food he likes if he wants something quick (25 minutes, start to finish), but if he’s gonna make a comforting meal to distract himself he’s totally the type to go with a braised lamb sort of deal.

Animal: dogs

FAMILY.

Father: Étienne Jean Ouellet (53); president of an insurance brokerage Mother: Lillian Grace Ouellet née Richardson (51); homemaker Sibling(s): none Children: n/a Pet(s): n/a Family’s Financial Status: solidly upper-middle class. Don’t you know the insurance business is practically a license to print money?

EXTRA.

Zodiac Sign: Aquarius; 13 February 1990 MBTI: ISTJ Enneagram: type 8 — the challenger Temperament: melancholic Moral Alignment: totally pegged him as a Lawful Evil — uses murder to get his ends tidy, but has a strong sense of needing balance for things. Not one to just willy-nilly McMurder. Primary Vice: Wrath Primary Virtue: Charity Element: Earth

[weaselle]

THIS IS WHAT BOILS AWAY INSIDE ME EVERY MINUTE, MAKING THE TEDIUM OF EVERYDAY LIFE AN UNBEARABLE TRAP - THIS IS WHY I CAN NEVER STAY AT A JOB OR DECIDE ON A CAREER. EVERYTHING THAT IS NOT THESE THINGS IS BORING AND FRUSTRATING ________________________________________________

I have researched and want to write pre-historical fiction exploring my personal theories about early human development, which are wild but entirely possible within the total evidence we have available. I’ve done probably tens of thousands of words in notes on it over the years; finished, it would probably be at least a trilogy in length.

_________________________________________________

I have written some songs, and I want to get a couple of friends with a good voices to sing them, and then get some musician friends to write/play music for them on analogue instruments, pair that with the singing as whole songs that they perform live somewhere, then record and give those songs to some other friends to make like, an electro-funk remix album of it, and then get some DJ’s I know to spin that shit at a party, take footage of the whole process featuring the live band performance and the party DJ's strongly, ask some dancing/choreographing people I know to create a couple of kick-ass matching dance routines featuring all the people who worked on the project, reach out to some video and animation folks, and make a small series of music videos out of the whole dang thing.

_________________________________________________

I want to change how we experience death by creating a personal website for individuals featuring a kind of A.I. social media bot that users set up and activate which will, upon their death, continue to like and reblog things based on patterns of preference in their posts while alive. These bot/A.I.s would be able to be interfaced with, so, after I died, someone could get to know me - they could ask AfterKie “what movies and TV shows did you like?” and if I had set it up with access to my netflix/hulu/youtube info, AfterKie could tell you which movies and TV shows I rated highly, which ones I watched more than once, read you any positive reviews about them, read you my tweet “idc what anyone says, Ghostbusters is the best movie there has ever been” etc. And the reposting algorithms would A: let me reach out from the beyond to remind people “oh, true, Kie probably WOULD have like that tweet about caterpillars” and B: even if they were not perfect the reposting algorithms would allow for an approximate continuation and growth, so that I could even be seen as developing new interests after my death “Have you heard from Kie lately? He’s gotten super into Swedish architecture ever since he died, it’s like, most of what he talks about now”. I could map my face onto an avatar and use some voice matching software and put myself on a screen on my grave stone that would be linked, so you could literally walk around a graveyard getting to know the people who were buried there, asking them questions about their life. ________________________________________________

I want to build a Pet Mech, a small robot that could be controlled by small pets walking on a rollerball surface housed in the floor of the “head” with a sleeping/snacking den in the “body”. So your rat or guinea pig or ferret or lizard wakes up, climbs up into the control room, the floor of which is the direction pad. Which ever way the pet walks, the robot goes. Your pet is a little closer to your face, safe from the cat, won’t get lost under the couch, and can move around with you and to the extent of it’s capabilities be a social participant in the family it belongs to. ____________________________________________________

I want to sell puppies that owners will come visit in my facility for the first couple months, then take them home one weekend a month, then two, then three, then every weekend, then by the time they are a year old the dog lives with it’s person/people but continues to spend one weekend a month at the facility for an additional year. The facility would provide full socialization and training. A lot of dogs wind up in shelters because in one way or another their owners do not know how to teach them to be a functioning member of the household/society. Just the other day, I heard a lady talking about getting rid of her two year old dog, because "he's getting on my damn nerves, I don't know what to do with him" which A: it is our responsibility to teach dogs how to be an acceptable fit in our households, and B: having never been taught that in his formative years, this dog will have more trouble learning it from even someone who knows exactly how to do that. Modern Americans typically lack the resources and/or proper knowledge to accomplish what could best be done for them by trained professionals who went to collage to study animal behavior and development etc. This way, the dog would have a realistic chance of being a good fit for the owner, and the owner would have clear methods of achieving behavior they require, as well as having access to a support facility for boarding, exercising, trouble shooting problem behavior, etc. At first, it would be very expensive, and I would look into a pairing program, where every dog purchased and trained would pay for an additional dog to be available for families with lower incomes. Additionally, you could defray the cost by predetermining your dog to be trained and available for dog-jobs for hire from the facility as adult dogs, to pay for their early care and training; jobs such as visiting senior homes or hospitals, sniffing things in labs (like tumors) finding lost people, working with livestock at high school Agg programs, etc... so a few days a month until they paid for themselves, these dogs would have jobs, which is fulfilling for many dogs and would help a family afford one of these canines. As facilities expanded, costs would go down, and the facilities would make great shelter alternatives, eventually allowing kill shelters to be closed and possibly getting access to shelter subsidies. Then, as more and more dogs were properly trained and socialized, and more and more families with dogs had access to support services, less and less dogs would be given up, further reducing both the need for shelters, and the number of dogs euthanized each year. __________________________________________________

I have a plan that might allow minimum wage workers to build equity and become property owners while having more free time, in a communities designed as entrepreneurial incubators that allow small businesses to develop in extremely low-risk environments. I’m pretty excited about that one. __________________________________________________

I want to start a store that focuses on local sourcing, and competes with stores like Target and Walmart. This store features a permanent farmers market, a suplimentary onsite greenhouse and nursery, and a large industrial kitchen attached to a small bistro and bakery. The greenhouse and nursery would focus on any produce not represented by local growers. The unsold produce from the farmers market would be given to the store as a substantial portion of the farmstand rental fee, keeping the cost low for the farmers and letting them get value out of produce the public doesn’t buy, and the bistro would sell food made from it. Additionally the industrial kitchen would process the remainder into things like mustard, tater tots, microwaveable chicken pot pies, frozen breakfast burritos, bbq sauce, etc. Instead of buying new tools from the tool section, there would be a large tool library, and a 3-D printer for printing high density ceramic tools in case a specific kind is not available. The ceramic would break down faster than tools of other materials, but since it’s loaned and not purchased, that is fine, especially as the ceramic material can be broken down and re-printed into new tools. Instead of Hallmark and Harlequin novels and Homemaker magazines... cards, poetry chapbooks, works of fiction and independent publications all from local authors. Instead of new toys, franken-toys made out of second hand toys, with a build your own franken-toy workshop open to the public and staffed with someone to assist children. Instead of an electronics department, a repair shop that also offers lessons in electronic repair, and a workshop and tools for public use. Instead of clothes made in overseas sweatshops, a fabric and second hand clothing store staffed with local tailors and would-be clothing designers, doing repairs and adjustments on the second-hand clothes and using them with the fabric to create whole new pieces of clothing. Our offer to the public: bring in any item of women’s clothing from anywhere, and we will add two functioning pockets for free. It would be a club, like Costco, with a small monthly fee that would help cover things like the workshop tool use, as well as encourage regular patronage. __________________________________________________

I want a genetically modified cactus or succulent that glows from bio-luminescence, to use as a night light in the bedroom or bathroom. I don’t know how to make this happen, but I keep looking into it, because MAN do I want this to happen. ___________________________________________________

Instead of people going to big sales, I want to throw a Black Friday make-your-presents party, where instructors and materials are provided for DIY christmas present projects. Tickets are sold in advance, are specific to the project (functioning as a sign-up) and the ticket price covers your materials (costs are averaged so ticket prices are all the same). The idea is, you show up for a party, head to your project space, get taught how to make the thing, and you make like, ten of them in two hours. Then you spend another couple hours eating, drinking, and trading gifts with people from the other projects, giving you a selection of about ten different gifts. ____________________________________________________

I want to make a computer-assisted table top RPG that keeps track of all the numbers and equations character movement speed and position on maps, so you can focus on the role-playing aspect (you still roll dice, but on a mat with sensors that track the result and apply your bonuses etc) ___________________________________________________

I want to do all this and so much more. I have some really cool alien fiction ideas - not the stories, but the aliens themselves, designed the right way, by creating a set of planetary conditions and then hypothesizing lifeforms likely to evolve therein... I have some energy creation process designs that utilize combinations of natural forces (like gravity/solar/tidal plants, that use all three things in a unified power production technique) which I’d love to look into further. I have a line of small pet housing I’ve sketched out, featuring tunnels connecting small pet environments in each room of the owner’s house.  I have a video game I’ve outlined and done character development for that I’m writing up as an RPG sourcebook...

___________________________________________________ I'm not saying this is genius stuff (I’m also not saying it isn’t tho) I'm just saying pursuing these thoughts is the only thing in life that commands my interest.

What I’m super tired of is trying to make my brain do anything but run on at full speed about this kind of thing, because it pretty much refuses to do anything else anyway.

I don't even care if I make any money from any of it, I just want to make it happen. ... I mean, money would be nice too, of course.

So, anyway, now if I die in my sleep at least this much of any of it is out in the world in some form. Meanwhile, I’m just a few days away from going live with the website I’ve put together to showcase my progress on this stuff and help find funding for development. A central location all of it can live and get updated. I should probably get back to working on that, actually

[kontextmaschine]

One thing about this holiday visit back home that lifted my spirits, made me feel like I was properly progressing in life, was realizing - and having both of them confirm - that at this point I’m equal or better at domestic tasks than my parents.

Like, my dad has absolutely NO tool use sense, he manages to fail even basic hammer/wrench/screwdriver tasks, and we lived in a condominium development for the sake of leaving the exterior and yard maintenance to anyone else (though it doesn’t look that different from other suburban developments – semidetached “town”houses on not quite cul-de-sacs, they had planting/parking islands in the middle).

Meanwhile even when my mom does gardening it’s wearily with dedicated power tools and calling in experts, so the fact that I’ve appreciably remade my yard with bladed hand tools seriously impresses them.

(Back when consumer cameras had separate viewfinder lenses my dad could never take a picture without cutting his subjects’ heads off, which makes me wonder how he aimed a rifle as an airborne officer. I suppose that’s what your men are for. Also, at one extended family dinner where military reminiscences broke out around my cousin training 18D he said back then they were trained in hip fire, which is some Zen archery shit, though I guess Weaver Stance wasn’t even a thing until after his time.)

Cooking - my mom mentioned how much more passion and verve I have at it, starting to grasp the underlying principles and improvising out of my cabinets, rather than exhaustively preparing menus off of recipe cards ahead of time. I suppose it explains some things that my home cuisine growing up was the second generation of joylessly going off the Betty Crocker cookbook, not least why the dishes she picked up from friends during this time were so much better than the regular rotation started with.

I mean she always bitched about this at the time, the planning and the cooking, and I told her she should just quit then. Important to her martyr complex though, she always said that then Dad and I would starve. In reality half of it I would have learned to cook quick meals earlier, half of it would be realizing that a professional-class family in the 1990s should be going out and eating prepared food more and not spending hours turning organ meat and onions into a theoretically palatable meal.

I suppose that would have come dangerously close for her self-image and sense of purpose to the realization that a professional-class family in the 1990s should not have one member as a dedicated homemaker, though.

She still beats me at shopping, that was always the saving grace of her dishes, she knew what was in season where, from little farm stands and standalone butchers/bakers/fishmongers, the things that got absorbed as supermarket counters. Tho that could shade into weird ‘70s-ass “exotic” dishes, avocado slices with grapefruit and some mango-ish sauce, and anyway that shopping always took so much time. We ended up going an hour out to Allentown on our second trip to get a leather jacket.

Cleaning, their house looks a lot better but I realize that’s two things. One, when I got this house I knew it’d have to be actively demolished down to the studs and redone before too long so I’m not that big on upkeep; for two they always had someone clean it weekly (first a glacially older black woman named Margaretha, who would join us for leftovers lunch and start “now the good book says, judge not lest ye be judged…” before going on to extensive gossip about other clients we didn’t know from Adam; later a woman I guess I’d chiefly identify as “a single mom”, though she went through a few husbands over the duration). Once you clear that out, and figure in that I just never got wooden tables I never use that need polishing, we’re about even.

[assholemurphy]

Innocent Until : Chapter 6

Also on AO3

The 100

Murphamy

Explicit

Summary:

Sequel to Proven Guilty

Bellamy’s a cop who got the love of his life falsely arrested, Murphy’s a journalist who’s just trying to piece his life back together after the aftermath of his ex-boyfriend turned serial killer’s killing spree, that he’d ended up in jail for. His relationship with Bellamy died when he locked him away, or at least, he thought it had, but now, two years later, after a chance meeting in a coffee shop, they decide to give it another try. But Bellamy’s got a big case that he has to go undercover for, just as his relationship starts going well. Will they last this time around? Will Bellamy survive this case? Will Mbege discreetly poison Bellamy? Maybe, but maybe not.

Beginning

<- Previous Chapter

“Okay, so, 1000 or 1200?”

“1000? What’s 1000?”

“Watts.”

“Yeah, I said what’s 1000 for?”

“It’s 1000 watts.”

“That’s what I’m asking!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! It’s 1000 watts as in wattage, Murphy, stop it. It’s a microwave. You’re being a dumbass.”

“But I’m an adorable dumbass,” Murphy said with what he thought was a cute smile but really just looked like he had shoved a beach ball up his ass and it had finally deflated.

He started to lean against the front of the basket, but the second he shifted most of his weight onto it, it rolled away from him and left him flailing as he crashed to the floor, the basket rolling back at an angle and bumping into the display of cooking utensils, economically priced at ten dollars each, sending a couple of the buckets crashing to the floor, the noise drawing the attention of some nearby customers who craned their necks to see what had happened.

“But a dumbass nonetheless,” Mbege sighed and shook his head, turning back to the row of display microwaves in front of him.

Murphy just grinned and picked himself up from the ground, dusting off his jacket. He made his way over to the basket and pulled it away from the display before it could cause more damage. He waved to the customers who were staring at him and gave a little bow, snorting to himself when they turned their noses and walked on. Stupid dickholes always had to be judgey. It wasn’t like he’d done it on purpose.

He bent over to pick up the fallen spatulas and replace them in their bucket before setting it on the display again. It didn’t take more than a couple moments to clean up his mess, but when he stood, he was greeted by a rather surprised employee who looked him over and muttered out a quiet but grateful, “Thanks.”

“Well, I caused it. I’d be a dick to just walk off.”

“You would, but you’d also be part of the majority.”

“Well, the majority sucks ass.”

The employee, who’s nametag read ‘Justin,’ smiled and nodded, “Yeah, well, I could lose my job if I ever said that out loud.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing I’m the one who said it, then,” Murphy laughed. He pointed to the display, “Do people really pay ten bucks for a fucking pasta fork?”

“Ah, but these aren’t just any pasta forks. They’re pastel and pretty and they’re from a line of kitchen supplies branded by some reality TV woman who can apparently cook or some shit, so by buying them, you, too, can make pasta the authentic way!” Justin told him, shaking his hands dramatically.

“With a jar of premade sauce and undercooked noodles?” Murphy asked, raising an eyebrow.

“And they wonder why their kids hate them. It’s a sad life, really. The one of Suzie-Homemaker who wanted to be an actress but failed in Hollywood when they realized she couldn’t, ya know, act, so she gave up and latched on the nearest middle-aged rich guy she could find because she never learned to do anything for herself.”

“Well, I mean, society probably played a role in that by telling her she was only worth her looks and never encouraging her to do anything worthwhile because ‘the boys won’t like you if you do that.’ I mean, it’s unfair.”

“Sure, I guess, but it’s not so much that, as the fact that they’ve convinced themselves that if they spend more money, they’ll be happier, instead of just going to night school with their husband’s money and then divorcing him once they’ve graduated. And it’s a little funny to watch them fawn over absurdly priced cookware like it’s gonna make a difference in how their frozen lasagna tastes. Just because it’s pastel green doesn’t mean the food’s gonna taste any different than it would if you bought a two-dollar white one.”

“Money does not a good lasagna make. But, I wouldn’t really know. I’m not allowed to touch the stove anymore,” Murphy admitted, sheepishly.

“What’d you burn?” Justin asked.

“Uh, water?” Murphy grimaced. “And myself. On multiple occasions.”

“Nice,” Justin laughed. “So, I’m guessing you’re here for a microwave, then?”

“Yeah. My friend Craig killed our last one.”

“Well, in that case-”

“Murphy! Get your ass back here!” Mbege called, looking annoyed.

“Boyfriend?” Justin asked, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

“No, my brother,” Murphy sighed. “I need to get back to him before he decides to shove a meat fork up my ass.”

“Sexy. Hey, uh, since you don’t have a boyfriend, do you mind if I give you my number?” Justin asked, hopefully.

“Oh. Actually, I do have a boyfriend. He’s just not here. Sorry,” Murphy apologized.

“If he’s not here, then he won’t know, right?”

Murphy blinked and shook his head, his brow furrowed, feeling a little angry that Justin had implied he’d ever be willing to cheat, not just on Bellamy, but on anyone. “He’s a cop. A detective. And he would know. Because I’d tell him. So, no, I don’t want your number. And I’ve really got to get back to my brother.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t change your mind?” Justin asked, smiling slyly.

“No. Have a nice day.” Murphy grabbed the cart and walked away, a shiver running down his spine. What a fucking creep.

“Flirting?” Mbege teased, having not overheard the conversation. “See, now why couldn’t you go for a guy like that instead of Bellamy? He was cute.”

“He was pushy and creepy, and he implied I should cheat on Bellamy, which I would never do,” Murphy grumbled, handing the cart over to Mbege so he could put the box that Murphy assumed housed their new microwave in it. “And I’m happy with Bell, okay? I love him.”

He glared at the box like it was the reason for Mbege’s mistrust of Bellamy, though he knew it wasn’t and that his mistrust was well earned. But, that stupid fucking microwave was the entire reason they were in this store, so it was the entire reason Murphy had even had to speak to Justin. How dare he fucking imply that Murphy would be anything less than faithful to anyone he was with? He’d never cheat, it wasn’t in his nature. Fucking creepy ass employees. Fucking microwaves. Fucking Craig blowing up microwaves.

“Murphy, the microwave isn’t going to fight you, so stop looking like you want to fight it. I swear to God, if you break this one before we even buy it, I’m going to make you dig your own grave and bury you in it with a TV playing the Big Bang Theory on repeat. The complete series. You will listen to it until you run out of oxygen and then I will keep it playing for the next ten years so that your soul won’t ever rest in peace,” Mbege threatened, resting an arm on top of the box protectively.

“Craig fought the last one. Why isn’t he buried?” Murphy pouted, turning away and busying himself looking at blenders.

“Because Craig didn’t mean to.”

“Or because he has your balls in a jar next to his side of the bed.”

“Right next to the one he keeps yours in,” Mbege sighed. “Think he’ll go back to normal after this is all over?”

“Probably. But the question is; will you still want to marry him after it’s all over?”

“He could straight up sever my spine and I’d still want to marry him. I love him, even if he’s being an insufferable ass right now. No matter what he does to me, no matter how much hell he has or will put me through, I’m always going to love that little shithead,” Mbege said, coming to stand next to Murphy.

They stood in silence for a moment before Mbege sighed again, “That’s how you feel about Bellamy, isn’t it? No matter what hell he’s put you through, you still love him?”

“Always will,” Murphy nodded. “Should we buy a new blender? Ours is a bit-”

“Dated?”

“Terrifying. It shoots sparks from the socket and one of the blades wobbles so much I’m afraid it’s going to fly off and gut me.”

“Then we should probably buy a new one.”

“Toaster, too.”

“Toaster, t- Murphy, did you break Eisenhower?”

“Maybe?” Murphy winced. “But honestly, who the hell names a toaster ‘Eisenhower?’”

“Craig did. And he loved that toaster.”

“So, we get a new one and glue googly eyes to it and let him name that one. He’ll be satisfied. Might even buy a fake mustache for it.”

“He’d like that.”

“But I get veto power on the name.”

“That’s not going to matter and you know it. Once he has a hold of the Sharpie, he’s a dictator. It’s his world, we just live in it.”

“His world is currently my least favorite place to be.”

“That why you’re spending so much time at Bellamy’s?”

“Half of it. The other half is because-”

“You love him. I got it,” Mbege rolled his eyes. He grabbed for a box, “Here, this one’s retro. You like that vintage shit, right? Cause you’re a closet hipster.”

Murphy scoffed, “I’m not a hipster and I’ve never been in the closet. Not once.”

“Oh, you are. You totally are. Why else would you wear those ridiculous wire-framed glasses and read Vonnegut? And that shitty iced shit you call coffee? Hipster.”

“I’m not a hipster, Begs, I’m punk. I do it because I like it, not because it’s trendy or somehow cool. I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks about it. You’re missing the combat boots, leather jacket, and giant collection of punk music.”

“Most of which is on vinyl. And you’ve got a fucking record player!”

“I found it at a thrift store!”

“You really aren’t helping your case.”

“I’m not building a case. I’m building a wall. A brick one. Ala Poe,” Murphy huffed.

“A wall? You’re either an emo hipster or an orange dictator, I’m not sure which anymore,” Mbege snorted. “Come on, toasters are this way, I think.”

“You did not just compare me to that bad toupee wearing, crayon scribbling, spellcheck nightmare.”

“I did.”

“That’s not even okay.”

“Nope, it’s not.”

“Then why?” Murphy cried, standing in front of the cart so that Mbege had to stop. “Why are you being mean to me? What have I done wrong?”

“You haven’t done anything, Murph. It’s just your general existence that calls for it,” Mbege grinned. “It’s like you wear a giant ‘kick me’ sign attached to you at all times. I’m just doing what the universe demands.”

Murphy laughed, “You’re not wrong.” He jumped up on the bottom rack of the cart and stuck his arms out, “Push.”

Mbege raised an eyebrow but did as ordered.

“And I will always love you….!” Murphy sang as Mbege snickered. They drew looks of curiosity that quickly turned to disdain from other customers as the continued down the aisle looking for the toasters.

When they finally found them, Murphy jumped off the cart and grabbed for an orange one. Speaking of that absolute political nightmare. “This.”

“Fuck. No. Put it back.”

“But, it’s pretty!”

“It’s ugly!”

“We could glue googly eyes on it and some fake hair and-”

“I’m using my veto power. We’re not having a Donald Trump themed toaster.”

“But, it’d be funny!”

“No.”

“And we could get some Legos and build a little wall in front of it and stick a sign to it that says ‘white bread only.’”

“Would you stop?” Mbege asked, fighting a smile.

“Come on, please? Imagine it. Just think for a second. We could make breakfast great again!” Murphy laughed, holding the toaster close to his chest. “Please?”

“I swear to God, Murphy. If you don’t put it back right now-”

“Please? Look, I’m pretty sure that by buying this, we’ll be funding tax cuts for the rich. How great would that be?”

“Murphy, stop it. It’s not fucking funny,” Mbege choked out, trying to keep from laughing.

“Then why are you laughing? Just let it out, Mbege, it’s hilarious,” Murphy smirked, shaking the toaster. “You know what? I’m just gonna call Craig. We’re gonna take a vote. It’s democracy, bitch!”

“You’re gonna vote for Trump?” Mbege finally lost control of himself and let out a burst of laughter. “Have you forgotten your morals?”

“Breakfast doesn’t care about morals and neither does Trumpy the Toaster.”

“Craig’s gonna say yes,” Mbege groaned.

“Is that the sound of defeat I hear?”

“Fine, get the damn toaster.”

“Yes!” Murphy yelled and stuck the toaster in the front of the basket. “Now, to the craft supply aisle!”

“Do you know what you need?” Mbege asked, grumpily staring at the toaster. “Cause I’m not spending another hour in here while you search through aisles of things that look like they belong in the basement of a kindergarten teacher turned hoarder.”

“We need jewelry glue, because hot glue won’t work on a toaster, and googly eyes, cause Craig spilled the last of what we had in the driveway when we were trying to put them on your car-”

“You did what?”

“-and some foam to make a tie and hair. I’d use felt, but it might burn. Foam won’t look as good, but it’ll be safer, and I don’t want to kill Fuhrer Trumpy just yet. If he dies, it’ll be by public hanging.”

Mbege snorted and rolled his eyes, making his way to the craft aisles, Murphy trailing along behind him and looking at things.

“Murphy, put the towels back,” Mbege said without even looking.

“But-”

“No. You and Craig are just gonna cut holes in them to make capes like you did all our other ones. No.”

“I was drunk!”

“The first time!”

“Fine. No towels. But can we get this?” Murphy asked, holding up a Ninja Turtles themed cake pan.

“Do we need it?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“Baking cakes.”

“Uh-huh. Because you’re allowed to bake cakes.”

“I can mix them!”

“The last time I asked you to do that, you mixed it, then took the bowl and spoon and ran to the living room where you ate half of it. The answer is no.”

“Okay, then can we-”

“If the question ends with anything other than ‘go home now,’ the answer is no,” Mbege frowned.

“But-”

“Murphy, come on. It’s almost five, we’ve got to make supper, provided Craig doesn’t have the kitchen table covered in party favors.”

That was another thing he had to deal with today. If Craig hadn’t killed the microwave this morning, he’d be home with him. Maybe he should have left Murphy with him. That would have saved him the shame of having to look the cashier in the eye while he bought toy swords and an orange fucking toaster. Of all the things that orange bastard had inspired, this was the one that irked Mbege the most. At least, today. Well, so far today. He hadn’t read the news, yet, but he doubted anything would top Trumpy the goddamn Toaster. What the hell was wrong with him and why was he willing to go along with this? Why didn’t he just leave Murphy in the toy aisle and promise to pick him up in six years?

“How about we just get pizza? That way we don’t have to make Craig move. He might actually cut our balls off this time,” Murphy said, coming up behind Mbege and resting his head on his back. “I’m tired.”

“Then let’s hurry up and go home. We’ll eat and you can go to bed early.”

“Craig won’t let me,” Murphy whined. Craig had kept him up well past three last night making party favors and deciding on which candy they should have and it was all a blur. He hadn’t gotten to sleep until he fell asleep on the table and Mbege had all but carried him upstairs. Actually, now that he thought about it, “Did you carry me to bed last night?”

“You passed out at the table,” Mbege shrugged.

“I know that. Did you literally carry my ass to bed last night?”

“And tucked you in and read you a bedtime story.”

“Begsy!”

“Yes, Murphy, I carried your scrawny ass up to bed right before I forced Craig to our room. Which reminds me, have you been eating at all? You weigh like, half of what Craig weighs,” Mbege said with concern.

“Yes, Begs. But I’ve also been running around the city all day, every day. I’m fine. Don’t be such a mother hen,” Murphy huffed, pressing his face into Mbege’s back.

Mbege smiled softly, “I’m gonna start walking now, if you fall on your face, that’s your problem.”

Murphy shook his head and wrapped his arms around him, “Stay. I want to nap.”

“Walk with me, pick out your shit, come to checkout and help me put this shit in the car, then you can nap while we wait for pizza. And then you can eat. Then you can go to bed early, regardless of what Craig thinks, and you can wake up in time to see that apartment on eighty-third,” Mbege bargained.

“Or I could nap here for an hour and stay up with Craig all night again,” Murphy countered.

“Move your ass, shithead, I’m getting tired of being in this store and people are staring at us.”

Murphy raised his head and looked around, squinting at the elderly couple giving them a dirty look. “What? You’ve never seen a man take a nap in the middle of a department store before? Go ahead, take a picture, then! Use your little point and snap camera you bought on vacation to Florida last Christmas because your family didn’t want to spend it with you! There’s a twenty-four-hour photo center here, develop it and share with your friends at the nursing home!” He yelled at them, snickering when they huffed and turned around.

“That was rude,” Mbege sighed.

“And?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be nice to old people? Isn’t that part of your punk thing?”

“Only when they’re carrying groceries or crossing sidewalks. Otherwise, it’s open season on senior citizens. Especially when they’re looking at us like that,” Murphy spat.

“Like what?” Mbege asked, furrowing his brow.

“They had the same look that old people give you and Craig every time you hold hands in public. Or whenever I do anything that even remotely looks couple-y with you. It’s that stupid look they get as they remember back to the 50s when they could have had us, well, you, arrested for it. It pisses me off,” Murphy grumbled, letting go of Mbege and straightening his hair. “They deserve to be shouted at.”

“Oh,” Mbege nodded. He shook his head, unbothered. Why should he care about the opinions of some old fucks who’d be dead in three years? “Come on, Murphy. Let’s get the rest of our shit and go.”

Murphy nodded and put his hand on the basket, looking at Mbege.

“What?”

“Does it not bother you?”

“I’m used to it, Murphy. We have this conversation every time it happens. My answer hasn’t changed. It sucks, but you get used to it. Why?”

Murphy shrugged, “I don’t know. It’s just…”

“Just what, Murphy?”

“They give the same looks to me and Bellamy sometimes.”

“Look, Murph, it sucks but you can’t change their minds by shouting at them. If the Supreme Court and fifty years couldn’t change their minds, then nothing will. Don’t worry so much about them, they don’t matter. Half of them don’t vote and it’s not like they’re going to overturn a ruling just because some uppity little old lady got offended by seeing you hug me. That’s not how it works. I’m gonna tell you what Dad told me, okay? Don’t pay attention to them. Don’t. Don’t give them your time or your peace of mind. There’s nothing wrong with loving who you love. You’re not doing anything wrong, they are by judging you, so don’t let them upset you, because if their lives are so dull and sad that they have nothing better to do than get upset by someone else’s relationship, then they don’t need your anger, they need your pity. So, fuck them, okay?”

“That’s what he told me when I had my first boyfriend.”

“Well, it’s good advice.”

“That last bit wasn’t in there, though.”

“Gotta add a bit of myself to it, you know? Keep it up to date.”

Murphy snorted and slowed his pace so he was standing next to Mbege. “Thanks, Begs.”

“Anytime, little bro. Even if I don’t like you being with Bellamy, I don’t think you should be bothered by those people. It’s stupid for them to care.”

“I don’t know why you won’t just accept that I love him,” Murphy sighed. He’d tried everything he could think of to get Mbege to come around, but he wouldn’t.

“I accept that. And I accept he loves you. I just don’t accept that it’s good for you.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’m an adult and can make my own decisions.”

Mbege frowned. He felt a little bit of deja-vu, but maybe he was wrong this time. Maybe it would actually work out for them. He hoped so, for Murphy’s sake. “Are you happy? With him, I mean? Does he make you happy?”

Murphy nodded, “Happier than I’ve been in a while.”

“Then I hope it works out for you.” And he did, he really did.

“Thanks, Begs.”

“I still don’t trust him, though.” And he wouldn’t until Bellamy proved he would never do anything that would hurt Murphy, that he wouldn’t keep secrets or lie to him, for any reason. If he showed him that, then maybe he would trust him with Murphy. Maybe.

“He’s not going to hurt me again,” Murphy told him. He reached out and linked their arms on the handle of the cart. “He won’t, okay?”

Mbege smiled down at him for a moment before shaking his head and turning their cart down an aisle that looked like a summer camp arts and crafts tent had exploded. “He had better not.”

._-*-_.

“So, this one time, he brings me this flashdrive, right? And I’m skeptical, because I highly doubt some lowlife drug runner actually has any real information on what’s going on in the cartel or gang or business, whatever they were calling it. And I tell him so, right?” Monty began, turning away from his computer to grab a slice of pizza from the box on the table and plopping down on the couch next to Murphy.

Murphy nodded, enthralled in Monty’s stories. So far he’d learned about the time Bellamy had gone undercover at a school, despite looking like he should have been graduating college, and the time he’d almost gotten arrested for stalking and had to call Kane to prove he was really a detective and the girl was potentially in danger and he’d been assigned to follow her in case the murderer showed up and tried to kill her, and his personal favorite, the time Bellamy had wrapped everything in Kane’s office in gift wrap, complete with giant bow for his birthday, which had caused a stapler to be chunked at his head and glitter bombs to be put in his desk at least once a week for the next two months.

He liked Monty’s stories. They gave him insight into who Bellamy was around everyone else. According to Monty, he could be a real asshole at times, and Murphy believed it, but he was glad that he wasn’t a complete stickler for the rules. He liked knowing Bellamy could have fun at work, it made him seem like a more relaxed person, because Murphy worried about him almost constantly due to how stressed he seemed to be when he got off work. Monty had assured him it was just the case he was on, something about drug dealers who kept giving him the slip and a snitch who couldn’t be bothered to double check his information.

“So, what was on the flashdrive?” Murphy asked, taking a bite of his own slice.

“Porn. Loads of porn. Of himself. And I’m telling you, this guy had some weird ass kinks, like, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It was so fucking weird. Like, I’m not going to judge, ya know? I’ve got my own weird shit, but it was just insane. The variety and creativeness of the videos was astounding,” Monty shook his head with a quiet laugh. “It was hilarious to see Bellamy’s face when I told him. Even better when I showed him.”

“So, he got a flashdrive of porn from a snitch?”

“Yeah. And then the guy skipped town! He just took off. Bellamy couldn’t find him until he showed up six months later in the cage for public lewdness. Probably making another video. He just, popped back up and when he saw Bellamy he greeted him like an old friend. I wish I could have been there to see that. Would have made my week,” Monty snickered.

“He does a lot of stupid shit, doesn’t he?” Murphy snorted.

“Yeah, but I mean, his closure rate is higher than anybody’s. He’s a great detective, but he can be a bit of an idiot at times. He’s one of my best friends, though. I don’t know what I’d do without him. He drug my ass in here so many times, but he never charged me. He wasn’t even a beat cop, he just saw Jasper and I in the cage one day and decided we were going to be his pet project. Every time we were in trouble, he was there, bailing us out and giving us a lecture. At first it didn’t stick, but after a while, well, we figured he was right, so we got our GEDs and went to college three years early. Finished when we were nineteen and he got us jobs here. I mean, we’d been in here so many times it had started to feel like home, anyway.”

“So, he just got you a job because he liked you?”

“Well, it’s kind of how the department works. Kane drags people in for various crimes and when they get old enough, he puts them through academy and then helps them make detective so they can be somebody. It’s like a big brother project. He’s saved so many of us from bullshit lives that would have gotten us arrested for good, or worse. I mean, if it’s not him, it’s Bellamy. They’re just really good at finding lost puppies and nursing them back to health and making them feel like they’re part of something. Most of us come from fucked up families, my mom was in a cult, actually. So, like, he gives us a home we can rely on, they both do. I lost count of how many nights Jasper and I spent at Bellamy’s place either detoxing or hiding from some crazy shit with our home lives,” Monty said, settling into the couch. “They’re good people. Kane’s like a father figure and Bellamy’s got that big brother thing going on. Everyone feels like they belong here, like we’re a family, no matter how much Kane complains about it being a circus.”

“A cult?” Sure, Monty’s story was great, and Murphy had a new respect for both Kane and Bellamy, but he was a little stuck on the cult thing.

“Yeah. Some creepy church group. I don’t even know what religion they were, but it was insane. She kept trying to convert me, too. Don’t get me wrong, she was a good person and I loved her, but she wasn’t the best mom, not after she joined them. Before, she was great, the best you could ask for. Then my dad died and she kinda lost it. I guess she joined the cult to fill the void. I wish she wouldn’t have, but it made her happy for a while, so I dealt with it. Then, about six years ago, she drank the Kool-Aid and now she’s gone.” Monty grinned a bit sadly, “I’m officially an orphan! I’m Batman! Hence the Batcave.”

“That’s some shit, man. I’m sorry.” That was all Murphy could think to say.

“Yeah, well, Jasper had it worse, so I’m not gonna complain,” Monty shrugged.

“Who is Jasper, anyway? Bellamy’s mentioned him, but he’s never taken me to meet him, so, like, who is he?” Murphy asked, curious.

“He’s my best friend. Like, I wouldn’t be alive without this dude,” Monty grinned. “You wanna meet him?”

“Sure,” Murphy nodded. “When?”

“Now. He’s in his lab, probably trying to blow shit up. It’s what he does best.”

Murphy tossed his half-eaten slice of pizza back in the box and stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans, “Let’s go. I love blowing shit up.”

“You’re gonna love him, then.”

Monty led him out of the Batcave and down the hall to a door that was covered in various stickers, from bands to comics to political references. Murphy snorted because there was no way that could be regulation for a police station, but he guessed Kane was right about it being a circus. But, what did he expect when all he hired were former delinquents? He wondered if he hadn’t got sent to juvie and had continued raising hell if Kane would have dragged his ass here when he graduated and given him a job, too. Possibly. He was here enough, but Kane hadn’t really taken much of an interest in him that he knew of. Of course, that was probably his fault because every time someone had shown him even the slightest bit of kindness or care, he’d snapped at them and done everything he could to push them away, so they didn’t get close and hurt him when they failed to protect him.

He vaguely remembered Kane, actually. It had been why he was so scared of him during his interrogation. He’d been kind but stern and had tried to figure out why Murphy was doing what he was, but Murphy had just sneered at him and told him to fuck off. Several times, until Kane no longer came to see him when he’d gotten arrested. Maybe he should apologize. Knowing what he did now, it seemed like he’d actually been trying to help.

“Murphy?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry. Got lost for a second, but I swear, I’m paying attention now,” Murphy smiled sheepishly.

“It’s cool. You ready to meet Jasper?” Monty asked, excited. He really liked Murphy and he hoped he liked Jasper so the three could hang out. It’d be nice to have more friends, especially ones outside the department. He didn’t really get out much anymore, so he didn’t have all that many that weren’t some form of law enforcement.

“Yeah,” Murphy grinned. “Can’t wait to blow shit up.”

Monty laughed and pulled the door open. Murphy half expected smoke to start pouring out and rave lights to flash, but all he saw was pristine white machines and a thousand knick-knacks scattered throughout them. All in all, it was impressive, and just as personalized as the Batcave.

“Welcome to the Secret Sanctum!” A voice rang out and before Murphy could blink there was a clatter of things dropping to the ground and a very lanky ball of red vaulting over a table to land in front of him. “Who are you and do you want to see what happens when you pour melted aluminum into a watermelon?”

Murphy blinked, in shock from the blur of noise and commotion that had just unraveled in front of him. He shook his head and tried to take in the man in front of him. He was tall and his limbs didn’t quite fit the rest of his body, like he’d never fully grown into them, but he was smiling wide and looked a little too friendly, so Murphy figured he was safe. He wore a red lab coat and a pair of goggles on his head that made Murphy laugh a little. This guy was some kind of insane, he was sure, but he liked him already.

“I’m Murphy, John Murphy,” Murphy said when he’d finally gotten over the shock.

“Murphy as in Bellamy’s one true love Murphy? The princess from all of his fairy tales? The Patroclus to his Achilles? The one that got away for two whole years and sent Bellamy into a spiral of angst until he finally got a second chance and perked the fuck up? The guy who removed the stick from his ass? The one he never, ever, ever shuts the fuck up about? That Murphy?” Jasper rambled on, smiling the whole time.

“Uh, I guess?” Well, he wasn’t sure what to make of that, but it had been entertaining.

“Well, it’s nice to finally meet you, Murphy. I’m Jasper Jordan, lab tech extraordinaire and resident Superman,” he introduced himself, sticking out a hand.

Murphy took it and Jasper gave a shake that Murphy was pretty sure he felt in his whole body. “Nice to meet you, too?” He wasn’t so sure.

“Now, about that watermelon?” Jasper asked, turning back to the table. When he turned around, Murphy saw there was a Superman symbol on the back of his coat, except it had a J instead of an S. It was cool, Murphy thought. Nerdy as all hell, but cool.

“Um, sure? Are you allowed to do that?” Murphy didn’t want to be an accessory to something that would make Kane angry. He’d heard horror stories from Bellamy and he didn’t want to experience that in person.

“Well, yes and also no. It depends on who you ask,” Jasper whirled around, a wild look on his face and held a finger up, “and who you tell.”

“So, don’t tell Kane?” Murphy asked.

“Definitely don’t tell Kane,” Monty laughed. “He’s got enough to worry about without knowing about what goes on down here. As long as nothing expensive gets broken and we get our work done, he doesn’t really ask questions. Not after the time he caught us recreating a crime scene from the red light district with mannequins dressed in those goose dresses from White Chicks. He doesn’t really want to know, ya know?”

Murphy nodded and followed the two deeper into the room, carefully stepping over the things that had fallen to the floor. It looked like a couple test tubes and the contents of a Lego set mixed with the remnants of a third-grade science project, but he wasn’t too sure.

They lead him to the very back of the lab where a watermelon set on a table, a hole carefully cut out of the top. What looked like a modified metal Easy-Bake Oven with a can of red hot liquid metal inside was perched on a second, smaller table, along with a pair of long tongs and some gloves. The whole area was covered in sheets of plastic and Murphy was almost certain they were about to murder him.

Jasper held out two pairs of safety glasses for them both, cheerfully saying, “It might explode, and I don’t want to have to deal with the paperwork if you go blind. That would be a nightmare for all of us. So, glasses. I’m not going to make you wear aprons, cause they look stupid as fuck, but some lab safety is necessary. Put them on and prepare yourself, I’m about to make history!”

“Jasper, this experiment has been done before. You’re not making history, you’re just making a mess,” Monty sighed.

“Do you not want to see it?” Jasper asked, his excitement dimming a bit.

“No! Of course I do! I just don’t want to clean up afterwards, that’s all,” Monty assured him.

“Well, too bad. This is a team effort. You stay for the show, you stay for the clean up. Even you,” Jasper said, looking pointedly at Murphy.

“Sure, that’s cool. I’ve got no plans.” His apartment showing had been that morning and he liked it, he was considering renting it, actually, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get the deposit together before the other couple who were looking at it did. Plus, even if he did, the guy still might sell it to them, and there was no getting the deposit back, and Murphy wasn’t going to spend out $700 just to lose the apartment. He’d have to really think it over.

“Great! Then enjoy the show!” Jasper cheered. He slipped on the gloves and grabbed the tongs, holding them out as far away from himself as he could. “It’s gonna get messy!”

He picked up the can from Wednesday Addam’s Easy-Bake Oven and walked slowly over to the watermelon. “Stand back!”

Murphy too a step back and watched, feeling a little more excited than he wanted to admit.

Jasper quickly poured the metal into the watermelon and jumped back, the can clattering to the ground and burning a hole in the plastic. Murphy watched the watermelon with anticipation, smiling wide when he heard it crack and explode, sending chunks everywhere. A few pieces caught on fire and one whizzed past Murphy’s head.

“Ah!” he yelled, grabbing the side of his head.

“Oh, shit!” Jasper said, running over to him. “Did it burn you?”

Monty grabbed for a first aid kit stashed under the table and pulled it out. “I got the kit.”

“No, no! I’m good. It’s not burnt that bad. It just caught me off guard. I’m alright,” he assured them, pulling his hand away from the side of his head. “It didn’t get me too bad, I don’t think.”

“Uh, well…” Monty trailed off.

“Er, it, well, I’m not sure how to put it, really…” Jasper tried. “Here, I’ve got a mirror.”

“A mirror?” Murphy asked, confused. Then it dawned on him, “It didn’t get my hair, did it?”

That would be a nightmare. Murphy loved his hair. He’d had the same hairstyle since he was sixteen. It was perfect for him. Long enough to be edgy but not so long that it got in his way. Plus, it went with the whole ‘fuck gender roles’ aesthetic he tried to keep up.

Jasper returned with the mirror and held it out to Murphy. “It’s not that bad?”

Murphy grimaced as he raised the mirror to his face. The grimace turned to a look of horror when he saw the side of his head. “Oh, God. My head’s gone. What the hell? How the fuck do I explain this?”

“Just don’t tell Bellamy and you’ll be fine,” Jasper shrugged.

“Yeah, he shouldn’t even notice. He’s not the most observant, you know,” Monty chimed in.

“Half my head is gone. I’m pretty sure he’ll notice.”

Jasper winced, “Uh, I don’t know, distract him?”

“How the hell… Fuck it, I don’t care. It’s fine. I’ll be fine. It’s just hair,” Murphy said a little sadly. He loved his hair, but maybe it was time for a change. He needed one. This might be a good start. “I’ll just get a haircut tomorrow morning and he’ll never know what happened.”

“Good idea!” Jasper nodded. “Now, do you want to take apart the rest of the watermelon and see the sculpture?”

“Sculpture?” Murphy asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Monty said. “When you pour molten metal into a fruit, it turns into a sculpture. I’ve got two in my lab and three in our house. Jasper has like five in here.”

“Mhm. So, you can have this one if you want it. They’re pretty damn cool,” Jasper offered.

“Sure?” He could use décor for his new apartment.

Jasper smiled and turned to the table, grabbing a knife and cutting the rest of the watermelon open, revealing a bright, silvery, odd-looking little sculpture that he held out to Murphy. “See? Wicked, right?”

“That’s fucking sick,” Murphy said, turning the metal over in his hand. “And I can keep it?”

“Yeah. We’ve got enough and we’re always making more. So, if you want another one, you’re more than welcome to join us for another experiment. We’ll get you a helmet next time,” Jasper laughed.

“Cool, thanks. And yeah, I’d love to see another experiment.”

“So, you liked it?” Monty asked, hopeful.

Murphy nodded, “Yeah, you two are cool. You should come over to my place some time and hang out with my brothers and I. If you want to. It’ll have to be after the wedding, though.”

“That’d be great,” Monty smiled. “Just let us know when. We’re free most nights, actually. We could get drinks sometime, if you want?”

“I don’t drink,” Murphy told them. “But, I’m more than willing to tag along, if you’d like.”

“Nah, we can do something else. Get burgers or some shit. Maybe even laser tag sometime?” Jasper suggested. He was like Monty, he didn’t have many friends outside of the department, and he liked Murphy, he seemed cool. Not at all like the criminal everyone had been convinced he was, though, Jasper had stayed clear of it. He hadn’t wanted to get involved. Murder cases weren’t his thing, too much violence. He’d do the work, but he wouldn’t ask for details.

“Hell, yeah. That sounds great,” Murphy nodded.

“Awesome. Now, time to clean this shit up. We can just throw the plastic away, but the table needs to be wiped down…”

._-*-_.

“I don’t like it,” Murphy huffed when Bellamy ruffled what was left of his hair. “It looks stupid.”

He’d gotten a haircut earlier that morning, picked it out from a book, it looked kinda punk, but not as punk as he would have liked it too. They stylist had screwed up and cut it a little too short and made him look more like he was going to apply for a position at a bank than like he was about to go out and topple oppressive power structures. He’d still tipped and he’d lied about liking it, because there was nothing she could do to fix it, but he felt stupid.

“I think it’s cute,” Bellamy laughed, pulling Murphy close to him. He had the day off for some holiday, or well, he’d been forced to take it off considering how much overtime he already had, so even though it wasn’t an official day off for the rest of the department, Kane had used it as an excuse to make him go home. Murphy wasn’t going to complain, though, it meant he had Bellamy all to himself for the day, since he’d given Craig the slip, leaving Mbege to deal with him and his obsessive tendencies and dress hunting.

Technically, Mbege couldn’t see it, but he could calm Craig down while he went through magazines for inspiration. He and Murphy had narrowed it down to a few styles, but Craig still wanted a good reference for when he went to the shop tomorrow, which he was going to drag Murphy to, and Murphy was not looking forward to Craig crying in a dressing room because it wasn’t perfect. Murphy loved him, and he was glad he was officially being brought into the family and he could call him his brother for real, but dammit, he was so stressed that he was being overdramatic about everything now. He’d gotten over the bridezilla thing for the most part, but now he was having breakdowns about everything and it was somehow worse, because seeing him cry made Murphy want to fuck up whoever or whatever had done it, but he couldn’t very well fight the florist that quit on them because then he’d go to jail. He’d settled for leaving a scathing Yelp review, but it hadn’t felt like enough.

Murphy sighed and pressed himself against Bellamy, feeling comforted by his arms and knowing that no matter how crazy the wedding stuff got, he could always escape and Bellamy would make him forget about it altogether, “You think?

Bellamy nodded and pressed a kiss to Murphy’s forehead. “Yes. You look very professional. Now we just need to work on your wardrobe.”

Murphy scoffed and pulled back enough to give Bellamy a dirty look, “I look amazing.”

Bellamy snorted, “You look like you’re ready to see Fall Out Boy live.”

“And they’re a good band,” Murphy defended himself. He saw nothing wrong with how he dressed. Just because his jeans were ripped didn’t mean anything. He’d destroyed them himself, thank you very much, and it had taken a whole afternoon to get them just right. And some people’s opinions of his shirts wasn’t a reflection on him. If they didn’t like knowing that ‘America Was Never Great,’ well, that was their problem for sleeping through history class. He had style, and it was a good style, he liked it, so nobody else’s opinions mattered.

Bellamy shrugged, “I wouldn’t hire you.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing I’m not asking you for a job,” Murphy snapped, pulling away from Bellamy and crossing his arms.

“Come on, babe, you need to look more professional. Not a whole lot, but you want a job, right? Let me help.”

“You’re gonna put me in a monkey suit.”

“Suits look nice.”

“Yeah, on you. Whenever I wear one it looks like I’m going to a funeral.”

“Whose funeral would you be going to?”

“My dignity’s,” Murphy huffed. Bellamy was probably right, though. He had to dress more professionally if he wanted a real job. He got away with it at COL, but only because Jaha had fought for him. Anywhere else, he’d get reprimanded and possibly fired for it.

“Babe, I promise, I won’t make you look like you’re going to a funeral. You don’t have to wear a suit. You just need to look more professional, so people will take you seriously when you interview them.”

“Did you take me seriously when I interviewed you?”

Bellamy bit his lip, trying to find an easy way to say it, but he found none. He sighed, “No, not really. I thought you ran an underground gore blog or something from your parent’s basement. I also thought you looked ridiculous. Hot, sure, later, when I wasn’t pissed at you, but as far as first impressions go, I didn’t take you seriously at all.”

Murphy frowned, “Fine.” Then he smiled, “But would you have fucked me? Like, if it wasn’t a crime scene and you weren’t as pissed. If we’d met in a bar or something. Would you have fucked me?”

Bellamy grinned and took a step closer to Murphy, grabbing his hips and pulling him back in. “I would have ripped that stupid t-shirt right off you and thrown you on a bed and fucked you senseless.”

Murphy nodded, satisfied, “Good. Now, if I wore a suit or some shit, would you want to fuck me as much?”

“I’d take your tie and wrap it around your wrists and tie you to my headboard, gag you with mine, and fuck you until you couldn’t take it anymore,” Bellamy whispered, pressing a kiss to Murphy’s neck.

“So, you’re saying you would fuck me no matter what I wore?” Murphy asked, baring his neck for Bellamy so he could keep going.

“It doesn’t matter what you wear because by the time I got you home, you wouldn’t have it on, anyway,” Bellamy told him between kisses. “That being said, if I could ever convince you to wear a skirt for me, I don’t think we’d even make it back here.”

Murphy moaned quietly when Bellamy gently scraped his teeth against his skin before biting down and sucking a mark. “You want me in a skirt?”

“I do, if you ever wanted to wear one,” Bellamy admitted. He’d wanted to see Murphy in a skirt since he’d first found out about his loose perception of gender. “Maybe lacy panties, too.”

“I’ve got both, actually,” Murphy said, a little shyly. “I could wear them for you.”

“Yeah?” Bellamy smiled against Murphy’s skin. “You’d be okay with that?”

“As long as you don’t rip them, I’m fine with it,” Murphy nodded.

“I’ll be gentle, I promise,” Bellamy said, sucking another mark that left Murphy squirming.

“So, are you going to fuck me or fix my wardrobe, I need to know what’s going on today,” Murphy asked, pulling Bellamy so close there was no space left between them. “I mean, I know which one I’d prefer, but you do have a point and I would like to get a job sometime soon.”

“I’ll help you fix your wardrobe, then. But I’m not done yet.”

“You’re just gonna get me all turned on and then leave me like that so I’m more compliant when we go shopping because I want to get home faster so you’ll fuck me. That’s exactly what you’re doing, isn’t it?” Murphy scowled but made no move to pull away.

“It might be,” Bellamy grinned, sucking one last mark on Murphy’s neck before pulling back. “Or I might be marking you up so that when we go out, everyone knows you’re mine.”

“So, this is you being possessive?” Murphy smirked. “You’re not gonna start grabbing my ass in public whenever someone looks at me, right?”

“I might start doing that, actually. I mean, after that incident with the Target guy, I think it might be a good idea to make sure everyone knows you’re taken. Unless you’re against that?” If he was, Bellamy would stop, no hesitation. He didn’t want to make Murphy uncomfortable.

“No, no. I’m very much for it.” Murphy didn’t usually like possessive guys, but Bellamy was a special case. He wanted everyone to know he was Bellamy’s, and every time Bellamy did something to show that, it reminded Murphy, too. He liked knowing Bellamy wanted him enough to be possessive. And the fact that he didn’t do it in a creepy stalker way like Richards had was probably another reason why he didn’t mind it.

“Good. Then let’s go,” Bellamy grinned, letting go of Murphy and grabbing his keys. “I can’t wait to see you in a tie.”

“I’m not wearing a jacket. That’s too much.”

“How about a vest?”

“Am I going to a wedding?”

“Not yet.”

“Then no.”

“Fine. But I’m putting you in at least one pair of slacks.”

Murphy sighed and followed him to his car. It was going to be a long day.

Two hours later, Murphy stood in front of a mirror wearing a pair of dark wash blue jeans with no rips, a light pink button down, and a black tie. He had to admit, it didn’t look horrible. It wasn’t what he would prefer, but it was alright.

“The tie’s too much,” he muttered too himself, shaking his head and taking it off. “I don’t like it.”

“I think you’ll like this one better,” Bellamy said, coming up to him from the racks of clothes, holding a shopping bag. “Here, I’ll put it on you, then you can see it.”

He pulled the tie from a bag and put it around Murphy’s neck, tying it for him. “There you go.”

“Where the hell have you been, anyway?” Murphy asked, furrowing his brow. Bellamy had disappeared fifteen minutes ago and Murphy had been left to wander the racks alone.

“I may have gone to a different store. One with a more alternative fashion. Look at the tie.”

Murphy groaned but turned towards the mirror. His eyebrows shot up and a grin spread across his face when he saw it. It was plain white with a black skull and crossbones at the bottom. It looked nothing like the ties he’d been trying on. He absolutely loved it. “Nice.”

“I thought you’d like it. I got three colors of that one, one with a full skeleton, and a rainbow one. Figured you could still express yourself, just in a subtler way,” Bellamy told him, resting his hands on Murphy’s waist. “I like this color on you.”

Murphy turned his head so he could kiss Bellamy’s cheek, “Thank you. I love it.”

During the two hours they’d been here, Bellamy had completely changed his style. Less offensive t-shirts and more button downs, no more ripped jeans or political patches. The one thing he’d insisted on keeping was his combat boots. They weren’t going anywhere. Bellamy had finally relented but demanded, “Then for fuck’s sake, tie them!”

Murphy looked himself over in the mirror. He didn’t completely hate it. But, still, he frowned, “I look like an adult.”

Bellamy snorted, “Oh, the horror.”

“Fuck off.”

“Come on, get dressed, we’ll check out and go eat,” Bellamy told him.

“Then what are we going to do?”

“We could shop more. Maybe find some better looking boots or some more ties. Maybe a nice belt. And then…”

“And then?”

“Then I’m gonna take you home and pin you against a wall and fuck you until you’re screaming my name so loud the neighbors call in a noise complaint,” Bellamy smirked and ran his hands up Murphy’s sides. “Sound good?”

“Very good,” Murphy nodded, feeling his dick twitch in his pants. He took a deep breath, they still had at least a few hours left in the mall. He could wait. But the marks Bellamy had left were still visible above his collar and he could almost feel Bellamy’s lips on his neck. Maybe he was right and Bellamy had just done it to make him more compliant. It had probably worked, considering how little of a fuss he’d made about the button downs.

Next Chapter ->