#good thing i can’t afford it until like middle-end next year. christ.

[paladudette]

anyway. is my next portrait gonna be another gerard or frank. gee or frankie. not okay mv gerard or frank with pansy. god.

[calcifermovesthecastle]

Shared Language

Ghiaccio x Florist!Reader, gn pronouns, fluff ending

1000 follower giveaway for @therealcozyy after a million years I’m so sorry

Warnings: kind of angst, hospitalization and IV’s but nothing major

At the end of a busy day, all you want to do is close up shop and trudge to the apartment the floor above you, and collapse into bed. Thirteen Bridal Bouquets, Add on roughly six each for bridesmaids, as well as walkin customers have you frenzied and harrowed and exhausted, your hands aching with the amount of work you pulled today. Annoyance shoots through you when you hear the patronizing ring of the bell, signaling someone new, and you squeeze your eyes shut, collecting yourself before you turn around. 

"I'm horribly sorry, but we are closed for the night, so-" Your voice trails off when your eyes graze over the Passione pin glinting on the man's shirt, and you visibly wilt when your eyes travel up to his face. "Of course. How much do I owe you?" 

"It's a protection fee. It's not any lower or higher than it's ever been," He responds, looking just as annoyed with the situation as you feel. You sigh, biting your tongue, and crouch behind the counter, skimming the shelves for the envelope you usually keep the fee in. 

"Right, here you are. Um, let me count it out just to make sure I have it all, if that's alright?" 

His eyes meet yours, narrowing, before he shrugs, resting his hands on the counter. You flip through the bills, organizing them by every fifty euros. He watches you count like a hawk, his eyes flicking to your face when you purse your lips in a particular way and freeze. 

"Shit." 

You disappear into the back office, and he can see you rummaging around, looking more and more stressed as you go. 

"Is there a problem?" He calls after you, an edge to his voice.

"No, no, it's-" You come back out to the front, looking near tears as you open the cash register. Your voice cracks when you speak again. "No, there's not a problem. Give me just a moment." 

By the time you've finished counting, there's ten euros left in the register, and tears have started to pool into your eyes. You have to swallow to speak, and when you do, your voice is soft and catches on each word. 

"There. Ten-Ten thousand Euros." You recount once more just to make sure it's all there, tucking it back into the envelope and handing it over to him. His eyebrows knit as he glances to your register, and your lip trembles when you speak again. "Now, really, sir, I do have to close up for the night." 

Even though he's left your shop, he remains in his car, watching you lean over your desk and cry as you appear to do some calculations. Wordlessly, he drives away. 

    -

You're in the middle of arguing with a customer on the price of a standard funeral basket when the bell rings, and one glance over at the door has you panicking. 

"Shit, sir, you need to leave," You usher the fuming customer out the door and swivel, your eyes wide, at the man from last night. "Was it not enough?! Are you going to take my-" 

"Woah, slow down!" He holds up his hands. "I just- do you want- cazzo," He spits, shoving his hands in his pockets. You shift nervously, hysteria quickly threatening to well up past your throat. "Shit. I saw that you didn't have much left yesterday, so I wanted to- buy you lunch." 

You aren't sure if you heard him properly, but when what he says finally registers, your legs crumple underneath you. 

You wake to a concerned blue haired man, and a curious purple haired one who's taking your pulse and checking you over for injuries. 

"Oh, good, you're awake," The purple haired one smiles cooly, helping you sit up. You press a hand to the back of your head, wincing. "Ghiaccio here called me in a frenzy when you passed out. I'd pass out too if he ever asked me out to eat." 

The blue haired one- Ghiaccio, glares daggers at his companion, practically frothing at the mouth, his teeth grinding back and forth. The purple haired one pays him no mind, continuing his conversation with you as if you were old friends. 

"I don't think you need to go to the hospital, but my advice is close early and get some rest. 

"I- what?" Your mind is still trying to catch up to what's happening- two men from Passione acting so casual with you it's like you've known them for years. You frown, gingerly rubbing the back of your head. Not Ghiaccio chuckles, the corners of his lips quirking up with the action as he repeats himself. 

"I- I can't. I can't afford to close early. My rent is due in three days and I have 300 euros. That makes me 1700 euros short and if I'm short again I'll lose my business." 

"Have you eaten since last night?" Ghiaccio speaks up, his words harsher than he probably intends. You stare at him blankly. 

"No?" 

"Do you want to?" 

"I-" You glance at the clock. "I would, but…" 

"What if we brought you some food back here?" Not Ghiaccio coos, earning a death glare from his companion. You bite your lip, slowly getting to your feet. 

"I guess so? If you're offering." 

"I'll be back in forty minutes," Ghiaccio ushers his companion out of your shop, and you're left alone to mull over what happened. 

True to his word, he strolls back into your shop forty five minutes later, a bottle of water and a box of margherita pizza in hand. He sets it on your counter, biting his bottom lip nervously. 

"Are you pitying me?" You ask him quietly, reaching out for the bottle of water, pausing just before you grasp it.

"Since when is doing something nice for someone pitying them?" He looks genuinely taken aback, and you can see anger rising in his face. You decide to let the issue go, opening the box and taking a slice of pizza. 

"It's not something you had to do," You take a bite, feeling a little awkward that you're eating in front of him. "But thank you." 

He takes a slice of pizza for himself, looking uncomfortably stiff as he eats. You share a tense silence with him, your mind reeling with the possibilities of his presence. 

"Are you not enjoying yourself?" 

"I could ask you the same thing," You turn to him, pulled out of your funk. "You're standing in my lobby still as a statue, looking like I just gave you the worst news of your life." 

"What the hell does that mean?" He snaps, stiffening even more. You cover your mouth to hide the smile forming on your lips. Maybe you could enjoy his company after all. 

"It means if your eyebrows knit together any further, you're going to form a unibrow," You take a discreet sip of the water he gave you, laughing when he swivels to face the window, trying to see what you're describing. 

His heart stutters when he hears it, the way your mirth sounds so musical and carefree. God, he thinks to himself. He could listen to that forever.

"Hey, listen," You set the bottle of water down, moving around behind the counter for a moment. When you look satisfied, he watches as you come around the counter and present him with a small bouquet, mixed with white clover, pink sweet pea, Hydrangeas, and peach colored roses. "Thank you."

His face burns as he reaches out and takes the flowers, his heart hammering in his chest when his hand grazes yours. You smile gently at him, retreating back behind the counter. He can't find anything else to say, so he gives you a gruff goodbye and leaves your shop, sitting in his car long after he arrives home. 

-

"Who're the flowers from?" Prosciutto looks up from his book, eyebrow raised in question as Ghiaccio enters the hideout. Ghiaccio balks, stammering in a mix of embarrassment and indignation. 

"The florist three blocks down. Why do you need to know?" 

"Oh? They never give me flowers when I collect their protection fee," Prosciutto hums, tilting his head. 

"When's the last time you bought them lunch?" Melone drapes himself over the back of the couch Prosciutto lounges on, grinning coyly at Ghiaccio as he searches for a vase. Prosciutto hums again in understanding. 

"Their shop still not doing too well, huh? How much did they have left this time?" 

"You make it sound like you want their business to fail," Pesci whines, jutting his lower lip out. "They're always so nice to me when I collect the fee. They'd lose their home if they shut down." 

"They had ten euros," Ghiaccio answers, grabbing a cup and filling it with water, setting the arrangement of flowers inside and carrying it to his room. He gingerly places it on his windowsill, tilting it until he's satisfied that it would get the best amount of sunlight. Prosciutto appears in the door, entering without asking and leaning over Ghiaccio's shoulder to peer at the flowers. His mouth quirks up into a smile when he's satisfied and turns to leave. 

"What? What's that face for?" Ghiaccio stops him from leaving, his tone demanding. Prosciutto looks too smug for his own good, his eyes slanted downwards as he studies Ghiaccio's form. 

"Look up the meaning of those flowers and you'll understand," Prosciutto sidesteps and leaves with a wave of his hand, leaving Ghiaccio fuming. 

-

He had wanted to come by sooner, but unfortunately, got caught up in an odd schedule where he'd travel from job to job, and got stuck in Rome for a month on a hit that only paid One Hundred thousand euros. By the time he'd come back home, he did nothing but sleep and keep up on the paperwork for two days. 

The next time he shows up at your shop, you're not there, and the windows and doors have been boarded up. The sign on the entrance says "Gone out of business."    

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit!" He kicks the door frame furiously with each swear, earning some strange glances and some comments. 

"Christ, man, they weren't even the best florist in town. It's a wonder they stayed afloat as long as they did." 

"Heard it was because they couldn't pay their rent this month. Honestly, with how much Passione charges, it's not even a protection fee anymore, it's an eviction notice waiting to happen." 

"Honestly, they're just flowers. Why is he so worked up?" 

"The person running the shop wasn't even that personable." 

The crowd he'd accumulated falls silent when he turns around, his expression nothing less than smoldering. Some furtive glances at his pin, and soon, the street is empty. 

He meanders back home, kicking pebbles to the side, glowering at anyone even remotely in his way, and slams the door so hard it almost falls off of the hinges when he arrives, earning a displeased look from Prosciutto. 

"What's the matter with you?" 

"Where the fuck are they?" 

"That's rather vague," Prosciutto lights a cigarette and leans back on the couch, resting his ankle on his knee. "Did you have a hit go wrong, or-" 

"The fucking-" Ghiaccio all but stomps over to where his colleague sits, ripping the cigarette from his mouth and taking a deep dreg himself. Prosciutto's brow furrows in annoyance, but he doesn't say anything as he pulls out another from his silver case and lights it. "The florist. They went out of business. Where did they go?" 

"Like I should know the answer to that," Prosciutto scoffs, tapping his ashes into the tray on the end table. Ghiaccio follows suit, taking another deep inhale, sputtering when it goes up his nose. Prosciutto huffs again, shrugging. "What am I? A babysitter? I told you they were going to go under." 

"Well, who collected their fee last?" Ghiaccio throws himself into the chair perpendicular to Prosciutto, tapping his ashes out. Prosciutto hums. 

"Had to have been Risotto. The rest of us were all on hits at the time it's usually collected." 

Ghiaccio bolts up, putting out his half smoked cigarette, earning a glare from Prosciutto. 

"If you're going to steal my smokes, the least you could do is finish them. These are expensive, you know." 

"Then buy a cheaper brand," Ghiaccio retaliates, walking back towards Risotto's office. "We're on a budget anyways, aren't we?"

Just barely in earshot, he can hear Prosciutto telling him to fuck off. Inhaling deeply, he knocks on his capo's door. 

-

"No clue." 

"What the fuck do you mean, no clue?" Ghiaccio's voice is nearing hysterics, and he taps his foot fast, his eyes blown wide. Risotto's demeanor doesn't change, he just hums. 

"Exactly that. I collected their fee two weeks ago. I was in and out. I didn't even know they were shut down until just five minutes ago, when you burst in here screaming about it." 

"Cazzo. CAZZO! Fine, I'll find them myself!" 

"You said Melone went and helped you with a fainting spell they had? See if he can help." 

"See if that slimy- oh." 

-

Of course. 

Of course it had to snow. 

You sit against the brick wall of the alleyway, doing your best to ignore the drug deal to your left, and the way your stomach twists painfully. 

"Hey! Hey, you!" 

You hunker down, your brow furrowed miserably, and close in on yourself a little more to stave off the cold. 

"Hey, you, on the ground! Get the fuck outta here. This is my turf!" Your screamer's legs appear in front of you, and you look up at him, dead eyed. "Jeez, you look like real shit, you know? When's the last time you ate?" 

"Leave me alone." 

"What, not even a hello?" Your perpetrator sneers, crouching to your level. You don't have it in you to even glare. You're too hungry. He scoffs, eyeing you. "Tch. Find somewhere else to starve to death, huh? You're making it hard for me to do my business." 

"Do you have to humiliate me any more than I already am?" You sigh, trying to get to your feet. "Fine. Just leave me alone."

You lean heavily on the wall, your legs trembling underneath you. Homelessness has not treated you well, and the stares your emaciated body receive only further your spiral into despair. 

You've barely made it to the next alley over when your legs give out, and you collapse face first into the accumulated snow. Hazily, you think to yourself that you have to get something to drink somehow, and pull yourself up, grabbing handfuls and shoving it into your mouth, nevermind how cold you already are, your thin long sleeves and tattered excuse for pants clinging wetly to your body. The only thing you can do now is wish for death to come faster than it does. You fall down onto your side and stare blankly at the opposite wall, willing yourself to fall asleep. 

You think you see a pair of legs come to a halt in front of you before you slip into a haze. 

-

When you wake again, a flat white ceiling greets you instead of a cloudy sky, and you notice the weight of a blanket on you. Hazily, you glance over and notice an IV drip hanging out of your arm, and a somewhat familiar blond haired man in a suit sitting next to your bed, smoking a cigarette and absentmindedly reading a newspaper. His eyes flick over when he senses your movement, and his brow shoots up. The paper is set aside, and he takes a generous hit from his cigarette before speaking. 

"Good morning. We weren't sure if you were going to pull out of that or not. You've been asleep for almost four days. It's funny. You lose your business, and suddenly, you drop off of our radar. It was quite a chore to find you, you know." 

"Are you mocking me?" You croak, trying to pull yourself up into a sitting position. The blond appraises you for a minute, puffing smoke out of his mouth. "Are we in a hospital? I'm pretty sure you aren't supposed to smoke in hospitals." 

"I doubt the staff is going to give me a hard time," The man speaks lightly, lounging back. "You certainly are something. You've been awake two minutes and you already have a smart mouth?" A small smile lights up his features. "I guess you could say that you're a trooper." 

"I'm starving," You bite your lip, turning away, your eyes widening when you finally place the man. "Shit! You're from Passione! Oh my god, oh, I lost my-" 

"I already know that," The man waves you off. "I'm just here to keep an eye on you and take you home once you get discharged." 

"But I don't- I don't have a home," You place your thumbnail between your teeth, looking at him anxiously. He dismisses you again, snubbing out his smoke.

"That's why I'm here, kid." 

His vagueness annoys you, but one glance at the box of apple juice and ham sandwich on your bedside tray has anything you want to say dying in your mouth, and by the time you've scarfed it down, tears spark at the corner of your eyes, and any animosity towards the gangster has dissipated. 

"Thank you." 

-

The blond- he's since introduced himself as Prosciutto, drives in silence away from the hospital, not saying anything to you about where you're going. You fidget nervously in the passenger seat, jumping when he parks the care and tells you that you've arrived. 

You're still a little unsteady on your feet, so Prosciutto guides you down the stairs with a hand on the small of your back, and leans across you to unlock and open the door. The minute you step inside, you're greeted with almost everyone who's come to collect your protection fees. The only one missing is the blue haired one who bought you lunch- Ghiaccio. 

The...boss… Risotto, as introduced, gives you a quick tour of your new residence, telling you that everything is free range, that he's going to have you take on some of the deskwork in return, and shows you to your room. Inside is a bed and a few changes of clothes in the closet. At this point, you're teetering on the edge of bawling your eyes out, and you can barely choke out a thank you, giving him a wobbly smile. You swear you can see him smile in return. 

-

You're sitting on the edge of your bed that night, fidgeting nervously, your mind spinning 100 miles per hour, when there's a knock at your door. You practically jump out of your skin, and call out a shaky "Come In." 

The door creaks open slowly, and there he is, his hands hidden behind his back. 

Ghiaccio. 

You stand slowly, your eyes searching his face. 

"Did you-" You catch yourself, starting towards him hesitantly. He seems just as hesitant as he walks towards you. "Did you make this happen?" 

"Not really," His voice is soft and hoarse, and the way his brow is furrowed tells you just how worried he was, but the light in his eyes shows you how relieved he feels to see you in person again. "I just suggested it, really. Sort of… Panicked... When I saw your- your shop-" His voice falters when you reach out and grab his shoulder. Tears are welling in your eyes for what feels like the eightieth time today, and your lower lip trembles when your hand comes in contact with him. He's a little cold to the touch, but it's comforting and refreshing. 

"Thank you," You manage. He swallows thickly, revealing his hands and shoving something harshly in your direction. He's beet red now, and looking anywhere but you. You grab it, taken aback, and look down to inspect it. 

Now you really start to cry, tears spilling onto the arrangement of Daffodils, Daisies, purple lilacs, irises, and lavender roses. So much said in one little bouquet. A sob expels from your throat, and you look up at him, catching him watching you out of the corner of his eye. 

You set the flowers on your bed, stepping forward to wrap your arms around him. 

"They're good?" He sounds nervous, and stiffens at the contact. 

"They're wonderful," You confirm, your voice thick as you bury your face into his shoulder. His arms wind around you, then, and you can hear the relief in his voice when he murmurs to you again. 

"Welcome home."

[ninnodesu]

“Can I See You?” ch 2 || Modern!Thomas

Well. People apprently wanted more of modern!Thomas, so naturally, my brain conjured up a continuation.  GUESS WE HAVE TWO LONG STORIES NOW, FRIENDOS

I AM GOING TO TAG EVERY CHAPTER OF THIS FIC AS CICU IN CASE YOU WANT TO BLOCK OR FOLLOW!

TWs: - Mentions of rape - Broken bone - Mentions of cannibalism - Mentions of murder - Murder

He could see in your eyes, how the tears welled up and streamed down your face that you’d recognize him and he left. He couldn’t look at you at this point, couldn’t look at you cry because of him. He heard you cry behind him as he turned to go into his basement bedroom, his heart stung in his chest as he heard you beg and scream in fear. Closing the bedroom door, he proceeds to lean up against it, back pressed hard to it, eyes shut closed. Some kind of desperate way to make your panicked begging go away.

I can't, I can't, I can't, his inner voice chant like a mantra. His anxiety gets the better of him and he starts pacing, the wood under his feet already marked with a worn-out pattern left by his heavy boots after years and years of anxious pacing. A fierce battle erupts in his mind.

- I can't kill her - You have to, and you know it - No, I won't - Come up with one good reason to fistfight the old man about this - He would die and I wouldn't have to do this fucking thing anymore - And what? You'll live happily ever after with this woman? - I… - She would never accept the truth

Returning to his original place with his back to the door, he slowly sinks down to sit on the floor, one leg sprawled in front of him, the other resting under it. He's lost, he doesn’t know what to do. If he lets you go, you'll go straight to the police. If he kills you, he'll never hear from you again, he'll never see your face again, a sudden wave of intense nausea hits him at the thought of keeping the skin of your face to make a new mask. No, no he can't do that.

This is the first time since he had to butcher his first human that he feels genuinely lost.

He's mad at his uncle for wasting the low amount of money they do have on ugly hookers and booze, having Thomas resort to this way of living. He never truly did want this. The first time Charlie, or Hoyt as he wants to be called now - although Thomas never really did care about his apparent name change and still called him by Charlie to piss on his ego - talked to him about this, he threw up minutes after being left alone.

He still remembers the first time he got forced into butchering a person, just like it was yesterday, even though it’s nearly four years ago.

That day, he was on his way home from work, ending the day with bashing his old boss’s head in with a sledgehammer. The old man had disrespected his family, something Thomas wouldn’t stand for. Knowing that the security cameras were already turned off, he swung the hammer out of anger. He was mad that they were closing the slaughterhouse and he was hurt by the words that had been spoken. No one disrespects his family and gets away with it. Killing his boss didn’t wake any regrets. He believed the old man deserved it. The afternoon sun was still blazing down at his already sweaty form, propping his headphones on his head, he turned the music on full blast and lumbered home with no care in the world.

His right hand carried a memento of his old work, the slaughterhouse’s chainsaw.

As he had come out from a few trees up on the gravel road, a police car was parked by the side of it, the harsh blue and red light blinking to get his attention. Figuring he was caught, he took the headphones off, letting them rest around his neck and stopped in the middle of the road. His hair blew in front of his face as he took heaving breaths, waiting for the piercing pain of a bullet.

Bang! Thud.

What greeted him instead of searing pain, was Charlie standing behind him, brandishing a shotgun and looking down at a police officer with the head blown off. Everything after that is a blur. Vague memories of Charlie talking to him about the plan, the body was laid out on an old table in the basement. He’d never seen this side of his uncle before, so he tuned out.  Words like “ do it”, “no money left”, “can’t afford”, “ butcher him ”, “don’t tell mama” and the worst sentence he’d heard in his life; “ you have to do this, Tommy. For the family. We need meat to survive, boy.” echoed in his mind.

A loud bang coming from outside woke him from his memories. When he just seconds later heard your voice in a shrill pitch, he almost jumped off the floor and hurried out only to see you laying on the floor with half the table over you, the other half leaning against the metallic sink.

Jesus christ…

Being left alone again, your thoughts start racing and your heart along with it.

Where did he go? Why is he here? Does he live here? Is he going to kill you? Rape you? Keep you as a hostage? Was that his family? What? Why? Where?

It’s quiet, but you hear a faint shuffling coming from somewhere close to you. All you can do is lay there and look up at the ceiling, and to your left or right.

On your left you see what looks like a workbench, an apron rests on a hook next to it. It looks well used, stained with a dark and muddy hue of red. There's a sink and dirty towels hanging off the edge of said sink. The sight to your right, however, makes your stomach flip and turn on itself. There’s cleavers, knives, hooks. Huge bins stained with the same red hue as the apron. Putting all the puzzle pieces together, your breathing increases, teetering on the edge of hyperventilating. Thomas, your Thomas. The Thomas you’ve gotten to know, the one you’ve missed for these two weeks, the one who made you all giggly when he sent you the first full-face selfie of himself… a murderer.

As the adrenaline starts shooting through your body, you try wiggling a bit to see how bolted down you are. Your fastenings are tight and they burn as you try pulling your hands out. The metal just digs into your skin resulting in nasty burns.

Fuck…

That’s when an idea - or rather a small glimpse of hope - blooms in your head. Hopefully, the table is not bolted down. It’s a stupid idea, and you know that if Thomas doesn’t kill you, the table most likely will. But rather the table, than the man you’ve slowly started to fall in love with during the months you’ve talked. Getting killed by Thomas’ hands would haunt you more in the afterlife than anything else.

Gathering all the remaining strength, you throw the entirety of your body not bolted down to the side, doing your best to ignore the burning in your wrists and ankles. The first attempt yielded nothing major, the table moved, yes, but not to the extent you wanted. So you do it again, this time, the table goes down, and you with it. You feel the bone in your leg crack before you feel the brutal pain that explodes through it.

Your scream is high to the point where you feel your vocal cords strain and your voice slowly becoming lower, raspier. The pain is enormous, the throbbing pain in your leg thrumming together with your rapid heart. But - thankfully - your scream summons movement, footsteps, and voices. The most prominent footsteps, heavy ones, belong to Thomas as he’s the first one to your side. Even if you can’t see him, you see his clunky boots and grayish jeans, at least you hope that’s Thomas and no one else. All you do is sob onto the floor, your tears pooling under your chin at the pain radiating from your leg… and the burns around your wrists. It takes a full minute before you see big fingers curling around the edge of the table, a grunt coming from above you before your vision starts flying. He was lifting the table up. A loud, hoarse cry escapes your dry throat as the table thuds back into place, jolting your broken leg.

You're about to scream again when your brain catches up to the cleavers and knives hanging to your right but quickly after the first raspy pitch leaves your throat, a hand clamps over your mouth. The rasping sound is muffled under the big hand and you can feel it moisten due to your breath, but all he does is put a finger to his lips in a shushing motion and plead with his eyes for you to stay quiet. Which you don’t, you rasp out a hoarse scream against his palm and keeps shooting daggers at him. My god, are you pissed right now.

Who the fuck are you, and what have done to the Thomas I know, you fucking animal!

You don’t quiet down until you hear that sliding door slide open again and an angry voice rings out. "Thomas! What the fuck is that racket?!"

Thomas jerks his head up as he hears Charlie's voice. He's not sure what to do, his uncle’s footsteps thud down the stairs and soon enough, Thomas sees him in full and exchanges eye contact. "This bitch is still alive? Why haven't you taken care of'er yet, ya idiot?".

Shit uh…

He glances down at your dagger filled eyes while trying to figure how to keep you quiet and talk to his uncle at the same time, needing both hands to do so. He can't sign to Charlie if his hand is clamped over your mouth. Letting out an annoyed grunt, he grabs the nearest towel and shoves it into your mouth as quickly and deep down he can without choking you, making sure you can’t spit it back out. Seeing you so shocked, and angry and… some other kind of emotion he couldn’t place, he got the urge to show you some kind of affection. Resulting in him patting your cheek, his huge hand basically engulfing half your face before walking over to the stairs.

"Well?", Charlie spits out his venomous words. Thomas' hands fidget a bit, nervousness taking a hold of him.

'I know her' The same signs that he kept on repeating earlier, annoyance building inside him knowing that his asshole of an uncle refuses to learn more. Making it almost impossible to have a normal conversation with him. "Listen, Tommy, I. Don’t. Care.", the looks between the men are like venom. "You were 'sposed to get to work on'er before mama gets home. You know damn well how much she hates when the cattle scream." Thomas really can’t help the smirk hiding beneath his mask when he hears that. He glances up the stairs before checking the time on his wristwatch before shrugging, pointing to it, and slowly signing two words he knows Charlie can decipher.

'Fifteen minutes'

That's when Charlie grabs the neck of Thomas' shirt and yanks him forward, the only reason he's able to is that he manages to catch him off guard. His breath reeks of alcohol. A clear cut sign that he’s drunk. "Listen here, you bastard. I've had enough of your defiance today. If you ", he stabs a finger in Thomas' chest at the last word, "don't take care of that girl, I will . And you know damn well I ain't going easy on'er." Charlie releases Thomas with a shove, making him stumble backward slightly. The final words from Charlie’s mouth before leaving the basement stings in Thomas’ heart. "I don't want to see your ugly ass upstairs until she's done for."

Thomas watches him leave and turn towards you, who’s still crying silently on the table.

His heart stings more and more the closer he shuffles to you. Sure, he had had nights where he dreamt that he would meet you. But not like this. Never like this, never here. He did not want to see you on his butcher's block. At the same time, he moves to remove the towel he makes the same shushing motion towards you, with the same pleading eyes as earlier. This time, she nods. And Thomas lets out a sigh of relief. As he removes it, you’re panting, breathing sounding almost more like wheezing squeaks. He goes to rinse the towel under some lukewarm water to pat clean the bloody gash over the eyebrow that got hit to knock you out before getting here. All the time, he feels a burning gaze on him, from eyes that are seemingly watching his every move.

You wince when the damped towel touches your eyebrow, a wound you didn't know you had greeted you with a sting, a small hiss leaving you. Your eyes are glued to the giant man, making sure you see his hands at all times. You want to speak, but your throat is dry and hoarse, figuring out that your earlier screaming has annoyed your vocal cords to a great extent. So all you do is watch him. He, on the other hand, is doing his best to avoid making eye contact with you. And it pisses you off, but at the same time, it relaxes you and makes your heart hurt.

Why the fuck are you avoiding me?!

The thought makes your eyebrows furrow. He’s seen you naked, yet can’t fucking look you in the eyes? You try thrashing a bit with your shoulders to try and get his eyes to yours, but to no avail. His tender way to clean your wound surprises you. This huge killer, this murderer, and straight-up deranged man are making sure not to hurt you, and you can't help but breathe out a laugh.

That's when he - apparently - seems happy with his cleaning and turns his back to you, he turns the water on and it sounds like he's rinsing something. Shutting the water off he moves out of your line of sight. A slight panic arises in your chest at the thought that he might have gone off to fetch whatever tool he seems fit to end your life.  You hear a rummaging sound close by, and then he's back above you, looking down at you. This time, you feel a large hand on your head as he slowly and carefully tilts your head back, your eyes are met with harsh light and you shut them. That overwhelming want and need for him to look into your own eyes die down. Now, you don't want to look at him when he slits your throat.

But he doesn't.

You hear what sounds like a paper wrapping open. Two fingers press on either side of the gash over your eyebrow, a small whimper escapes you at the pinching pain, and then something sticky is attached to you. A band-aid. He had put a bandaid on the cut of your eyebrow. It isn't until you feel his hand leave your head that you open your eyes. And at that moment, your eyes are met with his blue ones. The way he's looking at you makes a tiny bit of your anger and hurt, and fear goes away. His blue eyes are filled to the brim with hurt, and sadness, and confusion. It almost looks like he’s about to burst into tears. He looks broken down.

Thomas fiddles a bit with the paper wrapper of the bandaid after making sure it's secured on your eyebrow and proceeds to look down into your beautiful eyes, your eye color popping in the harsh light. Something in them reflects his own emotions. He doesn’t want this, he punishes himself for not responding to your text messages the past weeks, or that he didn’t reach out to you. What he’s looking at is clear cut torture for him. He wants to cry.

I'm so sorry…

He hears the familiar clacking of his mother's shoes above the both of you, a sigh of relief escapes him. Patting the pockets of his jeans, he makes sure he has his phone and the keys to the basement before he heads over to the stairs. But he stops right before ascending them and looks over to you.

He pulls his phone up, unlocks it swiftly, and goes to his text-to-speech app, making sure the volume is put on high before typing out two words and hitting the speech button. A male voice rings out through the basement.

"I'm sorry"

[xenteaart]

Shall We? (Part 2)

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x fem!Reader

Request: Can I request part two for Shall We? Pleeeeaase 🙏!! You can’t just leave it like that.

Word count: 1,7k

Warnings: kind of a fight scene?? and like one swear word idk

Note: Sooo here’s part two of this fic, give it a read if you havent coz otherwise this one is not going to make much sense haha

For the sake of the story, Five disappeared when he was 18 (instead of 13) and got stuck in his 18 year-old-body after coming back accordingly. Also I’ve decided to give the reader and the Handler kind of a Lila x the Handler dynamic

The events are taking place in s1, some details of the canon are obvsly altered.

ALSO THERE’S A LIL EASTER EGG AT THE END MWEHEHE

Hope you enjoy!

Taglist: @stitched-mouth​ @startrekkingaroundasgard​

“You do know you can’t win. I really don’t wanna hurt you, Y/N,” he uttered, raising his hands a little as a way to warn you not to come any closer for your own good.

Even though it was supposed to be a sweet gesture of concern, hearing him confirm that he still thought you were no match for him cut you to your very core.

“Oh, yeah? Well, I’m afraid you might have to. Shall we?” you sneered and threw your leg into the air, hitting Five right under his kneecap and making him collapse on the ground with a surprised gasp.

Five truly had zero intention of hurting you, but your determination to have a fight left him no choice, and even his clear advantage of having loads more experience and superpowers on top did not seem to make you hesitate.

“Come on, don’t be stupid, Y/N,” Five commented as he got back on his feet and took a few steps away from you, still giving you a chance to back off before he had to inflict any pain on your person, but all it achieved was winding you up even more.

The problem was - you two underwent identical training at the Commission as the Handler gave both of you her very best mentor, and right now you were basically mirroring each other’s moves, except Five was also using his spatial jumps to disorient you. He was still going easy on you, mostly just blocking your punches and jumping further away so you had to chase him all over the Academy while he was hoping you would simply exhaust yourself before any real damage would be done. Quite frankly, it was a smart decision on his part and a rather thoughtful one as well because, despite all appearances, he actually cared about you an awful lot.

As the both of you gracefully danced all the way to the second floor, you were already out of breath from the endless running around which meant Five’s plan was beginning to work. However, you realized what he was doing soon enough to indulge him into the feeling of being right and played his little game for a while, waiting for the perfect moment when he’d get distracted, and as the moment came you had to act fast.

You threw yourself forwards and promptly wrapped your arms around Five’s waist, knocking him off his feet and pressing your body against his as you pinned him to the floor. He groaned with annoyance and winced at the pain as his back hit the hard wooden surface. The next few seconds sort of happened in slow-mo for both of you as he roughly pushed you off himself and somehow managed to switch places with you, now looming over your body and warningly putting his knee on your solar plexus, threatening to crush your ribcage if you moved.

A mutual silence fell between you as you were processing the last 30 minutes of your lives, both visibly struggling to believe that each of you somehow ended up fighting the person they would never wish to hurt in their entire life. The sounds of your heavy breathing were filling the room as you were merely staring at each other in utter confusion. The weight of Five’s knee on your diaphragm was beginning to give you trouble breathing, and your breaths became shallow and hoarse which finally snapped him out of his trance.

“Gonna tell me what the hell is up now, Y/N?” he asked in his teacher-y manner that you used to absolutely hate and adore all at once, especially when he used to give you lectures on your occasional fuck-ups - whether it was failing a class because you were too lazy to turn in your assigments in time or something a little more serious, like getting into an argument with the Monocle and consequently making life harder for both of you.

You would always roll your eyes and smirk when he would get into his i-am-disappointed-in-you-but-i-still-love-you character and cross his arms on his chest for dramatic effect.

“You were the one telling me to piss off in the first place, remember,” you narrowed your eyes as you were subtly gasping for air underneath Five’s weight. He pursed his lips and looked away, contemplating whether or not to be completely honest. Evidently, his lack of sincerity got him nowhere the last time around, so he sighed loudly; his shoulders dropping and his expression finally revealing all of the exhaustion and regret that he was concealing quite successfully up until now.

“I only pushed you away to protect you.”

“Sounds like bullshit to me,” you replied, clearly unimpressed and palpably suspicious; two years of being brainwashed by the Handler now taking their toll on your perspective.

“God, don’t be so slow,” Five uttered clearly irritated but then quickly realized his offensive implication and added, “Said with respect.”

You stayed silent, raising your brow as a way of telling him to continue.

“I couldn’t risk you becoming a casualty because being involved in my family’s mess as a non-super is dangerous. As in, you’re going to be a target all the time, and I couldn’t and still can’t afford to waste my time worrying about your safety. As much as I’d love to - it’s simply not the luxury I have. I’ve got to stop the end of the world, otherwise everyone is going to be dead in four days, don’t you get it?” Five asked, a waterfall of emotions pushing at the inner sides of his chest, waiting to be set loose and consume everything on its way.

You were quietly listening to his explanation and taking it all in whilst still trying to fight off the suspicion and disbelief that were nagging at your every cell.

“I wanted to keep you safe because I couldn’t bear to lose you again,” his voice trembled a little as the memories of his post-apocalypse life washed over his mind, “The last 45 years have been a fucking nightmare.”

“I’d find it way more believable if you stopped crushing my ribs for starters,” you muttered through clenched teeth and immediately felt the pressure taken off your chest, precious and very much needed oxygen starting to flow through your system the way it should again.

Five got up and offered his hand to help you on your feet as a gesture to show you that he didn’t see you as an enemy and placed trust in you. You took his hand and steadied yourself awkwardly, still slightly disoriented and light-headed.

“I don’t know what the Handler told you but I do know she’s exceptional at manipulating,” Five added as he looked you right in the eye, “Christ, and you’re so naive, always have been. Most days it’s truly adorable but sometimes, Y/N, it really doesn’t work in your favor,” as the words escaped his lips, his gaze became noticeably softer; his expression blossoming with tenderness towards you.

“Prove it. Prove that you care.”

Five chuckled and shook his head, simultaneously annoyed and amused at your stubbornness. The atmosphere between you was shifting and you couldn’t help but notice the familiar overwhelming feeling of comfort and peace enveloping your person from head to toe. You’ve forgotten what it felt like being around Five, and now you were finally getting to remember. At home.

He slipped his hand into the pocket of his uniform shorts and pulled out a grape-sized plastic figure of a golden retriever.

“You gave me this a few days before I jumped and got stuck in the future. I carried it with me all the way. This silly trinket was the only thing I had left of you, the only thing that reminded me you were still out there waiting for me. Kept me going,” he shrugged casually as if it wasn’t important at all which it absolutely was.

“Five, c’mere! Look what I found!” you called for him as you were sitting on the floor surrounded by all sorts of useless crap. You were in the middle of decluttering your bedroom when a little figure of a dog caught your eye, it was the breed that Five was especially fond of and you knew he secretly dreamed of getting a puppy of his own as soon as he was out of the house.

“What’s that?” he asked, unimpressed.

“It’s a doggie! He wants to be your friend,” you replied, playing with your accent a little, rolling you “r”s and shifting the flow of your words to sound more Scottish or ... Russian. God knows where you were going with it but you tended to butcher your accent for fun quite a lot.

“Y/N, are you twelve?”

“His name is Mr.Pennycrumb and he’s gonna look after you whenever I’m not around,” you said with utmost confidence and gave him a wide smile, putting the trinket into Five’s pocket, clearly very proud of yourself and still committed to your silly accent performance, “Treat him well.”

Five scoffed and shrugged.

“Whatever.”

“So did he?” you asked, staring at the goddamn toy as tears were slowly welling up in your eyes.

“What?”

“Did he do a good job looking after you while I wasn’t around?” your gaze finally met Five’s as the realization in his own eyes was starting to sink in. A pained smile touched the corners of his mouth, and you could see Five genuinely struggle to maintain his tough facade.

“Yeah. He did.”

Without saying a word, you stepped closer and rested your cheek on his shoulder, wrapping your arms around him, this time with no hostility or murderous intention. If you had to be perfectly honest with yourself, you’d admit you could never find it in you to actually hurt Five, let alone killing him. Both of you knew that way too well.

He returned the hug and pulled you closer, burying his nose in your hair and then planting a quick innocent kiss on the top of your head. Feeling the warmth radiating from you was enough to make him relax further into your embrace, his eyes now closed shut and his breathing steady and deep.

It didn’t last for as long as you’d like, though, a big loud bang from downstairs making you both flinch and pull away from each other, breaking your fragile bubble of comfort and calm in an instant.

“Shit, Hazel and Cha-Cha,” Five whispered, concern and worry crawling back onto his features. He briefly looked at you, and you simply nodded, non-verbally confirming that you were willing to help and were no longer part of the Handler’s plan.

The two of you were going to talk all about that later. His years alone, his and your own involvement with the Commission, the end of the world and loads more.

Of course, right in this moment neither of you could possibly know that your friendship was, in fact, a gateway into a lifelong partnership but you were bound to find out eventually. And the journey you two were about to begin as soon as the apocalypse was dealt with and gone was going to be magnificent.

[fukurodanni]

everything stays (but it still changes)

PART 1 || part 2 || part 3

pairing: tsukishima kei x photographer!reader summary: there are better people to see in the middle of a starbucks on a thursday afternoon - easier people. the man that broke your heart three years ago is definitely not one of them. word count: 2k note: a gift for @lonely-little-levi, who has a fondness for lemon tea and astronomy and karasuno’s beanpole of a middle blocker

It’s like a shitty romance novel.

Even so, you’re starting to think a romance novel would’ve been easier than this - frozen in the middle of a Starbucks in front of your highschool sweetheart, four years post-breakup.

Kei Tsukishima stands like an absolute lamppost at the counter, except he isn’t quite as lanky as he was then. He looks very dignified, you think, with an airpod in one ear and the tailored dress shirt that suggests he's just stepped out of a magazine. There’s nothing stopping you from saying hello except the mortifying ordeal that is confrontation, and the sudden, excruciating thumping in your sternum from seeing him after so long.

You'll only have to see him today, you think, so you watch him walk out without glancing in your direction. No biggie.

Except maybe it is a bit more of a biggie than you'd thought.

Tsukishima, apparently, plans on becoming a regular. And it’s like clockwork: Thursday and Friday afternoons, just as you're getting out of the car, the same mussed blond head of hair ducks out of the coffee shop and into his own car. He doesn't seem to notice you and it's only been long enough for you to notice the pattern - there is no eye contact, no acknowledgement.

It’s like high school all over again, and you sort of hate yourself for it but you know you’ll have to run in with him sooner or later - the familiarity of it all grips you by the collar and threatens to strangle you where you stand. One Thursday afternoon, though, after a blissful two weeks without an encounter, he spots you.

You freeze. The whole world freezes.

He stands not six feet away from you and his expression betrays nothing, which is immediately frustrating because you feel like your heart is going to force its way up your chest and you’re going to vomit the whole organ out onto his fancy leather shoes and then - and then he nods at you in acknowledgement.

And walks away.

Fucking Christ. That could have gone better. Despite your frantic pulse, relief washes over you at it not being an actual conversation - because at least he’s seen you now. Good. There isn’t anything else to be gained and the niggling regret of not having said anything isn’t large enough to concern you yet.

Surely you can handle the next one?

The afternoon after the first encounter, you’re sure you’ve jinxed it or something. You don’t see him there, don’t bother to look for his car, so you head in. It goes as mundane and routine as mundane routines go, and you’re very satisfied with the cup of tea warming your hands. You stand outside your car for a moment to check your phone - an email about a photoshoot next week - and nearly leap out of your skin.

“Are you here often?” His voice is low and smooth and washes over you like ice water.

Second time’s a charm. You turn to face him.

“Kei. You could afford to say hello, you know.” Your voice comes out a lot steadier than the rest of you feels.

“Hello,” he says blandly. “How come we haven't run into each other before?”

You can only shrug in response, tucking your phone back into your pocket. “Maybe you’re just blind,” you reply coolly. “you look good, though. How’ve you been?”

His brow raises slightly, the barest indication of surprise. “Alright.”

There are about a million words swimming between the two of you, things left unspoken from years ago suddenly bubbling to the surface. His stoicism frustrates you endlessly, but he’s opened his mouth twice as if readying to say something. You’re just about to bite the bullet and ask about it when he finally says -

“Are you free this weekend?”

And the only witty thing you can think to respond with is, “Wow. Didn’t peg you as the eager type.” Which obviously isn’t the right thing to say because a look of hurt passes over his face before he wipes it completely. You feel yourself wince a little.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says. Tsukishima’s face morphs back to apathetic and you almost wish you’d said something a little gentler until his mouth gives into that trademark smirk, “but I’m glad that’s the first thing you had in mind.”

“Oh, sorry,” you scoff, gripping the cup a little tighter. “I forget to mention how you occupy my every waking thought.”

Hostility is a comfort and you wrap yourself in it like a blanket in the dead of winter. Tsukishima lets the silence hang for a beat or two before deciding to explain himself.

“I meant to catch up,” he explains, and his voice is softer this time - it catches you off guard, itches at you with deja vu. It sounds like Friday nights after school huddled up under a knitted blanket watching shitty dramas and summer mornings after staying up well past dawn - but you stuff it all into the back of your mind because that’s all very unimportant and you still haven’t given him an answer. You glance at his mouth, watching the way it forms syllables. “I wonder about you.”

The latter statement comes out a little quieter. It makes you question whether or not he really meant to say it. “Okay,” you nod. “Sunday, then. Are you free Sunday?”

Tsukishima nods stiffly. He has the same tells, you realize, as you watch his thumb smooth over the knuckle of his index finger. He’s nervous. It fills you with an obsolete sort of pride, like maybe you shouldn’t have remembered.

“Good-” he stumbles on his words. “It’s good to see you.”

It isn’t until you’re halfway home that you nearly drop your head onto the steering wheel in sharp realization. You hadn’t asked for a time.

-

You hardly remember what it is that first drew you to Tsukishima - you were both so young. It was a class or two together, and a mutual friend through Yamaguchi, and then a study date. And then another, and another, until you’d found yourself completely captivated by him: the funny way he snickered, the way his eyes welled with pride when you finally understood a concept, the way his lips curved into a smile he’d reserved only for you. The way his arms felt like coming home; like comfort and calm and relief.

It came all at once: precious and tentative, in coffee dates and starry nights, in hesitant museum outings and evenings spent buried under thick blankets. You’d looked at him one night, pulse thrumming with a perfect kind of joy, and called it love.

Your euphoria stuck like glue to fingers, tacky and hard to remove. Years of high school passed in vignettes, hazy and rose colored - a bustling, intoxicating romance that spanned the entire night sky. He called you his sun, his stars; looked at you as if you’d woven each constellation by hand. And you loved him so fiercely, your moonlight, a force to turn tides and bring oceans to their knees.

Graduation came along with a tearful and stilted goodbye, though not without a special promise to stay in touch. You recall the lump of worry knotted at the bottom of your throat that first night in university, sick with uncertainty and asking yourself how long you could possibly go on before disaster struck and pulled you from him for good.

But then he’d called the next morning and the croak of his voice, barely awake, was the softest sunshine after a lifetime in darkness. It soothed every ache and smoothed over your edges and suddenly there was no doubt that you’d be okay.

It fell apart so gently; sweet, hazardous smoke that filled every gap between you until it consumed all your sunshine. It was daily calls becoming weekly and then barely any at all; shorter texts and stilted visits and tense silences. It grows and grows and you find your thoughts wandering, traitorously, to whether or not it should be fixed. Maybe it isn’t meant to be.

You hate yourself for it and hate that you even consider it in the first place.

When it happens, it isn’t intentional. Things like this usually never are, you think, but you can’t recall how it began. It must have been so insignificant.

You remember, vaguely, the warmth of sun on your skin. The feeling of waking up pressed against Tsukishima, tucked into him, his breaths like the gentlest morning metronome. The warmth of his fingertips tracing stars onto your shoulder and fond, mumbled conversation - a languid and picturesque morning, sodden with quiet affection.

It finally comes as he’s leaving again - he’d only come for a weekend trip, after all, because that’s all he had time for then. He’s pulling on a jacket because fall is approaching and so is the cold, and pulls on a blank expression to match. You watch his hand fidget, thumb over finger, you know he’s nervous.

And then he asks to end it. As if you hadn’t just spent the morning in his arms.

It escalates like calm before a storm and you’re so confused, even though you know it’s been a long time coming. But, god, it feels so good to succumb to anger because it’s something besides the past few months - numbness like stagnant water. It bursts through dams you didn’t know you’d built and rolls over your tongue. It tastes like knives.

“So what, is that it?” You scoff despite yourself, trying to clear the lump in your throat. “You’re done with me because of a few missed calls?”

It’s not a few. You think about all the calls you’ve let ring deliberately purely because you just weren’t in the mood, or because he’d been so snippy on the last one or because you just didn’t have the time. You shouldn’t be ripping into him for this.

“Done with you-!” he repeats, incredulous, and it’s the first time you’ve heard his voice shift into this tone - awkward and frustrated and trying his very best not to yell because he still loves you so much, but the words are like magma in his throat and all that’s coming out is ash.

It frustrates him. So he can’t help but yell in that pained, strangled voice and hope it all makes sense why you can’t be together anymore. It tugs at the very core of his chest, burning unpleasantly - it tastes like bile rising high in his throat except none of it refuses to go and he’s left standing there with no idea of what to do, so he lashes out because of all things, at least he knows how to do that.

He’s like a fucked up pinball machine - managing to hit every guilt at the back of your mind, and you can’t show him that you’re affected. Can’t let him hear the words that feel glued to the roof of your mouth - begging him to reconsider and trying to fix it all when you’d pretended it wasn’t all going bad, too. So you stand there, frozen still. He looks sort of strangled, like he’s physically restraining himself from saying things and explaining himself and you recognize it, faintly, as a defense mechanism. He’s hiding from you.

You wonder when he’d started to do that.

The room is so thick with tension that it feels you might lose yourself in the way your chest tightens and curls in on itself - if you could just open the proverbial window and make it all better - when you quite literally watch Tsukishima’s resolve shatter. Because suddenly, he would rather walk away than mend this ugly rift between you, wide and monstrous. You hardly remember the tears cooling on your cheeks; only the weeks spent out of contact, trying to pick up broken pieces and figure out what it was to breathe without needles filling your lungs. The weeks after home was stripped away from you, trying to rid yourself of guilt and doubt and blame.

PART 1 || part 2 || part 3

[misha-moose-dean-burger-lover]

We're both fighting over the last packet of ramen at target because we're both broke college students + sabriel. Thank you.

Sam spotted the only remaining packet of ramen, lying forlorn, at the far behind of the shelf after he'd already given up hopes of dinner that night, and was sulking in another aisle. Once he had, though, he instantly abandoned his (ironic) half-hearted toilet-paper shopping, and rushed.

The faster he was done with this, the sooner he'd be able to return to his notes.

But while he was still a full metre away, a much smaller guy seemed to cut into the race and snatch it up. "Ah!" Said the guy, not having seen Sam at all. "I knew squatting to a cat's eye-level for a once-over, is always the key to all things good."

Sam made a small, whining noise in his throat; that he didn't exactly intend to make. That got the guy's attention, and soon he had a pair of clear brown eyes turned up at him, enquiring. Uncertain, as he held the packet in his hand. He looked weary, in spite of the humor in his words, but then in college campus during finals, everyone does.

Fuck, Sam's chest almost hurt, upon realization. He was going to have to fight this guy for that stupid packet of ramen. He needed that. But - this guy looked so small. He -

What had his life even come to, for Christ's sake?

Sam sighed, holding his hand out, hoping for the guy to not protest too much. "Excuse me, but I saw that ramen first."

The query in his eyes gave way to a defensive glare, as he clutched the packet to his chest. "Well, I ran all the way from the cashier's counter, so I don't think so!"

Sam swallowed, not taking his outstretched hand away, yet. "Dude, you don't get it. I need that."

"Well, I need it too!" He glared back. Sam blinked at him, trying to do the 'puppy-eye' stare that Dean and others at home always said worked really well. But probably, being stressed off his ass about the next day, and hungry without a single full meal since the previous day's lunch didn't help his convincing quota. Because the guy kept glaring at him. "Move! I need to get back to the dorm."

"You can go." Sam frowned, only just realizing that he accidentally had the smaller guy cornered. "Just - you're not getting it, I need that packet, okay? Give it to me. Please." Sam made a reach for it, stretching towards him. His voice was raised.

The blond shuffled backwards till he had his back against the shelve, with a sound of metal. "Hands off, man. This is mine." His voice held more courage than his eyes did. He looked sort of terrified, and Sam hated himself already, for doing what he did next.

He made another move for it, leaning till he had him pinned - but he didn't have his heart in it, so instantly, the other guy was wriggling away, and this time, with a proper frown. "What the fuck, dude?" He declared, and didn't look half as scared as Sam felt, at this point. "I told you to get away; I'll call the goddamn Target security on your ass, if you touch me again!"

Sam's voice cracked in the middle of saying, "I'm sorry, I -"

"Make yourself another fucking packet, if you 'need' one." He had his voice raised too. "Or go get something else. Or to another store. This one's mine!"

Sam knew he wouldn't possibly fight this guy for it. He knew he could, he'd probably have him in like a minute - sorry, but the guy was short and skinny - and Sam had experience. But he knew he wouldn't, because the thought made him ache, again.

(Maybe what hurt was his stomach, and not his chest, because that would make a lot more sense.)

"I can't buy something else, or go to another store." Despite how hopeless he felt, he kept his voice flat. He struggled to, but he didn't want to have a breakdown in the middle of a Target store in front of someone who he was trying to take ramen from - when he hadn't even had a conversation about this with Dean before. "Maybe you could do that." Please do that, his eyes begged.

The guy crossed his arms on his chest, against his oversized Stanford hoodie. "I can't do that." He emphasized, in a deadbeat tone. And then, on half a wry chuckle, trying to make it sound light perhaps, he added. "I'm so totally broke."

And that was that. It was the end of things. It was hearing that fucking word that made him lose it.

Of course he didn't start breaking stuff in the aisle and getting hysterical - he literally couldn't afford to, but that word seemed to shatter the last of his walls. A single tear rolled down his face, and his cheeks heated up with the realization of it. "Hell, me too." He strangled out of a choked throat, screwing his eyes shut completely, on having finally uttered those damn words.

("But hey, ask me for whatever cash you need, okay? Trust me. I'll get it." Dean had added, at the end of the announcement of his recent unemployment, following Bobby Singer's death. His older brother was only 24, but already worked so many jobs to pay for them, and since their dad's death, he had been wearing himself thin trying to support the both of them, and Sam couldn't possibly ask him for more - even though, for it to be 'more', he needed to have asked for a single thing before it. He never even had to do that, because Dean just did everything. And now, he was struggling himself and trying to keep Sam happy by offering to send him more money and Sam hadn't even spared a single second of thought to his own condition before firmly shaking his head.)

But now, the other guy moved towards him, the glare melting away, as he puts his hands on Sam's forearms. "Dude, you good?"

"No, I'm not, okay?" He let out, wondering why how he got here - crying in front of a complete stranger, in Target, over fucking ramen. But he wasn't going to get into his sob-story right now. Not to a random person, not like this. Not when he still had shit to cram when he got home, and needed to concentrate and not spend the night drowning himself in tears he'd gathered over the last many years.

"Hey, hey, hey," A voice interrupted him. "I'm worried - Sam, isn't it? I think you're in one of my classes somewhere, I'm Gabriel, hello there - and calm down, alright? Is this about the ramen, because if it means that much to you -"

Sam eyes him uncertainly, blinking away the tears that are still pricking away at his eyes. He can hardly breathe properly. "I - I am so sorry, okay? I didn't mean to -" He begins, harshly shoving the palm of his hand against his eyes, and the guy - Gabriel - shakes his head.

"You're holding it together, okay? Don't worry about it, you're good, okay?" Gabriel says, keeps saying, until he's said it so many times that Sam can say it to himself.

"Yeah. Yes. Yes, I am." He mutters, morose and still feeling crappy about this entire ordeal. "I - I just haven't eaten a single thing since about 8 am, and that was only a stupid fucking cup of coffee in the college canteen because I didn't have the one extra dollar for sandwiches. And the last meal I had was yesterday, and I don't know what to do anymore, because I have my goddamn final tomorrow, and I don't know how I'll get through those three hours without passing out at this rate, and I just -"

"What? You have a final tomorrow?" Gabriel interrupted him, looking very concerned. "You should've said that before, Sam. You know what? We're getting you back to the dorm."

"But I -"

"Oh, shuddup" Sam frowned, but he went on nonetheless. "You should've played the 'finals' card before, plus you should've told me the passing-out-part, dumbass." Sam looked ashamed of himself. "At least now I know you're a giant idiot, who doesn't even know how to use his trauma into getting a ramen from a little softie like me. Listen to me. You look like crap, and I don't know you enough and there's all of that, but I know you won't try to hijack this ramen from me anymore, so you know what? We'll just share."

Sam had a loose smile on his lips, from the 'hijack', and he wasn't completely in his head either, so he weakly nodded. "Thank you."

"And 'cause you've got to study," Gabriel shrugged. "I mean, obviously you're at least a little bit dumb because of afore mentioned cards that you didn't use, so I recommend that you go to your room and study, and I'll make the ramen. What room are you in?"

Sam almost protested - because this guy seemed really nice, and pretty cool and all of that, and come to think of it, he had heard of him before - but what if he didn't come, and what if he -

But he didn't have to say it. Gabriel seemed to understand, all by himself. It stunned Sam how someone could comprehend his complicated trust-issues so simply, but Gabriel did. "Or, you know what, you could resume revising and I'll make the ramen in your room, okay?"

"Communal kitchen," Sam swallowed.

Gabriel nodded. "Alright. Come on."

*

Gabriel offers to drive him back in his car, and Sam blinks at him incredulously, because he usually takes the college bus, which is never really on time, and doesn't go many places - but has to work for him. But then he doesn't say anything about it, because he knows the 'there's broke, and then there's broke with a capital B' concept too well.

While he slumps in his seat, shoulders folded in, he is hit by the realization that his wallet is no lighter than it already was, and becomes aware of the fact that Gabriel paid those thirteen cents.

And to think Sam had been trying to fight him for it, made him want to bury himself under the cheap fake-leather seatcover, to avoid having to face Gabriel's kind, concerned eyes.

*

It's after he's been sat at his table for almost a half hour that Gabriel comes in, with a tray, a bowl of steaming ramen and spoons. Sam is already feeling more in his element, because until he's flipped through every page of his syllabus, he never does feel prepared - and now he's way more confident than he was before, and that also may have something to do with the fact that he gets to look forward to dinner.

Gabriel hands the whole tray to him with a small smile. "There ya go, Sammich." Sam is kind of engrossed in learning a definition, so before he's free to hold it, Gabriel has already put it on his table. He stands by it, looking slightly proud of himself. Or maybe Sam. Maybe both.

"Thank you, uh," Sam mumbles under his breath, his breaths tightening again. "Thank you very much, Gabriel."

"Nevermind." He nodded.

"No, I really do need to thank you, Gabe." Sam says, and he isn't even thinking too much at this point. "You're really nice, and I, uh, hope I can repay you some way for doing this for me, soon."

"Don't think about it right now." Gabriel says, and urges Sam to have his dinner while it's still hot. "I made it for you, hon. Tell me how it is, honey," He teases, in a caricature of a suburban wife.

"It's amazing." Sam promises.

*

Gabriel sticks around for a while after Sam's eaten - it's not a lot to eat, even though Sam could bet he got the larger half, but he has company to talk to while he eats, so it stays for a longer time.

They talk, and then Gabriel picks up Sam's Ethical Law Handbook for kicks and Sam has an idea, which he bashfully suggests. Gabriel has absolutely nothing against quizzing him on chapter 5, to his sheer delight - he justifies it saying that he's already done with all of his finals, and would probably just go home and sleep anyways, and learning a bit of Ethics couldn't suck that much - and they do that past midnight because Gabriel is into it too, and Sam knows it helps.

Angels might not exist, but there are some people very close to being that kind of good, he decides, on a sleepy note after Gabriel has gone back to his own room. He doesn't have time to think about more cheesy things, and goes to sleep almost immediately after - dreaming of Gabriel, who's "hijacking" ramen at gunpoint, in an aeroplane, for some reason.

*

The next day, after a surprisingly satisfactory exam - he'll get more than most, and way more than the required grade, he's sure - he goes back to Target.

Since they haven't restocked yet, he goes to another one - taking the college bus, and has to walk all the way back (because the bus is absolutely and completely unreliable, is why) to their dorm. And this time, he's the one knocking at Gabriel's door, with a packet of uncooked ramen in his hand, nervous of what he's about to do.

Gabriel opens the door, wearing shorts under a Marvel t-shirt, but lets Sam in easily. "How hard did you rock the paper, Sammoose?"

"Sufficiently hard," Sam supplies, smiling wide.

Gabriel sees the packet in his hand, and it's his turn to smile. "Paying me back, are you?"

"Sure. But I only owe you three-fourths of it, so maybe I can stay and finish my one-fourth portion with you?" Sam says, and it's borderline hopeful, but what he doesn't expect is for Gabriel to laugh.

"I was beginning to wonder when I was going to get asked out for all of my good deeds," He winked, and takes the packet from Sam's hand and walks over to his kitchen. Sam follows him there, with a laugh himself.

"Doing it out of the goodness of your heart is more attractive, Gabe, but nevermind." He grinned, and without really thinking about it, joins Gabriel in the kitchen - well, to help with all the "cooking" that instant noodles need.

***

Aaaaand - DONE! Whoa, this was supposed to be a LOT shorter than it is now, but I dunno, I couldn't come up with a funny ending so it kept going and became sad. Will edit it later, I've gotta rush to studying myself 🍪 But here's a word out to the tribe: @ctrl-alt-destiel @emmii4 @awkward-penguin-in-a-trenchcoat @styggtroll @adventurous-blob @petrichoravellichor @all-or-nothing-baby @moderatelypanickedbiromantic @elvenlicht @legendary-destiel @noemithenephilim @galaxy-charm @trenchcoatsandfreckles @naitia @ladywaywarddsc @zoerayne2426 @thekidsmaybealright @hellfire37 @3dg310rdsupreme @impulsivedandelion @iamcharliebradburylevelperfect Do lemme know if you want to be added or removed from the list! Or if there's specific stuff you wanna be tagged for, and not me answering the prompts I've received (*eeeee's happily* thank you so muuuch, croutons) because I'll probably be fitting a lot of writing in, this weekend? So stay tuned, I guess. I love y'all! Have an amazing daaaay ~

[totallynotafetishblog]

what you wish for

this is the first fic i’ve ever posted anywhere!! i hadn’t had the desire to write fanfic in years, but go/od om/ens has taken over my life.  

enjoy some sick cr0wl3y a few months after armageddon’t  

(note: adam is present for plot reasons at the beginning. skip 1/4 of the way down [past the break] if you just want that good good in/effable h/usbands content)

After the world didn't end, summer faded into autumn faded into winter, and a biting chill now hung in the air, driving animals into their dens and the family members of climate change deniers up a wall. ("It's in the negatives! So much for 'global warming,' eh?" "That's not how it... climate and weather aren't... never mind.")

The cold had also driven Crowley, who was wont to bask, given his serpentine nature, to locate the most substantial heat source in London. He found himself in a bustling shopping mall sauntering aimlessly between shops, and with no purpose to his visit other than "be warm," he was drawn to the coat racks of an affordable clothing store. He had no intention of buying any of the jackets, but if something struck his fancy, he might miracle himself a copy later. 

As he was feeling the fabric of a rather fetching black peacoat, a voice off to his left said, "Hey, I know you."

Crowley spun around, not sure who, exactly, he was expecting to see, but it certainly wasn't...

"Adam?"

The eleven-year-old nodded and gave a curious look to the demon whom he had met exactly once at the Tadfield airbase. (Twice, if you count the bit where Crowley delivered Adam to the Sisters of the Chattering Order of St. Beryl, but Adam didn't remember that one.)

"How've you been?" Crowley asked, poorly faking nonchalance. He had frankly never considered the possibility that he might run into the Antichrist again, and certainly not at an English shopping center. 

"Alright, 'spose. But this week's been so boring."

"Mm, I agree. Not a big fan of the cold weather myself."

"Oh, no. That's alright. The pond nearby's frozen over and you can skate and slip around and it's loads of fun. But I haven't been able to 'cause my friends are sick and mum says I can't hang out with them. That's why she dragged me out shopping." Adam huffed and shoved his hands in his pockets. 

"Yeah, well, probably beats being sick."

"Being sick's not so bad." Adam brightened. "You don't have to go to school and you can watch movies all day and no one tells you what to do."

"Hm," Crowley said, considering this. "Might have to try it some time."

"You mean you've never been sick?" 

"Nah. Not sure I can get sick, actually."

"That's rubbish. Everyone can get sick."

"Guess I just haven't been lucky enough to catch a cold yet. Here's hoping this'll be my year."

A thin woman who Crowley didn't recognize but inferred was Mrs. Young placed a hand on Adam's shoulder. "Adam, there you are! Come here, I have some clothes for you to try on." Adam started 

to roll his eyes, but a stern look from his mother stopped his pupils from making a full circuit. She ushered him away, and Crowley was left alone at the coat rack once again.

"Well," he said. "That was a thing."

****************************************************************

Crowley awoke the next morning with the overwhelming sensation that something had gone terribly wrong.

He peeled open heavy eyes, somehow more tired than he'd been when he collapsed into bed the night before, and tried to ignore the hammering in his head and the dull ache residing in his limbs. He hadn’t gone out drinking and forgotten to sober up, had he? 

Upon attempting to purge his body of any alcohol and finding none, he pushed himself into a seated position and he swallowed. The small gesture aggravated his tender, burning throat, and a rattling coughing fit tore through him, leaving the demon hunched over and panting, head in his hands. 

"Ghk," Crowley grumbled. "Fuck."

Grabbing the mobile phone from his nightstand, he stood on uncertain legs and stumbled to the bathroom, catching himself on the sink. He hesitated to make eye contact with the mirror, not knowing what state he would find himself in. Bracing for the worst, he lifted his eyes and was met by a pale, disheveled reflection, a rosy flush across his nose and cheeks, and glassy yellow eyes. Another coughing fit overtook him, and his knuckles tightened around the basin of the sink.

Crowley was fairly certain he was about to discorporate. 

He hadn't done it before, but he couldn't think of any other explanation as to why he felt so positively awful. Though he wished he had some more time to set his affairs in order and find a good home for all his plants, he did, at the very least, have time for goodbyes.

He dialed the only number in his phone which he called with any regularity. After a few rings, Aziraphale picked up. "Hello?"

"Hey, Aziraphale. It's me." 

"Oh, Crowley!" Crowley could hear his smile through the phone. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Yeah, not quite. Something's happened."

Aziraphale's voice dropped to a concerned whisper. "What do you mean 'something's happened'?"

"I mean, I... I think I'm dying, angel."

"You're what? What happened?"

"Dunno. Just woke up feeling sorta...not good."

"Well... 'Not good' is good for you, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but... no. Felt liked I'd been poisoned or something. My head feels like it's full of cement and my throat's on fire a-and..." He paused and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to massage away the building pressure in his sinuses. "...and my nose ihh-is... hih!" In vain, he scrubbed a fist beneath his nostrils, failing to fight off the spidering itch. The phone slipped from his hand and clattered in the sink as he snapped forward, sneezing against the back of his palm. "Huh'ATSHhuu! h'RSHHuh! Nng..."

He sniffled and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror again. Was this what death looked like? Clammy skin and a sore throat and a dripping nose? Frankly, those sounded like the symptoms of... 

Oh.

Clearing his throat, he held the phone back up to his ear.

"Crowley? Crowley, are you still there?" came Aziraphale's worried voice. 

"Yeah, 'm still here. Sorry about that."

"What was that? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry about it. Uh, actually, on second thought, I'm... fine. I'm not discorporating. Just... forget I called, yeah?"

"I most certainly will not!" Aziraphale huffed. "You can't tell me you're dying then expect me to forget about it. Shall I come over?"

Having never been sick before, Crowley wasn't entirely sure how these things worked, but he'd lived through enough plagues to know diseases could be contagious, and he didn't want to risk dragging the angel into misery with him. "No, no. I'm fine, really. Was just overreacting a bit." He turned away from the receiver and muffled a wet cough into his shoulder.  

"I'm coming over," Aziraphale decided.

"Listen to me, you really d-don't-!" Hissing at his own rebellious body, he tossed his phone down again and tented both hands over his face.  "h-hih-EKSHHHiuu! AKSHHUUh! ihihih...? h'EkSHHHUH!" He groaned, sniffling back the mess before lowering his hands and blearily opening his eyes to see Aziraphale. 

"Christ, Aziraphale!" Crowley cried, staggering backward. "Are you trying  to discorporate me? Could've knocked, at least, 'stead of materializing in the middle of my bathroom."

Eyebrows knitted together in sympathy, Aziraphale frowned and wrung his hands. "I do apologize for intruding, but... Oh, you sounded so dreadful, and I thought you might've been hurt, or, or..." His eyes flicked up and down as he took in Crowley's appearance. "Are those pajamas?"

"Just woke up."

"But it's nearly four in the afternoon!"

With a slight panic, Crowley glanced at his phone to double check the date, and his anxiety settled when he determined he'd only been out for 16 hours, and not 16 days or months or decades. He shrugged. "I've slept longer."

Aziraphale sighed. "Will you please just tell me what's going on?"

"I told you, it's nothing to worry about. I've just got a bit of a cold."

"A cold?" Aziraphale replied incredulously. "What ever do you mean?"

"I mean my throat's scrachy and my nose is all stuffed up and...you know. A cold."

"Right, yes, but how on Earth did you catch it?"

Crowley rolled his neck, produced a half-sigh-half-cough, and exited the bathroom, saying, "Does it matter?"

Not relenting, Aziraphale followed him to the living room where Crowley slumped back into the couch and propped his feet on the coffee table. "Of course it matters. We aren't supposed to get sick, Crowley. Comes with the whole 'angelic healing' business, I suppose."

"Right, angelic healing. Maybe your lot can't get sick, but it seems mine can. We might not be playing for Heaven and Hell any more, but I'm a still a demon, er, biologically, or whatever."

Aziraphale took a seat beside Crowley at that, confusion sketched across his brow as he mouthed 'biologically.' After another second of contemplation, he turned to Crowley and said, "Now, you know that can't be right. You've never gotten sick before."

Crowley rubbed a knuckle under the tip of his nose and sniffed. "Sure I have. Loads of times."

"You most certainly have not." Aziraphale didn't even attempt to conceal his eyeroll. 

"Maybe you just haven't been paying close enough a...atten... ahKSHHHUh! ATSHHiu!!" He held a cupped hand over his face until he was confident the itch was gone. "Attention." 

"Goodness! God bl- ah, gesundheit, dear." He miracled a red silk handkerchief for the demon which Crowley was grateful to accept, though he would never admit that. 

After a productive nose blow, Crowley let his head fall back against the couch. A cough clawed its way from his throat and he belatedly raised the handkerchief to his mouth before sighing and turning his head towards Aziraphale. "Angel?"

"Yes?"

"I may have done something very stupid."

Aziraphale looked wary. "What did you do?"

"So. Right. I ran into Adam Young yesterday."

"The Antichrist?"

"No, the singer behind Owl City. Yes, the Antichrist!” Crowley knew Aziraphale wouldn't understand the reference but was too tired to care. "Anyway, he mentioned something about being sick, and I said I'd like to try it some time..."

"Oh, Crowley. You didn't."

"I did. And apparently Adam can still bend the universe to his whims, so." He gestured broadly at himself.  “Be careful what you wish for, I guess.”

"Should we be...concerned? About Adam, I mean. I didn't realize he still had full access to his powers."

"Well, if he's only using them to give demons head colds, I'd say it's nothing to worry about." Crowley's eyebrows quirked up and his breath hitched one, two, three times before- "heh’EKSHHiu! IKSHhuuh! AKSHhiuu!" He shook his head. "Nguh. Sure is annoying, though."

Aziraphale offered a soft smile and cupped Crowley's cheek with a gentle hand. "Poor dear. I don't suppose we could miracle it away?"

"Probably not a great idea to try and undo the wishes of the Antichrist."

"No, probably not. We could always ask Adam to undo it, though."

Crowley scoffed. "If you want to try driving us up to Tadfield, be my guest, but I think if I drive, I'll sneeze us off the road."

Aziraphale pondered this for a moment, then stood up. "Right then." With the snap of his fingers, a thick white blanket appeared and draped itself over Crowley. "We'll deal with this the human way."

"Aziraphale, what're you-?"

"Hush," he said, tucking the blanket snug around Crowley. "You just rest. Let me take care of you."

"Oh, you don't have to-"

"I want to." Aziraphale brushed a strand of hair out of Crowley's face. "You're always so kind to me." Crowley started to hiss, but Aziraphale continued. "You are. You're so kind and you do so much for me, and, well... I'd like to return the favor." He placed a light kiss on Crowley's forehead. "Is that alright?"

"Mm," Crowley hummed. "Very alright. Thank you."

"Of course, my dear. Now rest and I'll put some tea on, hm?"

Letting his eyes slip shut, Crowley did as he was instructed for perhaps the first time in his immortal life.  

[katreal-fic]

Day 2 — for #fictober 10/02/19

Prompt: “Just follow me, I know the area.”

Fandom: Homestuck

Warnings: Cursing I suppose. 2nd Person POV

Characters: Dirk Strider & Davepetasprite

First | Previous | Next

x-x-x

It was pretty fun, until you got hopelessly lost.

“Just follow me, he said,” Davepeta quotes the you of an hour ago, hiding their fanged smile unapologetically behind their blue ice cream cone, “I know the area, he said. The best pizza ever, he said.”

Dirk > Nurse Your Pride

Your pride is not wounded, and thus does not need to be nursed. Entirely unruffled by the teasing. It does not bother you. You make sure indifference is the air you project as you respond with a mild, unimpressed glare—one they can’t see behind your shades—but you’re familiar enough with their expressive body language by now to realize they find even your glares funny. 

You don’t know how to feel about that. It’s actually quite the novel experience after the probably healthy levels of fear and distant awe your mere presence affords to anyone not connected to your particular pantheon of childhood friends. Who you probably don’t see enough as it is, living secluded out here in your workshop off the coast of the consort kingdom. Which is likely your fault, if you’re entirely honest. You should visit more. You can fuckin’ fly. What’s a couple latitude and several longitude lines to a god?

There’s always an excuse. When the lime-green poison and flashes of white begins to seep through the cracks in your heart you just shut yourself in and work. You’ll figure this shit out. And deal with it. You’ll have to.

You decide not to dwell on it any more than you already have, “Do you even need to eat? You already sweet-talked that salamander outta that ice-cream. You’ve probably already ruined your lunch with that shit.”

“Nah, dad, I’m cool.” They do it to see you twitch, you know they do, even as they take another lick of the sweet treat, “Just cuz I don’t need to eat doesn’t mean I can’t. No stomach, can’t get full. Being of pyurrre energy up in here bro.”

They pat their abdomen lightly to prove their point, the long, almost dress-like robe largely stays some cream color despite the constant gradient shifting, almost giving off an ethereal glow from within. A being of pure energy, huh? You wonder if that’s what they are doing with the food–residual game play processes immediately transmuting the energy into something compatible. You don’t know much about the sprites, for obvious reasons. You never were particularly close to any of the others.

Man, sprite physics has the potential to be fascinating as hell, if you cared to dissect it. It makes for a good thought exercise, mapping out what would happen to all thr excess energy.

“Let me guess, push it too far and you’ll just get hyper as fuck, huh?”

“Yup!” Another lick, a grin. They always seem to be grinning, but that might be just because the overlong canines always seem to peek out mischievously, “Roxy didn’t realize that until we were paws deep in a pumpkin eating contest. In all fairness, neither did I! I could probably devour an entire musclebeast all on my lonesome if I deemed it apurrrrropriate. I’d purrobably be clawing at the walls like Jasprose on catnip if I did tho. Not sure if the consequences are worth poking at it, ya’know?”

That…is something of a mental image. “Have you seen this particular occurrence?”

“Nah, but you remewmber how hopped up she was befur the big battle?”

Like you could ever forget.

“I’m sure you can imagine it then. It’s purrrrrretty hissterical.”

The elongated rs turn into a purring rumble, as expected. They really do go all in on the cat-thing, huh? Can’t be worse than ARquius’ obsession with muscles. And horses. Tho you do have to give him props for that one, Horses are fucking awesome.

Trolls just seem to have a Thing, you guess. Just like the Batterwitch had a Thing for subjugation. Cats and Horses and Muscles seem much more reasonable, framed in that light.

Once the purr runs its course, and you go back to scouring Booble Maps–which are kind of useless outside the Human and Troll kingdoms. The Consorts just Don’t Care and fuck if you know what’s up with the Carapacians–they decide to continue, “It’s just funny, with the way you talked this place up on the way over it sounds like you should have that shit on speed-dial or something. All Prince of Heart’s Seal of Approval, endorsed and all that. Tourism would be booming.”

“I like it quiet. Tourism is the opposite of quiet. Especially when people are here god-watching,” At least Jake’s TV show is filmed an hour’s flight away so you don’t have to deal with his groupies, even if some make the pilgrimage to try and catch a glimpse of you.

You grumble, trying to remember the name of the place. You do have it on speed dial, but it was listed as tmnt instead of using the proper name. Past you had been so proud of the reference. When was the last time you actually went instead of just got delivery sent to your beach-side drone deliverybot? When Dave dragged you out last?

…when the fuck was that?

You shouldn’t get lost. You live here.

Or, well, maybe you don’t. You’re standing here in the shadow of an unidentified Jungle Tree, in some unnamed suburb of the city of Hearthstone. A city that popped up near your abandoned workshop during the big ol’ Time Skip. A dot on the map and a place to deliver your shit. Nothing more.

You surreptitiously check the calendar using your thought controlled computer-shades, realize it’s still set to your personal pre-sburb calendar, marked with all the historical dates from a Time Before Yours and indexed with clips of your Bro and you really aren’t in the mood for childhood nostalgia whiplash, thanks—so you abandon that shit and go back to booble to see if you can find the current date on there.

Jesus fucking Christ on a pogo stick, it’s been two years since Dave visited, although you’ve talked to him since then. You’re nearly twenty.

“Hey bro,” Davepeta, predictably, interrupts your existential crisis in regards to your detachment from the society and narrative in which you live, an unintentional action you mentally thank them for since you are so not in the mood to deal with that either, “That pizza place, was it called Half Shell Piez?”

That rings a bell. You nod, probably a little too forcefully as you mentally close the booble search window and start paying attention to the world around you, “I think so. It’s run by an older couple of turtles, if I remember. How did you know?”

“While you were brooding I asked around. Turns out people remember when two of their gods descend from on high to patronage their pizza joint. C’mon! World’s best hunter is on the case! We’ll stalk them wild piez and feast until we can feast no longer!”

You’re learning not to resist as they drag you away. Maybe they’re right. You really should be getting out more. You don’t even know your own fucking town.

The pizza is just as good as you remember it though. Better even, since you get it hot and steamy and fresh plopped right in the middle of the table in front of you, instead of luke-warm in an insulated delivery bag, sitting out on the table for you to grab as you work. Alone. Here, you find yourself surprisingly good company. You don’t even notice when the ridiculous chatter ends and conversations…shift. They did want to get to know you, after all.

You don’t think your shit is all that interesting personally, especially if you avoid the game shit because no one really liked talking about game shit since you all won, but they listen with rapt attention as you describe growing up in a world alone and feral, learning from and looking up to a Bro long since dead. They turn around afterwards and describe a wriggler, feral and alone, who grew up in the middle of a jungle and learned to hunt from a great purr beast, on an Alternia you’d never cared to learn about before.

You don’t comment when the last slice is gone and the pizza is taken away. You just…keep talking. Exchanging stories in that semi-private booth in a hole in the wall restaurant run by business-savvy turtles, long past an appropriate lunchtime, and well into dinner.

Time becomes a thing to dread, because you know they’ll be leaving tomorrow.

First | Previous | Next

[overheardatthecontinental]

Trope challenge JohnxHelen

Prompt: I’m your new neighbour and I got locked out, help!

Some days didn’t end. This one certainly wasn’t about to anytime soon. In fact, it had successfully earned a spot in Helen’s top three bad days of all time and I once lived in a house with twelve girls and two bathrooms.

Jesus.

I run my fingers through my hair, the stress seeping through me. I slam my fist against the door, fully aware that it will do me no good. I fucked up. I massively fucked up.

I had been in such a hurry to make it to my new job on time after oversleeping that I had grabbed the wrong keys. Rather than my new little house that I had scraped enough together to set a downpayment for, I had grabbed the keys to my old apartment out of habit.

I set my head against my door, eyes closed as the rain pours just feet away. Between the hectic and overwhelming first day at work and the lack of a vehicle, I’m ready to pass out and not wake up. I’m already soaked from the mile it took to walk back from the bus stop.

But I can’t get inside.

I loop around the house in a last, desperate plea to the universe to have had past me leave a window open. No such luck.

“Fuck!” I scream, coming back around to the front.

I’m in the rain now. There is no point in seeking shelter as I am soaked to the bone.

I rub my temple.

I’m locked out.

I haven’t made a spare set of keys.

My best hope was the realtor office in New York City, which was thirty minutes by car, much longer by bus.

I reach into my purse and pull out my phone. I still have the number of the realtor saved but as I turn the phone on, I am only met with a blank screen. I click it on again. Nothing.

“No, no, no.” I half-sob, trying a hard restart. Nothing.

Water damage. That was the only explanation. I hadn’t protected it and the poor phone hadn’t stood a chance in this utter downpour. I couldn’t even check the bus schedule or call for a taxi to take me to the train station.

I close my eyes and count to ten, even as my body shakes in the cold.

Radical acceptance, I remind myself. I preach it every day to kids I have worked with. Some things are beyond my control. I cannot change the circumstance. I can only accept them and move on.

God, no wonder my kids thought I was nuts.

How the hell was I supposed to accept this?

I don’t know when the next bus is coming but my only other choice is to break a window. And I can’t afford to fix that, not yet.

No point in wasting time. I walk to the end of my driveway. I chose the house because it was affordable. Partially because of its size, and partially because it’s in the middle of nowhere.

The realtor had told me that there were no neighbors close by. There were a few closer to town down by the bus stop but I had been warned that the homes were gang affiliated. The other was a man about half a mile up the road. I hadn’t met him and the realtor told me not to expect to. The old owners had lived at the house for six years and they had never spoken a word.

I like the road itself. On a bright day, it’s peaceful. You can almost forget how nearby Jersey City is just listening to the birds chirping and the quiet rustle of the trees. Today, though, it seemed unending.

I see headlights on the trees before I see the car. It's small and black and must belong to the man up the street. No one else comes this way.

The car slows down and pulls off to the side, coming to a stop ten feet ahead of me.

The door opens and a man steps out. “Need a ride?”

He’s tall and handsome. Dark hair down to his shoulders with a beard to match. He was wearing a three-piece suit. He doesn’t seem to mind that its being quickly drenched in the downpour.

I shake my head, “Just going to the bus station.”

“The bus doesn’t come back around until nine tonight.” That’s what I was afraid of. “Are you the new owner of the little blue house?”

I nod.

“Where are you trying to get to.”

“New York.”

He nods, assessing the situation. “Why don’t you go home and change and I’ll drive you to the train station?”

Fuck, I really don’t want to have to admit this to myself let alone the attractive neighbor.

“It’s okay.” I tell him, “I’m fine with walking."

"And waiting in the rain? At least let me take you back home so you can dry off and wait there."

"I'm locked out," I say, and I'm suddenly desperate to explain myself to this stranger. "I grabbed the wrong keys and my phone is water damaged and I sold my fucking car to get enough money for a downpayment on the house."

He nods, "is there a set of keys in New York?"

I shrug, "it's where the realtor is. It's my best shot at getting in."

"I live a mile up the road. Why don't you come with me, get dried off. We can look up to see if the realtor is even open this late."

"I…" it's far too much to ask a stranger, "I can't ask you-"

"You're not asking. I'm offering. Please."

The rain was pouring down around us. Two minutes to help a stranger and he was as soaked as I was.

I bite my lip, "are you sure?"

He nods and motions towards the passenger door.

I notice the logo on the car as I get closer. He's driving a Mustang.

Fuck.

I open the door and he climbs back in. The seats are leather and I can't imagine what sitting on them soaked will do.

"Don't give a damn about the seats." He says, "come on."

I slide in and he turns the heat up. I only notice now just how fucking cold I am.

He starts the car. I wrap my arms around my middle and clench my jaw to try and stop the chattering of my teeth.

“Thank you,” I say as he drives us up the road.

He nods. “I’m John.”

“Helen,” I reply. “I, uh, obviously just moved in.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitches. “You work in New York?”

“Jersey City. I’m a social worker.”

The twitch becomes a smirk. “That’s a place that needs it.”

He wasn’t wrong. Not only was my new place of employment massively understaffed, but the entire city was also lacking enough social workers to reach all the adolescents in need of support.

He drives through an open white gate and his house comes into view. Christ. It’s modern. Sleek. A mansion in its own right, sloped and slated. I can’t even imagine what he must do. He taps a button attached to his sun visor and the first of a four garage spots opens. He pulls in and I see no other cars.

He puts the car into park and climbs out easily. I unbuckle my belt and follow. Everything is white. Pristine. I’m almost afraid to step on the floor but I am more afraid to make him wait. I hurry after him as he walks up to the door.

We come up into a huge living room.

“I have a shower upstairs you can use. Warm up.”

“Please.”

We go up another set of stairs. There’s a small hallway with a few bookcases and a set of leather chairs. There’s an open door to a bedroom. Plain and white walls with white furniture. He enters and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to follow him. He opens a bureau and pulls out a dark grey henley and a pair of black sweatpants.

“Shower’s through here.”

I follow him into the room and to the master bath. Christ. The view from his balcony is gorgeous, looking out over the green hills. The bathroom itself is huge. There is a large shower, stand only, with blue tiles. The shower alone was the size of the bathroom at my old apartment. He sets the clothes down on a vanity table and pulls a towel from beneath it.

“Take your time.” He tells me and leaves me alone. As soon as the door closes, I undress, desperate to get these wet clothes off. I let them fall to the floor and cross the room, turning on the shower.

The water pressure is amazing, the warmth spilling from the faucet and over me.

I stay under the water until I no longer feel my teeth chatter and then I wrap up in the fluffy towel supplied to me.

I dress quickly, drying my hair with the towel.

His clothes smell so fucking good.

I step out of the bathroom. His bedroom is empty but his clothes are left, airdrying, on a hook by the door.

I follow the path that I came up, through the door, down the stairs. He walks out from a door as I come down the stairs.

“Feel better?”

“Much. Thank you.”

He nods, “It’s a bit late for coffee but I have some. Or tea.”

“Honestly, with the day I’m having, I’ll take coffee.”

That corner of his mouth twitches yet again. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Cream. No sugar.” I follow him into the kitchen. He has a laptop set up on the breakfast bar. I climb up on a stool. “Can I…?”

He nods and I search up my realtor. Office hours… closed at five.

“Fuck.”

“Closed.”

“Yes.” I rest my head against my hand. Next step, next step…

“I might be able to help.” He hands me a plain green mug and I gulp down the bitter drink.

“You’ve already helped me so much.”

He smiles softly and climbs up onto the stool next to me. “I had… a rocky past as a kid. May or may not have done some breaking and entering. Do you know what kind of lock you have?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. It’s standard in the knob lock.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah.”

“Five minutes, tops.”

“Seriously?”

John nods. “Honestly, my advice to you is to get a new lock. A couple. Houses without obvious security, especially away from neighbors, are easy targets. You would have been a classic mark back in my day.”

I smile, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’ll go grab my tools. Take your time.”

I nod my thanks.

He comes back with a handful of lock picks.

“Jeez.”

“I was quite the rebel.”

“I imagine. What do you do now?”

“Contracting. Political.”

I hum, “In New York?”

He nods, “Center of political culture.”

“How’d you get into that?”

“I was recruited. What about you? How did you get into social work?”

I sip at my coffee as he sits back next to me. “I was a foster kid.”

John nods in understanding, “I grew up in an orphanage in Belarus till I came to the US at six.”

“Dead or abandoned?” I wouldn’t ask so carelessly for most people but I got the feeling he was like me. It had been coped with and he had moved on.

“Dead. Dad died before my mom even know she was pregnant and she died giving birth. You?”

“Taken from the home when I was four. I had an aunt who tried to adopt me and got in the way of any couples adopting me until I was eleven. And eleven-year-olds in the foster system…” I shrug, “Bounced around some. Group homes for a bit during the teen years. Then back in foster care until I aged out.”

John nods again, “This world is fucked. I ran away the people raising me when I was fourteen.”

“Street life?”

He nodded. “I was lucky that I could pass for eighteen as soon as the beard came in. Picked up jobs where I could find them.”

“Broke into houses when you couldn’t?” I asked, not unkindly.

“Something like that.”

I finish my coffee.

“It’s hard, trying to navigate the world without guidance.”

“But you had a good social worker?”

I shake my head, “God no. He was the fucking worst. Maybe he just had too many kids on his caseload but I was at the bottom of his list. He would ignore my calls, not call me back for weeks at a time. Didn’t listen when things were bad.” I shrug, “He’s why I became a social worker. Because I want the next generation to have it better than I did. So less kids fall through the cracks.”

I stand up from the chair and John leads me back down to the garage. I’m thankful we don’t have to go out into the rain just yet. It barely takes a minute to make it from his garage to my driveway and, this time, John has preppared us with an umbrella. He climbs out of the car with it and runs over to my side to open my door.

Together we rush up to my house.

John takes out a set of lockpicking tools and kneels at my door.

“Really glad no one drives down this road.” I say with a small smile, “I wouldn’t want to have to explain this.”

John chuckles and inserts two of the tools, eyes squinted in fixed concentration. I watch as he wiggles one of the peaces, tilting his head to the side in what looks like slight confusion.

“If you can’t get it, I can look for a locksmi--”

There is an audible click and John twists the knob open.

My mouth drops. I look to him and the open door in awe.

“That was it?”

He smirks and climbs to his feet, “Like I said, you need to get some new locks. Nothing with a tumbler. At the very least, you need a deadbolt. But even that can be picked.”

“Jeez. Thank you. So much. You literally just saved my day.”

“No problem.” He says picking up his tools, “I appreciated the company.” He opens the umbrella, about to walk back to his car.

“Think, maybe, you could teach me to pick locks sometime?” I ask, “You know, if you have the time.”

John gives me a nod with a soft smile. “Tomorrow?”

I nod back. “Tomorrow.”

Maybe it wasn’t the worst day.

[smugzayn]

Finn Shelby - Peaky Blinders

Finn Shelby let the door shut behind him; today was not a day for school. 

He plucked the cigarette tin from his suit pocket, tapped it twice against his open palm, a move he had practiced meticulously in the mirror, and then lit one after resting it loosely between his lips. It was nowhere as smooth, thoughtless, or routine as his older brother, Tommy, but it was a respectable imitation. 

The smoke warmed his lungs. 

The streets of South Heath were busy this morning. Packed with factory workers, bustling housewives, and shopkeepers, Finn knew there were too many familiar faces to stay hidden. So, as was his habit, Finn disappeared. Stuffing his peaky hat into his back pocket, keeping his chin down, he swung lightly onto the back of a carriage and headed North. 

There were things to do this afternoon, but the morning was his. So, as he did most mornings he skipped school and headed to the cinema. Finn had seen almost every Western and Adventure film that had come to the small, run-down cinema in Small Heath. Unlike the loud chaos of his home, he could come to the almost always empty cinema and expect, quiet, calm, and peace. South Heath was far from perfect, but Finn thought this cinema came pretty close. 

“Oi!” Finn hollered, bouncing off the back of the carriage and jogging to follow Isiah Jesus as he walked into the cinema. “Wait up, lad!” 

“Thought I might catch you here,” Isiah grinned as both boys walked through the doors and past the ticketer who greeted them with a knowing nod. “Wednesday’s are bad for schooling, right?” 

Finn laughed and they found seats in the middle of the mostly empty theatre. An early Wednesday picture didn’t exactly draw in a large crowd. Plus, most people in Small Heath couldn’t afford to see a picture, especially not if it meant missing work.  Isiah offered Finn a bag of popcorn he had snatched from some poor bloke’s hand as they walked in mid-showing of “Robin Hood.” 

Finn didn’t always skip school, just most days he could get away with it. Ada had made a rotten habit of walking him to the school doors ever since two years ago when they made it compulsory through age 14. Thankfully, his 15th birthday was 2 months away. He wasn’t sure that was going to stop Ada, she had all these rotten communist ideas about education in her head, but he would make sure to raise a loud argument about it. 

Lately, Freddie Thorne had been his new favourite person, despite what he knew his brothers would think, it meant Ada was around much less frequent in the mornings. Finn still left in time for school every morning, just in case Ada tumbled back in, but without her there as a watchdog, there was little reason to stay past morning attendance. 

Isiah elbowed him, pulling a flask out from inside his suit with a cheeky grin. He took a quick swig and passed it over to Finn who did the same. It burned down his throat, and he forced himself to swallow. Isiah, the preacher’s son, somehow got his hands on more alcohol than Finn could ever get away. Sometimes Finn thought Tommy marked the quantities on his liquor glasses just to make sure Finn wasn’t sneaking any behind his back. Or he had second-sight, which wouldn’t surprise him either. 

Finn shoved the flask back to Isiah as a body fell suddenly into the seat next to him. He was jostled forward as a heavy arm wrapped around his shoulders and flicked the cap off his head to the floor. 

“Impolite to be wearing caps in here. Ain’t you Peaky boys have any manners?” 

Finn groaned. Small Heath wasn’t big enough for all the Shelby boys. 

“John,” he sighed, pulling his brother’s arm off his shoulder and plucking his cap off the ground. “What do you want?” 

“Finn Shelby!” a high-pitched voice roared from the back of the cinema, sending the youngest boy’s head into his hands. 

Small Heath wasn’t big enough for his sister either. 

“You bloody told her?” Finn accused, elbowing his brother in the gut which only resulted in a throaty laugh. It was only yesterday that Finn had let slip to Arthur that he often skipped school for the cinema. That brother was loud in more ways than one. 

“Think I had any choice? Goin’ about the house screaming like a banshee about all your school books under your bed and promisin’ to ring your neck. Wouldn’t shut up about fuckin’ Marx all the way here.” 

Finn gaped at him. John blew up places, smashed people’s faces in with his bare knuckles, and had seen more men die, many by his own hands, then Finn could process. However, the huffing mad woman now standing at the end of the aisle with her hands thrown angrily on her hips was demanding things and his brother was powerless to it. What hope did Finn have?

“I can’t believe you told her.” 

 “You better be getting right up out of that chair.” Ada had one finger pointed dangerously at him, her eyes glowing in irritation. “If you think I won’t drag you back to school by your ear, then you’re dead wrong, Finn Shelby.”

Finn groaned, throwing his head back in irritation. “Ada, c’mon, I’m too old for this. I’m a head taller than you!”

“Well, then,” she searched for an answer, knowing he wasn’t too old but might very well be too big for her anymore. She missed the Finn from the war. The innocent boy who chased after horses, or stayed overnight in the camps, and was no more trouble than chasing down after dark because he was playing too late with his mates. Then the boys came back. Suddenly, he couldn’t be fussed to bother with Ada or Polly or their mindings. Now, he was chasing after his brothers, disappearing for days, or blaming every ill-behaviour on behalf of the Peaky Blinders. 

Ada nodded her head decidedly, “Then I’ll have John do it.”

Finn turned on John, who looked amusingly at Ada, but her gaze remained firm, resolute. John cleared his throat and shrugged. 

“Jesus Christ,” Finn cursed, slapping his cap on his head and roughly pushing himself from his seat to storm down the aisle towards his sister. “I can’t have one day?” 

“You’ve not stayed past attendance for the last ten. I talked to Mr. Johnson, y’know. Said you slip out the back everytime he turns around. Might have Thomas put a bell on ya,” Ada threatened, taking quick steps to keep up with Finn’s angry strides as he stormed down the aisle. 

“Mr. Johnson told you?” Finn threw open the cinema doors. 

“Oi!” Ada caught up with him, tugging on his arm and forcing him to slow down. “I’m a Shelby too, you know!” 

Finn thought if she wasn’t then he probably wouldn’t have to bother with school much anymore. 

[ii]

Finn had spent the rest of the day unhappily staring out the classroom window. Any other student would have gotten their hands caned until they swelled. Finn was lucky in that way; the headmaster wouldn’t dare lay a hand on a Shelby.

After school, Finn had met his mates down to the cut to play cards, betting all the change in his trousers until he could buy a new tin of cigarettes from the tobacconist. Finn had a habit for hustling until he doubled the changed in his pocket - his gypsy curse. It meant he had enough to pay off the tobacconist to sell it to him and enough to buy a fresh tin every other day. He stubbed one out on the brick outside before he shouldered open the door on Watery Lane. 

 His aunt Polly was just setting down a hot roast on the table. 

“What a surprise,” she clipped, lifting the lid and bathing in a wisp of steam. “I thought I might have to call the coppers to receive your body from the cut.” 

Finn rolled his eyes, shrugging off his coat and hooking it on the wall. “Just with the boys, Pol.” 

“Yes, until your pockets were turned out, I’m sure,” she added ruefully.

A firm hand grabbed Finn’s shoulder until he was pulled roughly into a chair next to Arthur. “Leave the boy alone, Polly,” Arthur pulled him into his side, mussing his hair, sniffing in the heavy stench of cigarette smoke.  “Boys a Shelby, alright.”

“That he is,” Polly tsked regretfully. 

Finn shoved Arthur away, pulling a plate towards him and cutting into the meat and potatoes. During the war it was only bread, lard, and potatoes. Now, since the boys had come back, it was meat every night and sweets from the cornershop whenever Finn could convince Arthur or Tommy to spare a shilling. 

“I’ve also heard you haven’t been to school since last Tuesday.” 

Finn gaped at her with a mouth full of food, “Ada’s reporting to you? Is nothing kept secret in this family?” He slammed his fork angrily on the table, and shot Arthur in angry glare. He had the decency to look guilty.  “Shouldn’t Ada just be worryin’ about her own self? Seems she’s got enough trouble of her own without worrying about- ” 

“What’s going on with our Ada?” Arthur interjected, confused. 

Polly ignored him. Pausing to calmly bite into a forkful of potatoes. “Finn, you are to go to school every day.”

“Why?” Finn demanded, standing up from his chair, “It’s no good. Just filling me mind with nonsense I don’t need. I’d rather be-”

“Off in the fields, or the stables, or hustling boys out of their earnings by the cut? The gypsy in you might be strong, but believe me that my boot is harder, boy.” 

“I’ll be fifteen in two months anyway, Pol. No sense in -” 

The door slammed open at the point, the short, solid shadow of his brother Thomas lingered in the doorway before shrugging off his coat and coming to sit down at the head of the table. 

Finn stood standing, huffing, and trying to keep from taking his dinner plate and thrashing it against the wall. John was nearly off at war at Finn’s age, Tommy was thieving horses at the races, and Arthur was beating up coppers by the cut. His brothers were laying the groundwork for the Shelby Family business and the Peaky Blinders, so why didn’t Finn have the right to at least contribute to it? Instead, Finn was stuck in a schoolhouse, practicing arithmetic, and reciting poetry. He should be helping his brothers, joining the family business, and becoming the man that his brothers were becoming at his age. Not being a schoolboy. 

“What’s this noise about?” Tommy asked, pouring himself a glass of scotch and eyeing Finn. Somehow Tommy’s stare had the ability to make Finn feel like a little kid again. As if he was being scolded for knicking sweets or letting the fire go out. “Sit down, Finn.” 

Polly turned toward the infuriated boy. Raising an eyebrow at him expectantly. 

“C’mon, Finn. Take a seat now,” Arthur whispered, pulling him gently on the shoulder until he sat back down. “There’s a lad.”

The fire popped in the dimly lit kitchen. The warm, cosy room feeling like a box to Finn. He missed the open field of the camp. The stars, and fresh air, and away from the all-seeing eyes of his family. 

“Ada’s been making me go to school, Tommy. I’m nearly fifteen, and then it will no longer be compulsory.” He turned his gaze towards the table as Tommy’s blue, stoic eyes watched him carefully. “And I don’t think I should have to go, but Polly and Ada-” 

“Are making you?” 

“Yeah,” Finn nodded his head, looking up towards his brother. “Ada threatened to drag me back by my bloody ear this morning.” 

Arthur hid a chuckle with a gruff cough. 

“Good,” Tommy said, sipping slowly on his scotch. “You’ll start going to school -”

“But-,” Finn interjected excitedly. 

“Every day, Finn. No exceptions.” Tommy set his elbows on the table, leaning forward and pointing a finger at Finn. “And if you don’t, I’ll know. Then, when you get back home after messing about in the fields, or the tracks, or the cut, then I will thrash you, and the next day, I will walk you back to school.”  He leaned back, creaking the chair, and bringing a cigarette up to his lips to inhale slowly. “You understand, Finn?” 

Finn grew up tough. He trucked with the Birmingham boys, and fought in the schoolyard, and had grown up under the watchful eyes and heavy hands of his aunt Pol. One too many times he has wandered in just in time for dinner and Polly, wooden spoon in hand, had walloped him good and hard for disappearing for hours. So, when one of his brothers promised a beating, then Finn knew too well how happy he would be to avoid it. 

“Yes, Tommy. I understand.” 

[masterlist]

[pt. two]

[justanoutlawfic]

Heart In The Middle: A Snowing Ficlet

Anonymous on CuriousCat prompted: Prompt 56 : Snow and Charming “ Are you flirting with me? ”

She comes in every day to buy an iced mocha and an orange cranberry muffin. David knows her order by heart.

 “I remember everyone’s.”

 It’s a lie. There are five other customers that slide in and say “I’ll have the usual” and he cannot for the life of him remember. It doesn’t matter that he works there six days a week, most of the time double shifts. His boss says that a good employee remembers these things, but he has a lot more to worry about. He’s got a full course load, a sick mother he barely has time to see and a dick of an uncle that he wants to avoid like the plague.

 When she walks in, however, he forgets all about that. He forgets about the stress, the homework and his dying mother. All he can see, is her. Her beautiful smile, those sparkling emerald eyes and the pixie cut that frames her face so well.

 It takes him a month to learn her name. They don’t ask for them in the coffee shop. It’s not until he sees a bubblegum binder covered with unicorn and rainbow stickers that he spots it. At the top is one of those “Hello My Name Is” tags and it reads “Mary Margaret”.

 David begins using it and doodling it on her cup. If she thinks it’s weird, she doesn’t say anything. In fact, she doesn’t say much at all to him. They smile, she blushes when he instantly remembers her order, but that’s it. They don’t have more to do with each other than coffee and muffins.

Then one day, she comes in with red, puffy eyes and no trace of that magic smile anywhere. It’s later than when she would usually come in and she’s not wearing her typical cardigan. Instead, she has on a black dress. She walks to the counter and for a moment, David is flustered. He isn’t used to seeing Mary Margaret this way and it troubles him.

 “The usual?” He finally asks.

Mary Margaret looks up at him as if he just pondered the meaning of life. “I…no.”

“No?”

“I want…” She scans the menu. “A green tea and a brownie.”

 Who is he to argue?

 Sometimes she would stay to study, others she took it to go. Today, she sits there for hours. She sips on her tea and barely touches her fudgy treat. David does his best not to stare as he tends to the other customers and cleans up. The hours tick by and soon, it’s up to him to close up. He’s subtle about it at first, sweeping the floors and putting the day-old pastries away for the homeless shelter. Then he moves onto switching the sign from open to closed. Still, Mary Margaret sits. Any other customer, he’d politely but firmly tell to get out.

 David walks over and sits in front of her. The tea is gone, the brownie practically untouched. She looks up at him and frowns.

 “You’re closed, aren’t you?”

“Technically. But, you can stay.”

Mary Margaret lets out a shaky breath. “I…I buried my mother today.”

 David shudders. He thinks of his own mother, the doctors who want to discuss a new treatment they can’t possibly afford. Even if he manages to scrape together the money, he knows hospice is the next step. He hates that Mary Margaret is going through this.

 “I am so sorry.”

She nods. “I…I didn’t know where else to go after the funeral. I was at this reception with people hugging me and wishing me well. My father didn’t even bother to show up.”

“Seriously?”

“He had a business trip.”

“Still, that’s your mother. I assume his wife.”

Mary Margaret shrugs. “Just the kind of man he is. He sent flowers for her, a necklace for me.” She lets out a bitter laugh. “As if she’s still alive and he missed Christmas or something. Not her fucking funeral.”

“Jesus Christ.”

 It sounds like something his own father would’ve done. Seems like the fates knew that Robert had to go before Ruth. Yet, they still left him with his Uncle George.

 “So…while my cousin Regina gave a toast in my mother’s honor…I left. Snuck out the back door, got in my car and somehow ended up here.”

“Why?”

Mary Margaret’s eyebrows crinkles. “Why?”

“I mean…it’s a coffee shop. Not exactly the best place to grieve.”

“It’s familiar. I come here every day.” Mary Margaret looks around the shop. “My mother started taking me here when I was 10 years old. She loved it. She ordered green tea and a brownie.” She gestures to the dishes in front of her. “This felt like more of a place to feel closer to her than the stuffy house she and my father shared.”

David nods. “I guess that makes sense.”

Mary Margaret wipes at her eyes. “God, I’m sorry,” she mutters. “I should go…you don’t want me here…”

“Yes!” David says it so urgently, it physically rattles Mary Margaret. He curses himself. “I mean…I do have to close up or my ass of a boss will see on the cameras. But…maybe we could go for a walk. We can go anywhere…so you don’t have to go back home.”

“You’d do that for me? You don’t even know me.”

“I know you iced mochas and cranberry orange muffins.” Mary Margaret laughs in spite of her tears, ducking her head. “I know you have unicorn stickers on your binder. I know you’re Mary Margaret and you come here every day, at least the six days I’m here. I know…I know that no one should be alone after they bury a parent.”

Mary Margaret smiles at him, shaking her head. “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d ask if you were hitting on me or stalking me or something. But I’m just too sad and too tired to think about that.”

David grins. “Let me just finish closing up and put my apron away. There’s this lake nearby that I’d love to show you.”

nearly 200 writing prompts //

[hanalwayssolo]

What We Owe To Each Other: Ch. 3 - Night

A/N: Here’s the angsty part of a fic literally no one asked for!!!

Morning | Noon | Night | Midnight | Nightmare | Dawn

[Link on AO3]

Sam did not want to admit it out loud, but he was starting to believe that he was truly and utterly lost.

He pulled out his phone and checked his current location. He was sure about the direction he had taken; he had passed the right landmarks, made no unnecessary turns from the main road. His destination was off the beaten path but thankfully, it had stopped raining and the fog had partly cleared that he managed to easily spot his way. He had been certain that he was in the right address. This had to be the right place.

What was bothering him now was that the house that loomed behind the massive iron-wrought gates was the exact opposite of a fucking cottage.

Sam pulled over next to a silver Sedan (another rental, he could tell by that same tacky sticker plastered on its windshield) hooded over by the blood-red foliage of maple trees on what appeared to be the lot’s designated parking space. In the discomfort of the Chevy’s front seat, he began to assess all his available options. He could check out the house, ask its occupants for proper directions. Or he could turn his way back around. He could find a decent lodging to spend the night somewhere in Westmore, or any nearby town perhaps, and craft another excuse to tell his brother as to why he didn’t make it.

Or, well, he could disregard his pride and simply call Nathan for help.

This is stupid. I’m being stupid.

Sam sighed. He fished his phone out again, scrolled through his list of contacts, hovered over Nathan’s name for a little too long. He has not even called him yet, but he can already hear his brother’s clever and punk-ass reaction.

Fine. Fuck this.

He took another deep breath. Just as he was about to press that Call button, a knock on his window startled him out of his wits.

“Holy Mother of God!” Sam hissed, accidentally slamming a hand over the car horn that it shrieked like a shameless cry for help. He turned, and by the window was a familiar face curiously watching him with an almost amused expression.

It was Elena.

“I’m so sorry,” she said as soon as he got out of the car. She was in a cozy-looking parka, sweatpants and running shoes, her cheeks a shade rosier from the cold. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” He buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket. It was freezing as fuck. “What’re you doing out here?”

“I was out for a walk. Then I saw that there’s another car parked next to ours. Figured it would be you.”

“Oh.”

“And you were in there for a really long time, so. Yeah.”

“Well, I thought I was…” Sam trailed off. He looked at the house behind Elena, then back at her. “I’m in the right place, am I?”

“Yup.” Elena was smiling. “Trust me, that was our reaction when we first got here, too. Seriously, Sullivan needs to work on his definition of a cottage.”

Sam stared at her. “Christ, Victor owns this place?”

Elena nodded in response. “C’mon,” she said cheerily, nodding her head towards the gate, “Let’s get inside. I’ll let Sullivan explain everything to you and maybe get him to take you on his personal tour.”

Sam grabbed his duffel from the trunk and let Elena lead the way.  

The sun slowly plummeted over the horizon, simmering gold through the trees, scorching the sky like a third-degree burn. There was no noise except for the crunch of their shoes on the carpet of gravel and dried leaves, the whistle of the wind, the chorus of birdsong from somewhere up the canopies. The air was sharp and chilly. Not far away, the Mansard roof and the whitewashed façade of Sully’s estate began to reveal itself behind the veil of autumn foliage like an enigmatic bride.

“By the way,” Sam began as they climbed the front steps, “I heard from Nathan. Congratulations. Good job for making me an uncle.”

Elena laughed. “You’re welcome. Glad to be of service, I guess.”

“Now I hope you don’t mind if I teach your kid a thing or two about picking locks and—”

“Oh don’t even think about that.”

“Alright. I’ll simply bore them to death.”

“Now that’s impossible. Trouble makes you the least boring person I know.”

“Whoa, now I don’t know if I should take that as a compliment.”

“It is a compliment.” She turned to face him, smiled at him knowingly. “But y’know, I suppose I should thank you, too.”

“Really?” Sam quirked a curious brow. “For what?”

“Nate told me about your sage advice.”

“Oh. That.” Sam shrugged. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it sagely,” he said, “but more like a push in the right direction.”

“Of course. But I appreciate it, really. Anyway,” she said as she casually opened the mahogany doors before them, “After you.”

Elena ushered Sam inside the house. Walking into the foyer, he found himself taking a sharp inhale and stuttering to a halt: gilt mirrors and chandeliers, potted palms and porcelain vases, plaster-medallioned ceiling and ivory floors polished to saintly perfection. Down to the wide archway to his immediate right was a gallery exquisitely curated with the finest marble sculptures and Impressionist paintings (there were a couple from Monet and Cézanne and Renoir which he recognized almost immediately, like spotting a familiar face in a crowd of strangers, and he hated how he still knew this because this was Darcy’s thing and fuck he did not need to be reminded of her at this time of day), a couple of photographs and portraits lining the walls, and ancient pieces that would probably cost more than his life. Somewhere, the jazz music he had heard earlier from the phone echoed like a sickly sweet invitation. Even the room smelled nice and elegant: of roast beef, of roses, of cigars and big money. Also, it was comfortably warm.

Startled and half-dazed, not quite sure what he was seeing or where he was even, as if he had been suddenly jettisoned to outer space, Sam turned to Elena and said: “This is… are you positively sure this is Victor’s house?”

Elena huffed an amused laugh. “I know it’s a lot to take in but yeah.” She shouldered off her parka and hung it over a coat rack. She helped Sam out of his jacket, too. “Nate and Sully’s in the kitchen—”

“I’ll be goddamned—look who decided to show up.”

A rich and sonorous voice that Sam knew so well rang out and sauntered into the hall.

“Victor.” Sam offered a small nod as the one and only man of the house—nay, mansion—gave him a strong, parental hug which he returned rather sheepishly. Though he found it strange to be shown such an affectionate gesture, it was even stranger for him to see Victor outside his usual colourful Havana shirts; in his gray long-sleeved turtleneck and dark trousers, he almost seemed so foreign. Warm and snug, sure—but still painfully foreign. Despite that, he still carried that same slick and silvery charm as if he never aged a day.

“Well now.” Victor stepped back, clapping both hands on Sam’s broad shoulders. “I honestly thought you wouldn’t show up.”

“What can I say? I live to disappoint.” Sam shrugged. “But anyway,” he said, “be honest with me: who did you murder to afford this place, huh? We had all the time in Lisbon and you didn’t tell me about this!”

“I’m glad to let you know that I didn’t get my hands bloody to get this place. This belonged to my family for generations.” Victor extracted a pack from the back pocket of his jeans and lit a cigar. “This—“ he was gesturing a hand in the air, the curl of smoke rising between his fingers— “had been in tatters a couple of years back. Had to make sure this entire place was in its pristine condition before I had anyone come over and see it.”

“And that’s only half of the story,” Elena added. She crossed her arms and looked at Victor critically. “Wait until you hear about how he acquired a certain Rembrandt piece.”

Sam waved away Elena’s words with an incredulous hand. “Wait a fucking second.” He stared at Victor. “Did I hear that right? You have a goddamn Rembrandt? What the—”

“Elena? Sully? You guys left me in the kitchen and you all know how I’m accident-prone—oh, about time you got here!”

Sam turned and was welcomed by Nathan with a firm slap on his back as soon as he walked in. He was wearing a dark cashmere sweater, ripped jeans, and one of those aprons with an obscenely suggestive text that said May I suggest this sausage written in a terrible font face.

“Why hello there, little brother,” Sam said a shade too mockingly. “Don’t you look dashing.”

Nathan scowled. “Okay, before you even judge me,” he began to tell Sam defensively, “I have to say that this—” he gestured a hand over his apron— “belongs to Sully.”

“Not that I needed clarification, but okay,” Sam said smugly. They all laughed.

“Look, kid,” said Victor, turning to Nathan, “why don’t you take your brother to his room? Elena and I will take care of things down here.”

“Yeah, sure thing.” Nathan peeled off the apron and handed it to Victor. “Can’t bear the thought of being the jackass to accidentally burn your mansion.”

Victor shook his head. “That’s why I’m effectively relieving you of kitchen duty. Now scoot.”

Sam followed Nathan down the hall, up a sweeping staircase, and then another hall with mahogany doors leading to more rooms. More photographs and more gilt-framed portraits hung on the walls. Everywhere smelled sweet and musty and oppressively opulent.

“Here we are,” said Nathan as he opened the last door at the end of the corridor.

Obviously, the room was nothing less lavish than what Sam had seen thus far from the entire house. Stepping inside, it was as if he had slipped into a different time period, some Gothic universe that distinctly reeked of that 19th-century grandeur: fancy carpets on hardwood floors, paneled walls of deep green, gray velvet curtains draped over large windows. A pair of armchairs and a lumpy sofa upholstered in rose-patterned fabric were primly arranged opposite a marble fireplace. Figurines and books occupied any available surface. In the middle of the room, an ornately carved four-poster bed covered in fluffy linens seduced Sam with the lure of much-needed sleep.

“Jesus,” he said, dropping his bag next to a rosewood desk. “This house is fucking nuts.”

Nathan laughed. “I know,” he said. “This is like one of those rooms in Hampton Court Palace. Remember—“

“Yeah, yeah—first heist with Cutter, I know.” And with Darcy, too. Sam winced an empty smile. “Don’t need to remind me,” he muttered almost to himself. “So—“ he paced across the room, looking around earnestly, decidedly eager to change the subject— “how did the talk go with the wife?”

“Oh.” Nathan sat at the edge of the bed. “It was okay. Got to sort things out. And…” He trailed off. “Well, you were right,” he said quietly.

Sam stopped and narrowed his eyes at Nathan, a snarky smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Come again? I didn’t quite catch that.”

Nathan snorted a derisive laugh. “You just want me to say it again, don’t you?”

“I really need you to say it again ‘cause I didn’t hear it the first time.”

“Well, I won’t.”

“Really? So that’s how it is?”

“Fine, fine. I said you were right.”

Sam beamed a triumphant smiled. “Why, thank you.”

“No, thank you.”

They did not say anything for a while. Then, Nathan got up and walked to the door. “Anyway,” he said, awkwardly clearing his throat, “I know you’re tired, so I’ll leave and give you time for a decent shut-eye. Dinner’s at eight, by the way.”

“Yeah, sure. Got it.”

Left to his own devices, Sam began to look around the room with a studied carefulness, examining every trinket and decor he could find like a detective dusting for fingerprints. He soon lost interest. He rarely got bored with things like these, but perhaps it was the exhaustion. Perhaps it was an exhaustion of an alien stranded in a different time, trying to phone home.

But there was no home. He never had one. And somehow, as he laid down on the bed in resignation, staring at the ceiling, he felt like he was not supposed to be here at all.

___

Sam is back in his prison cell in Panama.

He is supposed to be used to this by now—as one does, he guessed, if one had spent more than a decade incarcerated for a crime he did not commit—except the rush of terror that cuts him is a freshly sharpened blade. The trauma resurrects itself anew. It does not settle to be a memory so it replays itself like this:

Two men seize him by the arms, dragging him out and throwing him into the darkness. He is welcomed by a sharp embrace of a metal pipe, of many pairs of fists, and his knees, oh his knees are traitorous allies that buckles and trembles onto the cold, shit-stained floor. His bullet wounds have not fully recovered yet but the guards are his doctors believing that he will find his healing in the violence. This is his medicine. They watch him swallow and gag and retch. Get used to it, they say. This will make a better man out of you, says another. This is what your freedom looks like now, someone else spits out. The men restore his body with bruises. Paints him purple and pink and bloody. Split lip and swollen eyes. What is his body but a dishrag pulp of flesh? Pain is as sweet as morphine, a name that his body has memorized like an old lover’s kiss. So he takes and takes and takes. He does not scream. He does not beg them to stop. But he cries. His sobs echo without a sound. He lets his own voice choke him until they kill him for good.

___

Sam had meant to only sleep for a few hours, but he woke up sweating and with a heaving start to find the room bathed in silvery moonlight that made everything seem so startling and disarmingly unreal. Groggily, he looked around and the first one he saw was a woman sitting by the side of his bed.

And he was gripping her wrist like he was squeezing the life out of her.

It took him seconds to realize that it was Elena.

He let go of her, suddenly aflame with embarrassment.

“Shit, I—“ he stammered, running a hand over his hair, fumbling to turn on the bedside lamp— “I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t—“

“Hey, it’s alright,” Elena said. She was looking at him with a pained and worried expression on her face that made his embarrassment even worse. “Bad dream?” she asked.

“Sort of.”

“For how long have you been going through this?”

Sam did not answer. He did not know what he should tell her. He could only avoid her gaze like a fretful child, and a part of him hated it.

Before the silence could stretch on for more uncomfortable minutes, Elena got up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” she said regretfully. “Anyway, Nate was supposed to be the one to wake you up, but Sully sent him for a quick errand but um, I’m here to let you know that dinner’s ready.”

Sam nodded weakly. “Right. Uh, Elena?”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t tell Nathan about this.”

Elena stared at him with obvious admonishment, as if she was she was holding back the judgment she was trying to pass. “Okay, I won’t,” she said finally. “Because I trust that you’ll be the one to tell him about it.”

Sam said nothing. He watched Elena close the door behind her.

[hazel3017]

Foe the I wish you would write a fic post. I wish we could see more of your tumblr fics like flyer!geno and the husbands of sid. But I would also ready anything you write

I do actually have more of the Married in Vegas fic! so here’s husband nr 4. (Disclaimer: there has been a blatant disregard of international marriage and citizenship laws here. You’ve been warned.)

Follows 1, 2, 3.

*4: Evgeni Malkin*

The fourth time is as a favour to Geno.

Ironically, this is the one time he doesn’t marry for love—or, well, not because he’s in love, anyway—but it’s the marriage that lasts the longest.

He gets a call in the middle of the night, and when Sid answers the phone, he wasn’t expecting it to be Geno on the other end, or for Geno to say, “Sid! Need to marry you.”

Sidney takes a moment to ponder over whether or not he’s still sleeping and if this isn’t only a dream. “What?”

“Marry you. Need citizenship. Russia want keep me here, but can’t if I have Canadian citizenship.”

“What?” Sidney says again, a lot more awake this time. He throws the covers to the side and climbs out of bed, because if he’s going to get through this conversation, he’s going to need caffeine.

“Sid,” Geno complains, and of course he sounds annoyed, as if Sidney should be all caught up already and not worrying over the fact that the Russian government is apparently going to be detaining Geno—what the fuck?

Sidney breathes in deep and rubs a couple of fingers against his temple, feeling the phantom sting of an oncoming headache as he makes his way out of the bedroom and down the stairs towards the kitchen. “Geno,” he snaps back. “Explain.”

Geno does, and apparently, while Sid has remained in Pittsburgh, doggedly trying to resolve the lockout before it claims the whole season, Magnitogorsk has basked in the return of their prodigal son and now, having him at his rightful place, Metallurg doesn’t want to let him go.

Sidney knows, in an abstract kind of way, that hockey and politics are more intertwined in Russia than they are elsewhere, but the fact that Geno sounds legitimately worried that he would be stopped if he were to try and make it out of the country is more terrifying than Sidney knows how to put into words.

“Can they do that?” he asks, frowning down at his coffee cup as if it holds all the answers he needs.

“Is Russia, Sid,” is all Geno says, which means, Yes. They can.

Sidney doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing, and lets Geno explain how and when they need to do this if Sid agrees to go through with it.

“Of course, I’ll do it,” Sid says at some point, exasperated. “I’m not gonna let you get stuck in Russia when you need to be in Pittsburgh. Christ.”

And maybe the season really will be canceled and the Penguins won’t actually need Geno just yet, but Sid will, and besides, Geno has asked and Sid has never been particularly good at denying him, especially when Geno asks for so little, usually. Especially when Geno is one of the best people he knows.

So that’s how Sidney ends up quietly making a trip to the Czech Republic, officially to visit Jaromir in Kladno if anyone asks, but really to marry Geno inbetween Metallurg playing Lev Prague for a regular season game and the team returning to Russia.

It’s a forty-five minute drive between Kladno and Prague, and twice on the drive over, Jaromir asks, “Are you sure about this?” and “Have you told Mario?” and “Does anyone know you’re here? What you’re about to do?”

Sidney answers him calmly; he can’t afford not to, because if he’s freaking out then Geno might freak out, and if they’re both too busy freaking out to get married, Geno might never return to the States and—

“Yes,” Sidney says placidly. “I’m sure.” He doesn’t say that Mario doesn’t know, that he’s barely even spoken to Mario since the lockout began, and he doesn’t say that out of everyone he knows, only Jagr, Geno, and his dad know what he’s about to do. That’s enough, though.

It has to be.

Sidney and Geno say their I dos in a small orthodox church on the outskirts of the city centre. Jaromir stands witness for Sid, and a short Norwegian by the name of Mats Zuccarello stands witness for Geno.

“Need someone not Russian,” Geno explains with an easy grin and a careless shrug when Sidney asks, as if they weren’t getting married because of Russia’s dubious politics and possibly corrupt government (“Definitely corrupt,” Geno says resigned, but somehow fond, the idiot, and lifts his shoulders in a What can you do kind of way).

Sidney finds it incredibly worrying that apparently Geno has been so worried about getting detained that he hasn’t even trusted one of his Russian friends to stand witness for him, but he assures Sidney that Mats is a good guy and that he won’t spill the beans to anyone.

“Your secret is safe with me,” Mats says, adding his own assurance, and Sidney lifts his brows, less than impressed by this tiny Norwegian he knows nothing about.

“You will,” Geno says later, before Sid and Jaromir step back into the car that will take them back to Kedno before anyone finds out where they are, where Sid is and what he’s done. “Zucca too good not to play for NHL. You see.”

“You’re gonna be okay?” Sidney says instead of acknowledging that. He doesn’t like leaving Geno like this, with the uncertainty of how long the lockout will hold out and when their papers will go through so Geno can leave Russia with a Canadian citizenship.

Doesn’t like the feeling of not being in control.

Geno shrugs again and tugs Sidney into a hug. “Not worry so much, Sid,” he says as he wraps his arms around Sidney’s waist before he snakes his big palms down over the meat of Sid’s ass to steal a grope. He wiggles his brows obnoxiously, tongue sticking out of his mouth in a teasing gesture. “We have quickie before you go?”

Sidney rolls his eyes with extreme prejudice and pushes him away. “Asshole,” he says. “I hope they do stop you at the border.”

Geno grins, unrepentant. “No, you don’t,” he says simply.

And well. No.

**

When the lockout finally ends and there is NHL hockey to play again, Geno is stopped at the border. His papers are in order, though, and even the Russian government doesn’t want to start a mess involving someone who is for all intents and purposes, a Canadian citizen—even if he’s only so through marriage.

Sidney doesn’t know how the whole thing is kept out of the papers, but no one who didn’t already know finds out, and it stays a secret for years, Sid and Geno quietly married for all that time.

And then Geno is the one who meets someone, and Sid knows from the moment Geno introduces him to her that this one is special. And Geno can’t marry her if he’s already married to Sid.

So Sidney does the inevitable. He asks for a divorce.

“Is time,” Geno agrees, and when they get around to arrange it all and their signatures are on all the right papers, he kisses the top of Sidney’s head and says, “You get right sometime, Sid. Know you do. Find perfect husband and live perfect life.”

And Sid is maybe crying a little, more saddened by the prospect of having to let Geno go than he thought he would be. “Already had the perfect husband,” Sidney says, because that is true even if Sid and Geno don’t love each other that way. And Sidney has missed romance and sex and someone to come home to, but Geno has still been so very good to him. He always has been.

Geno makes a face at that, though, pained, and Sidney can’t have that, can’t have Geno questioning whether or not this divorce is the best thing for them, so he says, “The next one for sure,” even if he doesn’t really believe that. Even if he’s half convinced he won’t ever get married again. Four time is enough for anyone.

“Next time,” Geno agrees. “For sure,” he adds on, in a gentle, teasing mimicry of Sid. He tugs at Sidney until Sid lets himself fall against Geno’s chest, sighing contentedly as Geno wraps his long arms around him, and that is good. That is safe and familiar. That he can still have Geno like this makes it all better, makes him feel the pain a little less.

“Love you,” Geno whispers into his hair, and Sidney’s breath hitches even as he returns the sentiment faithfully, even as he hides his tears against Geno’s shoulder, bitter and so, so sad that despite the consolation and comfort those words were meant as, all Sidney feels is regret.

[7dys]

roomies?

hey again im a dummy sorry

I literally could NOT think of a title im sorry here's a good ole roommate au though

request: HHhHhHhh u write so well I'm crying :(( jshsd can I get a roommate!au with jae from day6 ? with a possible fluff at the end ? eye emoji ? sjdshd tysm !! -anon

word count: 5137 she's a doozy

a/n: I must have gotten this request like... a year and a half ago at least anon if you’re seeing this I apologize but I've finally done it!!! hope u all enjoy the workings of my crackhead brain

right-o lets get to it

okay so when you moved out of your dorms after graduation you weren’t expecting it to be this God Damn Expensive

on top of buying groceries and affording your tiny ass one bedroom a girlie was struggling

so !! you decided to look into finding a roommate

obviously not to move in with you…. there’s only one bedroom okay

but like searching for an open spot with someone

you found a few that seemed nice but were all wayyyyyyy too far from your job like you would be losing money paying so much in transportation

finally you stumbled across the most cursed roommate flyer ever

but it was in a super convenient location !! so you read it anyways

it was written in GREEN and PURPLE comic sans and there were multiple pictures of chickens and cheesy memes randomly placed around the text in the middle

which by the way was a list of 7 bullet points that said this:

1:my name is jae

2:i am broke

3:i have an extra room waiting for /YOU/

4:i am in a band and will write a song about you if that’s what it takes

5:i am unreasonably good at untangling headphones and i will untangle things for you

6:i have a pet cat and if you don’t like that walk away from this flyer immediately

7:please

and then at the bottom was an octopus who’s 8 legs had his contact information on it and they were cut so you could just pull off a slip

if you were an ordinary person you would not have taken one

lucky us !!!! you’re just crazy

and you take one of the god damn octopus legs

you are understandably the only person who has taken one so far

you giggle to yourself at your own SHEER STUPIDITY and then send a text to the number

you: hi !! i saw ur ad abt looking for a roommate and i’m interested! my name is y/n and i’m still in college so u don’t have to worry about me being like . crazy im just stressed

chicken guy??: oh my god really it’s been a month since i put up that poster!! also mood

you: you put up …. only one poster …… and it was that ……

chicken guy??: it worked for u didn’t it

you: . touché

chicken guy??: anyways you can come by later today and check it out if you’d like? i swear i’m not crazy either but feel free to bring a friend if you’re worried for safety reasons or whatever

you: nah i prefer to live life on The Edge plus none of my friends would be helpful in a life threatening situation

chicken guy??: i don’t know u but i’m already worried for u pls get here soon

hehehe u liked this guy

he was funny if anything

and you tended to find all the weirdos of society and befriend them so it was safe to assume he was no different than your usual crowd

true to your word you go to the address he sent you alone later that afternoon and cheerily knock on the door

while you wait for him to answer you survey the outside

it’s honestly ….. kind of a cluttered mess but in a cute way

like some sort of kleptomaniac crow somehow got an apartment and displayed all of the strange things it found

except it’s all music related

there is a jar that is filled to the BRIM with guitar picks.

who needs that many guitar picks

“me, i do”

you squeak and turn around and go

“??????”

and the tall thin man in the door just nods

“i knew what you were thinking”

“...that’s fair”

and then he seems to remember what exactly is going on and extends one long fingered hand for a shake

“hi! you must be y/n :)) i’m jae”

you take his hand …. that shits warm

how long have you been outside that your hand is so cold when you touch him you SHIVER

he’s like oh my god come in please you’re shivering jesus christ

and you just smile and tell him it’s nice to meet him !!! what a positive polly

you come in and are pleasantly surprised that the inside has just as much personality as the poster !!

and thankfully less green and purple and ….. comic sans

you are immediately greeted by the largest tabby cat you’ve ever seen

“ah that’s my big boy mister crackers”

“his name … is mister crackers”

“....yes”

“love it. tell me more”

he smiles so BIG and WIDE when you say that you think you’re looking at the sun

as he explains more things about the apartment and points at things here and there you half listen and half just. watch him

you didn’t know what to expect from that as but it’s fair to say you lucked out as far as possible roommates go

he was tall and had shiny dark hair and glasses that made his cute little eyes even littler

and he was in a BAND that is so cool

plus he’s like …. pretty or smth

smh FOCUS

you’re gnna have to share a bathroom with him which is … scary but you looked in there and it looks clean at least

also there’s some candles in there

……. he definitely takes candlelit baths like a widow just returning from her rich husbands funeral after he left her everything in the will

king

he seems nice and funny and you appear to have a similar sense of humor …. you’re in

you’re about to tell him you’ll think about it so that you don’t come off as too excited

but then change your mind and jump up and down and tell him you’re IN and you’ll help cover the rent and cook sometimes and bake him cookies and

he stops you after cookies with a hand over your mouth

“you are perfect. please move in immediately”

you smile under his hand and hope he can’t feel your cheeks getting absolutely BLAZING hot

(he 100% can)

((and he thinks it’s really CUTE))

you grab the hand that’s over your mouth and give it a shake and tell him in a southern accent that it’s a deal pardner and he SNORTS

it was cute

you move in as quickly as possible and his band mates come over to help you move everything !!

you’re high key embarrassed to let all these literally gorgeous men into your tiny little apartment and touch all your stuff

but after talking to each of them for like 5 seconds you quickly see they’re all a bunch of nerds and you would trust them with your life

wonpil loses his MIND when he sees your little plushy collection on your bed he thinks you’re the cutest person on the whole planet

he tells jae that’s he’s the luckiest man on earth when he thinks you’re not listening

you ARE though and you stop what you’re doing to give him a big ol hug and tell him he’s an angel

sungjin disapproves of how you’ve been living and asks if you’ve been eating enough and then turns on jae with a finger like U BETTER FEED HER

brian is so intimidatingly beautiful you can’t look him in the eye until you’re all eating ramen and you watch him choke to near death and then immediately go make himself another cup

relatable

dowoon looked lost and you immediately took him under your wing and you’ve been babying him ever since

you made jae take the box full of your plates and mugs and such bc it was too heavy for your Little Angel

“please y/n i am literally the strongest of all of us let me carry things. jae is going to keel over and die”

“nonsense !!! you’re a growing boy you need rest”

“please i literally punched a HOLE in a WALL on ACCIDENT and jae has a grass allergy i promise i will be fine”

regardless of the absolute struggle it was to coordinate everyone and get all your stuff to jae’s you are FINALLY moved in

your room is obviously not the master but you weren’t gonna be like Sorry Jae I Need The Master Bedroom Move Out Xoxo

it’s cute and you brought your own furniture and some posters and decor that you had all over your old apartment

basically you just condensed it all into one room

and the boys gave you a housewarming present and it was just a picture of them performing with you badly photoshopped next to jae playing the triangle

it wasn’t even framed they just taped it to the wall

typical

after all the moving in the boys leave you and jae to settle in but the moving was TIRING so

you’re already asleep on the couch

……….typical

jae just shakes his head and covers you with one of his large sweatshirts because for some reason he only owns one blanket and it’s on his bed and he doesn’t know where yours are

he’s literally HELPLESS

you wake up with a dry mouth at 3 in the morning and smile at jaes sweater barely covering your curled up body

you hold it up and it says “i like ugly” in tiny font .

this boy is perfect

you put it on and climb in your actual bed and decide to make him breakfast tomorrow for being such an angel

you set an ALARM that’s commitment if i’ve ever seen it

you make him pancakes and and coffee and when he comes out wearing a sweatshirt similar to the one you’re wearing and the rattiest sweatpants you’ve ever seen he doesn’t even notice anything at first

nd then he rubs his eyes and just stares

“y/n i’m gonna cry i haven’t had breakfast since 2008”

you laugh and launch yourself at him because he’s That cute

“you’re so cute thank you for letting me be your roommate !!!!”

he ruffles your hair and then sets his chin on top of your head

“thanks for breakfast, sunshine. even if this is also as early as i’ve been awake since 2008”

you pinch his side at that and then go to serve him a heaping pile of pancakes bc he’s skinny and he needs it

“alright noodle eat up!!”

“did you just call me noodle?”

“yes, look at yourself”

“.. that’s fair”

you guys chat over breakfast and thank GOD it’s a sunday and neither of you have shit to do

other than laundry

you force yourself not to mom him when he just puts it all in one machine and sets it on cold and leaves .

it hurts tho

instead of being productive while you wait you have multiple staring contests

jae keeps accusing you of saying he blinked when he didn’t

“i didn’t blink my eyes just look like that !!!! they are small and asian are you racist or something??”

“shut UP i won >:((((“

after the laundry is done you go your separate ways and jae heads out to band practice and it’s your very first time …

alone in your own apartment

naturally you take off your pants and dance around for at least 10 minutes

you didn’t even realize that since your roommate is a dude you can’t just ….. not wear pants

a travesty !!!

honestly let him try to stop you from going braless though. let him try.

you laze around and try to get caught up on your favorite shows and organize your room and then it gets late and you decide you’re going to make a MEAL for dinner

like a WHOLE . MEAL.

we’re going all out

you tie your hair up and put on your cooking sweater which is just a disgusting old sweatshirt covered with stains that hangs almost to the middle of your thighs

everyone needs one

next step is MUSIC because if you cook without it you just feel sad

we’re pulling out the oldies mix that’s right

i’m talking ELO, reo speedwagon, the doobie brothers we’re getting DOWN !!!!!

perhaps we’ll sprinkle some queen in there in honor of the movie that just came out

regardless you’re head banging while you chop vegetables

extremely unsafe but entirely necessary

jae comes home in the middle of your dramatic rendition of bohemian rhapsody where you attempt to sing every single part including the operatic harmonies

you are literally on your knees singing dramatically when the door opens and he comes out of the foyer to see YOU on the FLOOR wearing NO PANTS and singing QUEEN

you may just be ……. the most perfect woman he’s ever met in his life

he joins you because what the fuck else is he supposed to do

he comes in on the high GALILEO and then air guitars THE FUCK out of the next part while you literally thrash

i’m telling you it was one of the most taxing things you’ve ever done

you finish out the song and then fist bump for respect

“something smells good but also something smells burning”

and you scream because OH NO THE GARLIC BREAD

((it’s not even that burnt jae is just weird about smells …… grass allergy headass))

after the fake crisis is averted you finish up and the both of you FEAST while watching cheesy christmas movies and booing at love

you’re both . that bitter huh

also want to note that at some point you discreetly put sleep shorts on so you could pretend you hadn’t been pantless and possibly flashing your day of the week underwear to your roommate of like 36 hours

and when you’re literally seconds away from sleep jae boops you on the nose

like . kinda hard

“hey go to sleep this couch is not comfortable i promise”

“shut up you’re BONEY everything is uncomfortable for you”

“okay now you’re just being mean get your ass in bed”

“sorryyy :((((“

“yea yea go away weirdo”

you tell him goodnight and hug him extra tight in apology and he pats your head so like. all is forgiven hehe

that night when you flop in bed and wrap yourself around one of your pillows you’re pretty damn pleased with your roommate choice

time skip you and jae have almost 0 boundaries other than the necessary ones that keep you Platonic Friends and not Married Couple

which is basically just any affection beyond hugs nd the occasional snuggle

you heard me

the boys are in your apartment . all the time

literally all the time

and wonpil drunk cries to your stuffed animals about never finding love

PLEASE someone save him please

nights like those you and jae go full parent mode because everyone’s drunk so sungjin can’t do it himself

he’s too busy literally breakdancing in your living room

he moved the coffee table out of the way and everything

after everyone is put in beds (dowoon gets to deal with wonpil‘s cry snuggling … sorry)

you and jae always collapse on the couch actually exhausted because you both have weak cardiovascular health and you just carried four full grown men

you end up leaned up against each other for support and then sagging until one of you falls over onto their back and the other just follows

it varies which one of you ends up the big spoon and it’s so CUTE when you do

you think jae pushes you over a little because he likes it too but he would rather die than admit he likes being snuggled so

you’ll fall over onto your back and jae will pretend to be surprised but then wriggle up your body until he’s half on top of you and half on the side with his head resting just under your chin

his hair is FLUFFY and it TICKLES you so you have to move it so you can sleep !

that’s what you tell yourself when you comb his hair down with your fingers

you pretend not to hear him sigh and feel it against the skin of your neck

you also pretend he hasn’t wrapped both arms around your rib cage like a vice and is not letting go anytime soon

cutie :(

he tucks his forehead into your neck and you physically feel his whole body relax and wow . so this is what peace is like

of course it lasts for 5 whole seconds before wonpil let’s out an actual wail and dowoon is urgently whispering shut the fuck up PLEASE SHUT UP

jae snorts against your neck and gives a minute shake of his head, splaying his hand across your ribs and tugging you farther into his hold

first of all. that ticKLES and it takes every shred of self control not to squirm

second: at this point he’s practically trying to fuse your bodies together really you cannot physically get closer than you are

you’re absolutely enjoying it though so you wrap your arms around him and settle in with one leg flopped over his and a blanket you pulled off the floor haphazardly thrown over the two of you

he’s such a SNUGGLE BUG you can barely believe it

he just loves to pretend he’s some angsty lonely dude who plays guitar and SKATEBOARDS like the giant cliche he is

when actually he is a Big Baby

he texts you to calculate the tip for him whenever he’s out to eat with the boys because he “swore off math in 2014”

he asks you if his outfits are okay nd he always looks like an old man but you still tell him it’s good

you think so at least <33

you can read each other so well it’s scary

you’ll walk in the living room and jae will be like NOPE i’m leaving

and you’re like what :(((((((

and he’s like i just KNOW you’re about to yell about random shit we both personally have no control over and it gives me ~anxiety~

“okay well i was just gonna say that global warming is a real proble-“

“LA LA LA I CANT HEAR YOU”

(he thinks global warming is real he just. doesn’t want to talk abt it bc he knows you will Never Shut Up once you start)

you hand him coffee on his way out in the mornings when you know he has a long day ahead and he pats you on the head in thanks every time

jae cooks for you too !!! we love equality

he sticks to pretty simple stuff but he was living alone for a while so he had to know at least a little so he could like. survive

and believe it or not the both of you are not always sunshine and daffodils

when you’re upset he always knows and makes sure to be there if you need anything but basically just leave you alone

he has a tendency to misread the situation and think it’s still cool for him to joke around but you are Actually Angry

and it’s gotten him into lots of trouble so instead he is supportive from afar and does his best to be not offensive

when he’s upset he’s usually super mopey and writes sad song lyrics all day

you forcefully drag him out of his room to make sure he eats and do your best to cheer him up by whatever means necessary

you’ve embarrassed yourself just to hear that laugh of his

the one where he opens his mouth really wide and gasps a little and his eyes squeeze shut

……… fuckin cute

anyways you guys are just dating already but don’t even realize

until one of your coworkers asks you to come out after work and you say no

and it’d be Friendly and Normal if you did it because you promised jae you would cook that night

or you had made plans with him or something

but you were just uncomfortable doing any of that kind of stuff with some Not Jae guy

and after that your eyes are ~wide open~ sister

you find yourself giggling a little too long when he jokes around with you

you can’t help it okay his presence is like a RUSH of serotonin

and imagining yourself doing couple things with jae

turning your usual dinner outings into dates in your head where he holds your hand as he drives and sits next to you in the booth so he can sling a long arm around your shoulders

you let yourself become the slightest bit more affectionate

tucking yourself under his chin every night before you split to your separate rooms

tugging on his hand to get his attention and then playing with his long fingers

you know he notices because god damn how could he not notice ??

he has literally bad vision but he can read the signs

This Ain’t His First Rodeo

he is hesitant to become involved with someone he depends on so much

the age old dilemma of wanting someone but then being afraid to lose them because of it

he wouldn’t admit it but you were quite literally the light of his life

he had been so lonely in his apartment before, living off of instant ramen simply because he didn’t want to cook anything and holing up in his room writing about loneliness and being lost

then you showed up with your bright eyes and took every weird quirk of his in stride and nagged him about eating better and washing his clothes “properly”

(he thinks when you say “properly” you just mean your own way but that’s besides the point)

he even liked when you would take his glasses and wear them and do terrible impressions of him because you looked so CUTE in them

he thinks you’d look cute in all of his belongings but again

are the both of you ready to cross that line?

of course u are lol what else am i supposed to write about

fourth wall break: over

okay so wonpil keeps coming over when he knows jae is gone to try to convince you that the two of you are in love and should get married and have little mini jaes and whatnot

you inform him that he’s CRAZY and that jae thinks of you as a roommate and friend and that’s IT

and as much as you want to think you’re denying wonpil because you’re embarrassed you’re starting to actually believe it

he’s never shown any sort of real interest in you that is out of the realm of Friendly Roommates

and yeah sometimes you guys snuggle but wonpil is literally wrapped around your right arm at this very second so . not valid

wonpil is basically BEGGING at this point for you to see what he sees

which is jae actually being sickeningly in love with you

even if you did believe him at all …. that’s an exaggeration and you both know it

“y/n he’s writing a SONG. about YOU. that boy love loves you. big time”

“people write songs for their friends all the time”

“not jae !! he’s never written a song that hasn’t been about love or loss, you choose which one you’ll be”

“oh shit that was deep”

“i know right? can you believe i came up with that on the spot? wig.”

and then you smack him for being a fckin twitter stan and continue with your argument

jae walks in just as it starts to get physical

wonpil is latched onto your leg as you squirm and wiggle around trying to throw the LEECH off your leg

jae detaches him with a well placed finger between his ribs that makes him squeal Very Loudly and let go

unfortunately you had been leaning all your weight to one side to counteract wonpil and when he let go you went careening sideways

jae just barely grabbed your wrist and yanked you back up

and then you stumbled into him and he stumbles and you both almost fall before getting your shit together

you’re standing pressed together with his feet spread apart so that you’re a little bit closer to his height as you latch onto his shoulders for balance

one of his arms slides around your middle to hold you against him while he used the other to make sure his guitar case doesn’t just fall off his shoulder

wonpil is on the ground holding his rib cage and fake crying when jae goes

“enough wonpil i could hear you yelling like a block away what is going on here???”

you peep out a nothing !!! at the same time wonpil yells

“i’m trying to convince y/n of TRUE LOVE that’s what”

“oh …. y/n is in love?”

“y/n is in DENIAL”

you plead with him to stop please wonpil

and he is relentlessly ranting about how you refuse to “see the light” and how happy you could be

jae sees that this is actually upsetting you from your flushed cheeks and furrowed eyebrows and the way you clutch the hem of his sweatshirt

“alright that’s enough. wonpil go home you lovesick fool”

wonpil trudges out and gives you a sneaky kiss on the cheek

jae has to hold you back when you lunge after him

after you’ve calmed down he slowly slides his arm from being wrapped around your middle to just barely brushing your back

you didn’t mean to get so worked up but like . wonpil is good at that okay

and he was basically going to out you to jae ????:??:!:?:$,&3!:8;

that’s a stressful event

you feel your breathing even out and you sigh in frustration

“i’m sorry y/n, he does that sometimes :/“

“it’s fine it was just . a lot”

“yeah”

you stand in silence for a good minute when jae drops his hand from your back and ducks his chin

“was he…. telling the truth?”

and you want to die because wonpil wasn’t even there and you’re still getting outed !!!!

“which part?”

“the part where you’re in love with someone”

“i wouldn’t say ….. love”

“oh”

and this is just painful so you take a deep breath and just

“okay listen i really really get it if you don’t return the feelings and it’s fine i just … please don’t kick me out i really love living here and all your band members coming over and i even love wonpil !!!! even though he’s a little crazy !!! and i love your fat cat mr.crackers and dancing around to old green day and watching shitty romance movies just to make fun of them and i just don’t want this to end!! we can forget it ever happened and i swear i’ll just. get over it or something and i-“

“okay don’t get too hasty about forgetting it i haven’t even said anything yet”

you stare at him wide eyed

“i’m sorry . what.”

“i can’t believe it took wonpil bodily attacking you for you to say that”

and then he drops his guitar with a thud and steps into your space to slide a warm hand around the nape of your neck

he pulls you closer and stops when your noses brush

“is this okay?” he whispers

“why are you whispering?” you whisper back

“shut up” he breathes right back

he smiles and then tugs you forward and tilts his head down to plant his lips on yours

he’s soft and tentative and pulls away after just a few seconds to press kisses to your cheeks and the tip of your nose

“if it’s worth anything i like you too,”

“are you kidding me that’s worth EVERYTHING ???”

and then you pounce on him and bury your face into the dip of his shoulder because you can’t reach his neck

damn skyscraper

he stumbles at first but then smiles down at your flushed face absolutely squished against his bony chest

he thinks it’s cute though and cranes his neck down to lay his cheek across the top of your head and loop his arms around you

dating jae is even better than you thought it would be !!!

wonpil wasn’t lying when he said jae was writing a song for you and when he plays it for you and sings so sweetly you cry your fckin eyes out

and he’s laughing and pulling you in to situate you on his lap with his guitar long forgotten leaning against the couch and asking you when you became such a softie

you look up at him with tears in your eyelashes and love in your eyes and he positively melts

he kisses your forehead and ruffles your hair and calls you kid like he didn’t just profess his undying love for you through song like the cliche he is

the two of you spend the whole night wrapped up in each other, expressing all the affection you’d missed out on in the last few weeks

you hadn’t realized how…. touchy jae is until now

he can barely function without his good morning kiss

“y/n i am a weak, weak man pls give me a kiss or else i won’t make it through the day,”

..you also hadn’t realized he was this dramatic lmao

the boys supremely unsurprised when they burst into your apartment to find you straddling jae with your fingers in his hair

i’m telling you they don’t even PAUSE in their steps they just look at you and acknowledge it

and then brian just …. takes a seat next to you guys and is like

“are y’all done i wanna watch this redbox movie and return it tonight before i gotta pay for another day”

you’re both cherry red in the face and untangle yourselves in astonishment at his casual tone

dowoon is rummaging around in your fridge and calls out from the kitchen that the two of you were the most obvious people on the planet and that the rest of the band was in the same boat as wonpil they just weren’t absolute psychos

wonpil: this is true but i resent that

all of you settle back into a comfortable dynamic

you’re super happy that your relationship with jae didn’t make anything weird

it probably helped that the very first night that jae mentioned in passing that you were cute and the band had never let it go since

it also probably helped when wonpil pointed out your actual literal heart eyes the first time you saw jae

……………. they were just waiting for it to happen tbh

anyways

nowadays you spend your mornings parting ways with a kiss and your evenings snuggled up together on the couch exchanging eskimo kisses and sweet nothings and you couldn’t be happier

<3

[bbbarneswrites]

High-Heeled Heaven

Read Chapter Five: Valentino Rockstud Pumps 

Sebastian Stan x Reader

Summary: In which Sebastian can’t help but appreciate his girl’s high-heels shoes. Genre: Romance/fluff Warnings: Swearings 1,808 words

Notes: Inspired by Hell in High Heels by Jewelgirl04, I decided to write a little series of drabbles so we can be trash about how Seb likes high-heels. I’m not even sorry. Each chapter will be inspired by a different pair of shoes that I wish I could actually afford, lmao. The link down there provides a better look to the shoes if you want and in the middle of the fic there’s a link for the full outfit. Heads up for our cutest new ‘character’ in this chapter too. And Sebastian’s moustache...lmao. Enjoy! <3

Chapter Six: Gianvito Rossi Plexi Pumps

Past the end of the year holidays and its shenanigans, January starts with a busy schedule for both you and Sebastian.

By the first week of the month, he’s off to Atlanta to film his new movie while you find yourself busy with a few events to attend in New York and a festival in Utah to promote your lastest movie, that has been actually moving a lot faster than the production team anticipated.

All in all, you don’t have much time to worry about anything else than interview schedules, photoshoots, flight times and public appearences during that month.

But February just happens to be a little different once you get a little break before your own press tour starts. New York is still ranging with its moody weather and there’s a few days in which you can’t help but be painfully aware of Sebastian’s absence, despite the new companion he got for you as a Christmas gift.

Little Jack is the most adorable Border Collie puppy you’ve ever seen and most definitely the best gift you’ve gotten during your entire life. He’s absolutely the best cuddle partner for lazy days and his presence makes your apartment feel less gloomy when you’re on your own.

Though that doesn’t mean you’re not missing Sebastian.

Within less than a week for your boyfriend’s homecoming, the New York Fashion Week is on again and you’re soon with another list of shows and parties to choose from.

So once Friday rolls around and the third day of the Fashion Week starts, your fairly small apartment is crowded with the presence of your hair stylist and make-up artist, all expertly getting you ready in less than two hours.

Even with the city’s frigid temperatures, you’re gifted with a beautiful black and white two-piece outfit matched with a knee-length black wool coat. It kinda makes you feel badass so you don’t complain much about it as you slip into the said clothes with Lia’s help, taking extra care with your hair and make-up as she helps you to adjust the last details.

Now that all you need are your shoes and jewelry, you walk run over to your bedroom to grab  them just in time to catch Sebastian’s FaceTime call on your phone.

With a instant smile growing on your lips, you pick up the phone and sit on your bed, Jack fumbling around your feet as you accept the call. As soon as Sebastian’s face fill up the device’s screen, you can’t help but hold back a laugh at his very particular predicament.

Something that he notices right away with your poor hiding skills.

“You know, if I didn’t know you any better I’d be offended.” He says right off the bat, a feigned angry frown deep between his eyebrows as he notices your struggle to keep yourself serious. “Fucking unbelievable.”

At his indignant muttered words, you immediately give in to your urges and let out a laugh, your chest flaring with low-key affection as you note that he’s holding back a smile of his own while keeping up his angry front.

“I know I should be sorry but I’m not really.” You shoot him a half smile, trying to look as guilty as you can though you know he’s not buying just by the way he’s shaking his head. “You look so funny, I can’t help it.”

To your defense, he really does look kinda funny. Seeing your usually fashionable and very sharp boyfriend sporting classic 90s outfits – that included hideous turtlenecks and dad jeans – with a thin moustache and no sideburns at all wasn’t something that you thought you’d ever experience. And yet, there you are.

“Yeah, story of my life.” Seb rolls his eyes and lets out a chuckle, getting past the playful moment once he smiles tenderly at you, phone shaking as he moves on his hotel bed. “How’s things over there? Where’s the dog?”

With a roll of eyes of your own, you turn to the front camera and focus on Jack playing with his toys by your feet, letting out a laugh as soon he starts speaking and doing cooing noises that the puppy immediately perks up with.

“As you can see, things are good and Jack is right here making me company.” You reply playfully in the background, turning the camera back to you again just in time to smile mischievously at him. “Sooo, how are things over there? Are you staying away from elementary schools?”

“Ha-ha, you’re so funny.” Sebastian glares at you through the phone screen, looking unimpressed by the proud and amused grin on your lips. “Charles already made that joke so you’re a little late on that one.”

“Don’t be like that.” You pout in feigned disappointment, chanelling your best puppy face when he simply hums in reply. “If it makes you feel better I really, really miss you today.”

Almost as if you’d said magic words, Sebastian’s face instantly light up and you swear you can spot a discrete shade of red covering his clean shaved cheeks, though you don’t mention a word about it despite the affection bubbling up in your chest.

It’s always cute when he’s caught off-guard, his sweet and shy self slipping every now and then through his usual charming front even though the bastard can compose himself pretty quickly.

“Yeah? Just today?” Sebastian smiles smugly for a brief moment until you glare at him, a honest laugh escaping from his lips that soon melts into an almost dreamy sigh. “You look so beautiful. I kinda feel bad that you have to deal with this now.”

“Thanks, babe. That’s the perks of going to a fashion show for free, I guess.” You shrug sheepishly, hoping that your flushed cheeks aren’t visible through the phone screen as you laugh. “And don’t worry about that, two hours ago I was wearing my pajamas onesie so you’re good.”

“Let me see you then.” He says abruptly, his lips growing in a smirk when he sees your slightly disgruntled expression at his sudden request. “Come on. You laughed at my moustache just now, can you let me see you for a second?”

Despite being used to his beaming personality and occasional flirty demeanor, you still can’t help but feel slightly timid whenever it sets on him to tease you like this. Even though Sebastian can be a little awkward and quiet at times, he knows he’s handsome and most definitely knows the effect he has on most people once he’s comfortable enough.

One of these people just happens to be you.

And just by the way he’s smiling through the camera with that ridiculous moustache of his (that makes him look funny but still not ugly, much to your despair), it seems like he knows he got his way on this one.

So his smile just widens as you groan and get up from your spot by the edge of the bed, the phone’s image shuffling as you walk towards the big mirror covering up one of your walls. When you flip the camera to the front side again and frame it on your reflection, you dare to give him a cheeky smile before pulling out a pose.

“There you go, mom.” You tease with a short laugh, turning to your sides a few times in a playful way to show him the full outfit. “Happy now?”

Sebastian lets out a content hum as he runs a hand through his jaw, eyes squinted and lips pursed into a smirk you know too well.

“That’s one look, I’ll tell you.” He boasts with a cocky smile, his eyes set on your frame in a way that almost makes you feel as if he’s right there watching you. “I gotta ask though. You’re going barefoot or...?”

The question comes as no surprise but your reaction is immediate. Once your laugh fills up the room, Sebastian is all the way over in Georgia smiling like the biggest show-off on Earth, low-key eager for whatever is coming next.

“Christ, you’re like a predator or something.” You shake your head in mocked disapproval, knowing that the action won’t put him off due the clear amusement still laced to your voice as you continue. “Of course not moustache man, I got new shoes just for this and they’re awesome.”

Before he can even ask, you walk over to where the box is set and makes a show of opening it as best as you can one-handed, still filming the whole thing with your front camera just to spite him. Even though he doesn’t see it, you completely fail at holding back a smile when he lets out a low, almost amazed ‘wow’ as the shoes come into the view.

Finally setting them on the floor, you slowly step into the heels and frame the image on your legs, unpretentiously walking back to the mirror to frame the camera on your reflection once again.

“God, I miss you so much.” Sebastian sighs tiredly, his eyes looking kind and tender despite the serious tone of his voice as he tilts his head to rest against the bed’s headboard. “Can’t wait to be home with you and the dog.”

His words warm up your chest right away and you bite back your lower lip to hide one of your giddy smiles, the camera now set back to your face.

“We miss you too.” You reply softly, giving in to a smile when Jack walks past you to walk into your closet. “Jack’s been out of his mind without your runners around to chew off, believe me.”

Seb laughs but doesn’t go further than that as Lia’s call from the living room interrupts the moment, warning that your Uber is just a few minutes away and asking if, for the love of God, you’re ready to go after all this time. As you glance apologetic at Sebastian, all he does is offer a cute laugh and a shake of head.

Well, at least you’ve put your shoes on. Jewelry is the least of your concerns right now. Or it’s supposed to be.

“Hey, knock them dead for me.” He says with a serious expression though his tone of voice is light and sounding as teasing as ever, his tongue running over his lower lip before he finishes. “I’ll be home in no time.”

“I will, handsome.” You smile knowingly at him, throwing a wink before gesturing around your mouth with a pleading face. “And please, take that thing off your face before you get into the plane, okay?”

Sebastian laughs, lower lip caught between his teeth and suddenly you can’t wait for the next six days to be just over.

“If you don’t forget to save these shoes for me.”

Just a few more days. 

[seanpatricklittlewriter]

A Man of Mystery

--An Abe & Duff Short Story by Sean Patrick Little

  The young woman walked into a bar with all the subtlety of a tornado touching down in a suburb. She kicked open the door with a long, slender leg and strode into the center of the narrow club with all the eyes in the place on her. She had a short black skirt that hugged her hips and a billowy white pirate blouse that was cut in a low vee at the neck. She flashed a brilliant smile and made eye contact with all six of the men in the bar. “What’s up, gents?

None of the men answered her. Women were not forbidden at Wheels’s Bar, but they were never exactly running rampant there, either. There were a few ladies who might stop in now and then, but none of them were regulars. Wheels’s place was one of those hole-in-the-wall dives that had a couple of TVs that played a nonstop dose of Chicago-area sports and a few tables along one wall opposite the bar where the regulars took up tall stools. It was not a hip hangout. It did not have fancy blender drinks. Most of the place seemed to be the exact opposite of the sort of joint a woman of any sort of discerning taste would ever set foot. From the outside, the place looked like it was a few days away from being condemned. It did not attract customers. If you were there, it was because you wanted to be there.

None of the men in the bar could be considered a catch. The bartender, Wheels, was a former one-percenter gone into nomad status in a sort of semi-retirement. At one point in his life, he would have struck fear into the heart of anyone who saw him coming down the road on a heavily customized Harley-Davidson. The other five guys were all pudgy, soft, blue-collar minions, most with a Tinder profile that went perpetually unswiped.

The men in the bar were not exactly agog at the sudden presence of an attractive and dynamic woman, but neither did the know how to process her suddenly showing up in their depressing little den of waning testosterone.

The woman did not seem to notice their discomfort. She walked right up to the bar. “How’re the Cubs doing?”

Rodridgo “Sally” Salazar, a paunchy Latino who normally worked as a painting contractor, swallowed the mouthful of Miller Lite he’d forgotten to swallow when the woman kicked in the door. “Uh, not great.”

“Typical.” The woman slapped a black Visa card onto the bar. “You take fantastic plastic, I assume?”

Wheels Wright shrugged. “All forms of legal tender and credit are acceptable at Wheels’s Bar. What are you drinking?”

“What do you have that’s expensive?”

Expensive drinks were not usually served at Wheels’s place. A retired bus driver with abnormally hair eyes named Billy Butkis, leaned forward. “I think Wheels has a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue somewhere in here.”

“Perfect!” The woman nodded toward the stack of bottles at the mirrored counter behind Wheels. “Let’s crack that sucker open and pour some drinks for me and all my new friends.”

“I can’t afford to drink no JW Blue,” said Billy.

“I’m buying, friend. I’m Tracy, by the way. C’mon, let’s have some fun.” She pushed the card toward Wheels.

The bartender picked it up and swiped it through the old card machine next to the register. After a second, it spit out a receipt. His eyebrows arched in surprise; he had probably been expecting it to be rejected. “I guess everyone’s drinking Blue tonight.”

There was a mild cheer from the guys at the bar.

Sally was impressed. “Can I make mine a double? I ain’t never had any fancy whiskey before?”

“Fuck it; make ‘em all doubles,” said Tracy. “Doubles for everyone.”

Wheels stacked up five glasses and poured a health slug into each.

 Tracy did a quick head count. “There’s seven of us here. We need two more.”

 “Nah.” Wheels pointed to his ever-present mug of black coffee. “I’m sober almost ten years, and that sad sack in the corner only drinks beer.” Wheels jabbed a thumb at a chubby man in a hooded sweatshirt and Milwaukee Brewers cap. He was bald beneath the cap, and clean-shaven. He had sad eyes and a pale complexion.

 “You only drink beer?” Sally looked at the guy in the Brewers cap. “I never noticed.”

 The man held up his Miller Lite. “If you’re buying, you can refill this thing for me.”

 “Done.” Tracy nodded at Wheels. “Give the man with the bad taste in baseball teams a Miller Lite on me and split whatever’s left in the bottle of blue into these glasses.”

 Wheels did as she bid and killed the rest of the bottle, filling each of the five lowball glasses to a potentially lethal level. “That’s a lot of whiskey, hey?”

 “Hey, indeed.” Tracy picked up her glass and held it aloft in front of her. “To new friends.” The other men at the bar quickly snatched up their glasses and held them aloft, echoing her toast. Tracy clinked her glass to the other four glasses of whiskey and nodded toward the Miller Lite drinker in the corner. He did not return the gesture, only picked up his bottle and took a drink, his eyes drifting back to the TV where the Cubs were blowing a three-run lead in the top of the seventh.

Tracy was bubbly and fun. The regular barflies were a little shocked by this. They usually sat at the bar in sullen silence, ate the free peanuts while they drank their bottles of major-label beers, and cursed at the Cubs’ middle-relievers when they hung curveballs over the center of the plate that ended up getting tattooed into the deep left field bleachers. Tracy told bawdy jokes. She laughed easily. She asked the guys questions that made them feel like she was really interested in them. And most importantly, she kept buying drinks.

At one point, she noticed the dusty jukebox in the far corner of the bar. “Does that thing still work?”

Wheels nodded. “Works great. None of these cheap-asses ever uses it, though.”

“We’d rather hear the game,” said Sally.

Tracy turned on her stool and dropped to the floor on unsteady legs, the effects of the copious amounts of booze evident as she swayed over to the machine. She flipped through the lists of available songs. “Christ. Is there anything on this thing from before 1976?”

“No. I wouldn’t risk accidentally hearing disco,” said Wheels.

“I tried to get him to put some Duran Duran on there once.” Sally covered his neck with his hands defensively. “Wheels threatened to cut me with a broken bottle.”

“Plenty of Beach Boys, if you’re into real music.” Billy added his two cents. “Far as I’m concerned, Brian Wilson is twice the musical genius John Lennon ever was.”

Tracy patted her miniskirt. “No pockets. Anyone got a dollar?”

Sally rushed over to her side, his roly-poly body jiggling all the way. He handed her a five-dollar bill. “Least I can do to pay you back for the drinks.”

“This will get us thirty songs.” Tracy fed the bill into the machine. She started tapping in the codes for different tracks. In seconds, the thin audio of the ball game commentary was buried beneath the harmonies of the Beach Boys.

Tracy danced on wobbly legs. Sally started dancing along with her, doing his own, arrhythmic version of 1950s craze, The Jerk. Tracy danced back to the bar and bought another round. The Blue was gone, so she had Wheels fetch his second-best whiskey, a liter of J. Henry & Sons from a micro-distillery in Dane, Wisconsin.

Wheels watched Tracy with concern. “You’re kind of poring it on there, miss. You going to be alright?”

“Are you my dad? Believe me, I can hold my liquor.”

“I never doubted you could. Just pointing out that you’ve had a lot for someone your size.”

Tracy winked at Wheels. “You calling me skinny?”

“Something like that.”

“I’ll take it. How ‘bout you use my card and order us a few pizzas? You boys want some pizzas?”

“I could eat.” Sally resumed his seat at the bar.

“I ain’t never seen you turn down food,” said Billy.

Dirty Ernie, a tall, almost anorexic Black man who got his unfortunate nickname because he worked for Waste Management, ponied up to the bar next to Sally. “Get extra. I only got this skinny because I end up in the chow line behind Sally too much.”

“Hey, if you can’t outrun me, that’s on you, Ernie.”

Wheels handed Tracy the cordless phone from under the bar. “You want pizza, go ahead. I don’t have a problem with that.”

Tracy winked at Wheels when she took the phone. She called the place down the street, ordered three large pies, and gave them her credit card info over the phone. Twenty minutes later, three pizzas were walked through the door by a college kid. After he set them on the bar, he handed Tracy the receipt. She scribbled out her signature on the receipt along with a tip.

When the kid saw the tip, his eyes got big. “Ma’am, I think you made a mistake.”

“I know what I did. It’s a gift. Thanks for all you do.”

The kid could barely stammer a thank-you. He backed out of the bar with a smile on his face that even a kick to the nuts would not have washed away.

“What’s the occasion?” Dirty Ernie helped himself to a couple of slices of pepperoni. “You’re spending a lot of money here tonight.”

“I won the lottery,” said Tracy. “I just wanted to spread some of my good fortune.”

“No foolin’?” Sally’s jaw dropped open. “I been buyin’ them fuckin’ tickets for twenty years. Once, I won twenty-four bucks. That’s about it, though.”

“Some days, it just feels good to be lucky, I guess.”

Tracy kept buying drinks until the rummies were good and soused. They ate the pizzas, even Wheels and Duff had a couple of slices. They danced to the thirty songs. Billy and Pauly Ryecliff fell asleep on the bar. Sally eventually got logy and collapsed in a sitting position against the wall. Ernie fell asleep sitting up with his jaw propped up on his hand.

Tracy took the hint. She was practically asleep herself. “Well, I should get on home, I guess.”

“You want me to walk you home?” Wheels looked around. “I could lock these idiots in here for a while. They’d never notice we were gone.”

 Tracy held up her phone. “I’m getting an Uber. I’ll be fine.” She kicked off her heels before she dared to climb down off her stool. She was listing hard. It took effort and a hand on the bar to steady herself to pick up her shoes. “I’ll be fine,” she reiterated. “I had a good time with you guys. Thanks.”

“Come back anytime.” Wheels held out the black credit card for her. She grabbed at it, missing a few times before she finally caught it. “You sure you’re okay?”

 “I’m perfect.” Tracy saluted Wheels. “It was nice meeting you all.” Her words slurred together in a drunken jumble. She looked at the fat man in the Brewers cap. “Even you, Mr. Baseball.”

The man just nodded at her. He hadn’t said more than three sentences all night. He just kept watching the game.

Tracy inhaled a deep, cleansing breath of stale barroom air and let it go slowly through pursed lips. It helped to clear her head. She glanced down at her phone. “My Uber is almost here. Thanks, fellas.”

From his spot on the floor, an extremely inebriated Sally tried to say something, but it only came out as nonsense. Hearing the nonsense made him laugh. Laughing made him tip over onto his side, which only made him laugh harder until the laughter suddenly switched to snoring.

Tracy smiled down at him. “Lightweight.”

“Might be the first time he’s been called lightweight in his lifetime.” Wheels flipped the switch by the end of the bar that controlled the open sign in the window. The red neon in the window went dark.

Tracy stumbled out to the sidewalk. It was late September and far too cold for a miniskirt and pirate blouse. The booze had screwed with her internal thermostat, though. She felt the cold press at her skin, but that was as far as it got. Her head was hot, and her face felt warm. The cold air felt good. It was trying to balance out how hot the booze made her feel.

 Tracy walked down the block. There was no Uber. There had never been an Uber. She did not even have the Uber app on her phone. Where she was going, she did not need an Uber. She walked to the parking garage down the street on the corner. She ditched her shoes in a trashcan next to the garage. Then, she slipped into the enclosed staircase and started walking up the sixteen flights to the eighth floor. Ten steps up, turn around on the landing, and another ten steps to the second floor. Repeat until she hit the top.

 She was winded and jelly-legged by the time she got to the eighth floor. The booze was really surging through her bloodstream now. It made her eyelids heavy and her body feel like lead. She had come to far to fail, though. She had a plan and was going to carry it through.

 Tracy pushed through the door at the eighth story of the parking garage and froze. The fat guy in the Brewers cap was standing there leaning on a cane.

 At first, Tracy was amazed but then she got angry. “Are you stalking me? You some kind of pervert?” She could not remember his name. Dan? Dave? Fluff?

 “Nope. Not in the least. I just figured I’d come up here and try to talk you out of killing yourself.”

 His words ran through Tracy like a spear. She suddenly felt very, very cold.

 “What?”

 “You heard me.”

 “How? How did you get here before me?”

 The fat man pointed with his cane toward the opposite corner of the garage. “Elevator over there.”

 She looked over and cursed under her breath. “Well, I came up here for a reason.”

 “I know. That’s why I followed you.”

“How did you know?”

 The fat man shrugged. “I’m a private investigator. That’s what I do.”

 Tracy turned and walked toward the nearest ledge. “That didn’t explain it.”

 The man followed her limping badly and leaning heavily on his cane. “I knew you were planning to kill yourself about thirty seconds after you came into the bar.”

 Tracy stopped and turned back to him. “How.”

The fat man stopped. “Four things, really: First, you were spending way too much money on strangers. That meant you did not care about paying bills; you were having a last hurrah. Second, the fact that you came into a dead-end bar where you knew you wouldn’t know anyone. You didn’t want to run into anyone you knew either because you felt they might know what you were doing and try to stop you or because you were scared or too sad to see them. Third, you were drinking like someone who wanted to get drunk enough to make bad decisions. You weren’t about to have sex with any of us pathetic degenerates from the bar, so it had to be that you were prepping yourself for a different sort of mission, one where being too drunk to think would be helpful. And lastly, and most importantly, that’s a hell of a tan-line on your left hand where the engagement ring used to be.”

 Tracy’s cheeks were suddenly cold. She was crying and the wind was freezing her tears on her skin.

 “You want to talk about it?”

 Tracy shook her head. She started to climb up the chest-high wall at the edge of the garage. “Don’t try to stop me.”

 “Wouldn’t dream of it. We are all free and independent, aren’t we? If you want to take yourself out of this world, well that’s your right as a sentient being with free will.” The fat man limped over to the wall ten feet to Tracy’s right. He was taller than she was. He leaned his head over the edge and looked down. A low whistle escaped his lips. “That’s a long way down. That’ll do the job, for sure. You won’t even know what hit you.”

Tracy boosted herself to the ledge by using a Volkswagen bumper as a stepping stool. “I’m here for a reason.”

 “No doubt. If you want to die, this is a guaranteed way to do it. You’ll probably bounce when you hit the pavement. Did you know that? Human bodies actually bounce when they hit pavement from these sorts of heights. People thing they just go splat, but it’s actually way more disgusting.”

 “Stop talking.” Tracy’s stomach was starting to roil. She looked over the edge and a combination of booze, fear, and adrenaline made her guts lurch like she was going over a big wave.

 “The trauma of hitting the sidewalk from this height, there’s no surviving it. You’ll probably break a lot of important bones. Your chest cavity will collapse, and rib fragments will pierce your lungs and heart. Your skull will probably fracture. Your aorta will tear. You won’t feel a thing, though. You’ll be dead the second you hit the ground. No pain.”

 “Stop. Talking.” Tracy tried to put emphasis on her command, but her stomach betrayed her. She suddenly spewed a whole night’s worth of pizza and booze eight stories down to the sidewalk.

 “That was a good precursor to the main event.” The guy limped a little closer to her. “Before you do this, why don’t you tell me why you’re doing it? You know, for the statement I’ll inevitably have to give to the police who show up and demand to know why I didn’t try to physically restrain you before you did your best Franz Reichelt impression?”

 “Who?”

 “Franz Reichelt. He invented the parachute. Well, sort of. He tried to test his invention and took a header off the Eiffel Tower. It’s not important. Tell me what brought you up here.”

Tracy did not want to be on the ledge at that moment. Her stomach was still reeling. She launched a second volley of vomit to the sidewalk. Her sinuses were burning from bile and whiskey.

 She dropped off the wall and slid to a sitting position alongside the silver Jetta. “It’s been a bad year.”

 The fat man limped around to the front end of the Jetta. He stopped eight feet from her. “Tell me about it.”

Tracy swiped vomit from her chin with the sleeve of her shirt. “It’s just another woe-is-me sob story. Everyone has one.” She was suddenly very lucid and sober as if puking the booze in her stomach eight stories down had rid her of all the poison in her bloodstream. Maybe it was the adrenaline that was giving her clarity.

 “I like woe-is-me stories,” said the man.

 Duff. Tracy suddenly remembered his name.

 “What kind of a name is Duff?”

 “Irish.”

“No, I mean, what does it mean?”

 “It means I’m mad at my dad. What’s your story?”

 Tracy shook her head. She looked up at the night sky. In Chicago, only a few stars were visible high above them because of the light pollution. “I never knew my dad.”

 “By choice?”

 “My mom said he died in Iraq when she was pregnant with me. She never told his family.”

 “Ah. By accident, then.”

 “My mom worked her ass off to raise me and keep a roof over our heads. She only had a G.E.D., but she did it. I didn’t have much, but I never went hungry. And we used to laugh all the time. We had fun together.”

 “Past tense, I see. I imagine she died, then? I’m going to guess she died in what? March? April at the latest?” Duff took another step toward her. He leaned against the front fender of the Jetta.

 “March twenty-third. Breast cancer. How’d you know?”

 “It would take that long for you to get the bottom of your proverbial barrel. Let me guess what’s next: Your fiancé was banging your best friend?”

 Tracy’s eyes went wide. “Yes! How’d you know that?”

 “Logical guess. Your mom’s death was traumatic. You probably retreated into yourself for a bit. Your best friend was around a lot trying to make you feel better. Your boyfriend was doing his best but felt powerless. You were too depressed to do anything for him, so he felt neglected. Things happen. I’ve seen it before.”

 “Found out about their affair a few weeks ago when Danny called off the wedding. He got Jasmine pregnant. All my friends sided with them because I’ve been so depressed. They actually blamed me for the affair.”

 Duff grimaced. “Ouch. That’s a kick in the ass.”

 “I lost my mother, my fiancé, and my best friend inside of six months.”

 “Let me guess—it gets worse?”

 Tracy bit back a sob. “I found out last week that I can’t ever have a baby. Congenital infertility.”

 Duff’s eyebrows raised on his forehead. “Wow. That’s…wow. I get it. All that shit happens to me, I’m probably chucking myself off a parking garage, too.”

 “Why am I even here?”

 “Because you were going to go out in a blaze of street pizza. Did you forget?”

 Tracy rolled her eyes at Duff. “No, I meant, why am I here in the big picture sense? What’s the fucking point?”

 “Of Life?”

 “Of Life. Why do we bother? All my dreams got wrecked in six months. My mom never got to see me walk down the aisle in a white dress. I went from planning a wedding to single. I lost my best friend. I’ll never get to be a mom. What does it all mean if I can’t have the life I want?”

 Duff shrugged. He slid down to a sitting position alongside the Jetta. It was a painful series of movements to get to that point. He moved like an old man despite being in his mid-forties. “You want to know a secret? Most of us never get the life we want. My parents wanted me to be Ph.D. in some sort of highfalutin degree program. I ended up being a dirt-poor private detective because it’s the only thing I’m good at. It’s nowhere near the life I wanted, but it’s the life I got.”

 Tracy looked over to Duff with red-rimmed eyes. “What keeps you going?”

 Duff thought about it for a moment. He weighed a few option in his head before he declared, “Pure fucking spite.”

 “Really?”

 “Really.” Duff gestured toward the sky. “Look at that. You get more than a few miles up and we die without oxygen tanks or pressurization. Get out of this atmosphere, and we die. Seventy-something percent of this big, stupid rock is covered with water. We can’t breathe in that water. A lot of this planet is freezing cold. We die without the proper clothing and shelter. A lot of the planet is burning hot. We die there without shade and water. The parts of the planet that do adequately support human life have things like tornados, flash floods, hurricanes, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions.”

 “What are you getting at?”

 “I’m saying that since we evolved out of great primate ancestor as a minor surface annoyance to the planet, we’ve had to deal with the fact that Earth doesn’t want us here. It is constantly trying to kill us. Not only that, but we’re the only creature that understands that this grand failed experiment eventually ends. We have to live every day with the specter of death hanging over us and the knowledge that none of us truly knows what comes next. That’s a pretty heavy burden for a normal mind. That’s an even heavier burden for a mind that’s dealing with trauma. Believe me, lady, it never surprises me when someone chooses the easy road out. In fact, I’m surprised most of us don’t do it. This world is crazy.”

 “Then why haven’t you?”

 Duff looked around them. He shrugged. “Because it’s the only way I can flip middle fingers at the whole system. The system doesn’t want any of us here. The Earth is trying to kill us. The Universe is trying to kill us. We can’t live in the oceans. The atmosphere occasionally throws wind, arctic cold, and random bolts of electricity at us in an attempt to kill us, and we just keep going.” Duff raised his right arm to the sky and extended his middle finger at the dark blue-black heavens above them. “I’m still here because whatever runs this whole thing hasn’t figured out how to kill me yet. I keep living because by living, it means I’m outsmarting the big organism that continually tries to shuffle me off its mortal coil.”

 Tracy swallowed hard. It felt like there was a stone in her throat. It burned when she swallowed. “I don’t think I can go on, though.”

 “Why not?”

 “Because I just feel like I can’t. I can’t stand to see one more day. I don’t know why.”

 “If you don’t know, then you’ve got a mystery on your hands. You can’t quit life with a mystery to solve.”

 Tracy bit back a sob that tried to escape. “Spoken like a true detective.”

 “Spoken like a guy who has been where you are. Spoken like a guy who knows what you’re going through. I weighed it out. I did the math. Quitting Life is easy. For some people, maybe it’s the right thing to do. Emphasis on ‘maybe.’ Me? I want to piss Life off some more before I finally go. We get few enough precious spins around the Sun anyhow. It’ll be over before we know it. No need to end it early.”

 There was a long silence between them. Tracy let tears slide down her cheeks.

 “My ass hurts.” Duff listed to his right side and rubbed at his butt with his left hand.

 This made Tracy laugh. It was a short, barking laugh but it was still a laugh. “Was I being stupid?”

 “When you were rooting for the Cubs earlier? Absolutely.”

 She smiled. “No, dummy. I mean just now.”

 “There was a Superman comic some years ago where a girl was going to jump from a ledge. Superman told her if she honestly did not believe she would never again have another happy moment, then she should jump, and he would let her fall.”

 “Did he let her fall?”

 Duff shook his head. “She took his hand, and Sup’ got her the help she needed.”

 “So, I need help?”

 “We all need help.”

 “Even you?”

 Duff gave her a half-smile. “Especially me. I’m a fucking slow-motion train wreck.”

 Tracy got to her feet and walked back to the ledge. Her legs were unsteady. She felt sick and dizzy. She looked down at the sidewalk far below. “If I want to jump, will you let me?”

 Duff gestured at his bum ankle with his cane. “Look at me, lady. I’m half-crippled, obese, and slow. If you wanted to jump, you could be kissing pavement before I could get to my knees.” Duff made no move to get up. He laid his cane across his lap. “We are all creatures of free will. If you want to go, you’ll go. Maybe not now. Maybe not tomorrow. But, if you’re dead set on going, pardon the pun, no force on the planet could stop you.”

 “Not even you?”

 “Especially not me.”

 Tracy looked back at the sidewalk. Her eyes drifted up to some of the high-rises around them. People were living in those buildings. They were watching TV or sleeping. They were raising families. They were raising pets. They were learning new languages, or learning how to play guitar, or playing a PlayStation game they played too many times before because it was a comforting escape from reality.

 “Duff?”

 Duff did not answer. He knew she knew he was right there.

 “Duff, I think I want to go home.”

 Duff said nothing.

 Tracy turned around. The big man had somehow gotten up silently and was already limping away toward the elevator.

 “Did you hear me? I said I want to go home.”

 Duff stopped and turned to face her. “So go. Free will, remember. You’re a creature of choice, not habit.”

 “But, you—”

 Duff turned back toward the elevator. He kept going.

 Tracy was confused. She started to walk after him.

 “You’re wasting your time.” A voice from the door to the stairs stopped her cold. The bartender, the man they called Wheels, was standing in the doorway with two Chicago cops, a tall, Black man, and a shorter, stouter White woman.

 Tracy’s jaw hung open. “How long have you been there?”

 “Long enough.” Wheels jutted his chin toward Duff. “You’re wasting your time with him.”

 “Why? What? Where is he going?” Tracy was confused. “I thought he was concerned.”

 “He was, in his own way. He wouldn’t have followed you if he wasn’t.” Wheels walked over to Tracy and took her by the arm. He walked her toward the stairs leading her gently.

 “So, why did he leave?”

 “Because he’s Duff.”

 Tracy let herself be helped by the two police officers. The women took Tracy’s other arm. She spoke lowly to her, comforted her. The staircase was warmer than the top of the parking ramp. An ambulance came around the corner of the ramp and stopped at the staircase. Two EMTs got out. They had one of those silver foil thermal blankets and they wrapped it around Tracy while they helped her into the back of the unit. Tracy let them.

Wheels watched as the EMTs strapped her to the bed in the back of the truck. “Get better, okay?”

Tracy nodded. “Tell Duff I said thanks, will you?”

I will. He won’t care. But, I will.”

One EMT climbed into the back of the truck with Tracy. The other closed the doors and ran back to the driver’s seat. After a moment, the truck lurched forward and began the slow descent down the parking ramp.

Wheels watched from the top of the ramp until the truck was spat out the ramp’s exit. It drifted off into the night, red-and-white lights spinning on the roof rack, but no siren. In moments, it blended into the wash of lights and was gone.

    A fat guy with a cane limped back to his apartment. He stopped at the taqueria on the first story of his building and got three carne asada tacos to go. He climbed the stairs to his apartment slowly, using his good leg to propel himself up each step and dragging his weak ankle after like a dead weight. He stopped to rest twice, and in those rest periods, a taco met its fate.

Duff keyed the door to his apartment and limped into his room. There was no bed in his room, only a plush recliner. Duff flopped into the chair and popped the footrest. He turned on the TV. A MASH rerun was on. It wasn’t one of his favorite episodes—it was the one where Hawkeye and B.J. pretend to be nice to Frank—but it would do.

The next morning, when his business partner, Abe, would come into the office, Abe would ask Duff, “What did you do last night?”

Duff would answer, “I watched MASH.”

Abe would ask, “Is that all?”

 And Duff would answer, “Yep.”

--End--

If you liked this story, please check out the full-length novel THE SINGLE TWIN, available now on Amazon Kindle or at your favorite local independent bookstore.

https://www.amazon.com/Single-Twin-Abe-Duff-Mystery-ebook/dp/B0829D4F4L/