#or just wip garbage dump

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Old Scars, New Blood 5

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, manipulation, borderline bullying, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader has accepted that she’ll never be wanted, not only by the man she’s crushed on for years, but by anyone. That is until a new player enters the game. (f!, short!reader)

Character: Lloyd Hansen, Thor Odinson

Note: I hope you all have a great day.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

The rest of the drive is spent in silence, at least on your end. Lloyd chews loudly, licking his chops, and sucking his fingers loudly. The rose tint is tinged gray.

You pull into the compound and shift into park sharply. You don't move as you wait for Lloyd to get out. He wastes no time ditching you, letting out a shameless belch as he drops down onto the ground. The door snaps shut behind him and you huff.

You look over at the garbage left in his place. That's exactly where you belong. Right there with the trash.

You swipe up the crumple bag filled with wrappers and his half-finished soda. The keys jingle against the paper cup as you swipe your phone out behind you. You dump what's left of the espresso from your own cup and sheath it around the other.

You elbow the door shut and cross the dark grounds. The moon is a sliver that offers little light in the dark. You approach the doors and enter to the muted ruckus of voices and clinking bottles. Yet another night of debauchery. You don't know how Lloyd hasn't fallen right in with his guests.

You go to the kitchen and jam the bag and cups deep in the bin. You have half the mind to go through the fridge and get rid of all those meals you slaved over. Just like everything else, he'll spit it back in your face.

You flip open the door and stop yourself. No, no, he got the reaction he wanted, you're only shooting your own foot at this point. 

Your eyes center on a dark bottle with a silver label. Fuck it. You snatch the prosecco and swing the fridge shut.

You march back down the hall and ignore the din that seeps through from the dining room and various other doorways. You go upstairs to your room and close yourself in, letting the wood slam into the frame. You're not even mad at him, you're furious at yourself. Why can't you just accept it?

You drop the keys on the dresser, your phone too, and keep the bottle in hand. You untwist the wire around the cork and toss it aside. You push with your thumb until it pops and a fizzle escapes the long neck. 

You watch the wisp that rises and you gulp straight from the bottle. You cringe as your eyes water from bubbles and the stringently sweet wine floods your mouth. You gulp until you can't anymore. A quarter of the bottle down, you plunk it on the nightstand and let it sink into your veins.

You undress lazily and leave your clothes on the floor. You don't give a fuck. For one night, you just don't want to think. Hell, if you drink enough, you might just do something real stupid.

You grab the bottle and carry it into the bathroom. As you bend over to twist the faucet, the wine creeps into your brain, hazing your vision in warmth. You pull the lever for the stopper and slowly push yourself straight.

You lean on the porcelain and take another swig. You pop your mouth off the rim and lift one leg, then the other. You ease into the tub, splashing slightly as the water flows higher and higher.

You lean your head back, resting the bottle against the edge as you grip it tight. The ripples around you and beneath the skin and numb the ache in your chest. You close your eyes, drinking without thinking, guzzling until your stomach is full and the tub is nearly full.

You lay as you are, basking in the heat of the water. You could fall asleep right there. Just drift beneath the surface.

That thought jerks you awake. You sit up, dizzy, and get to your knees clumsily. You reach over the side to clunk the bottle onto the tile. You flip the stopper and lift yourself.

You get out, feet crashing onto the bathmat. You cling to the tub and take a breath. You reach for the bar and drag the towel off. You don't feel too bad, just a bit unsteady.

You wrap yourself up and teeter as you bend to grab the bottle. You clamber towards the door. You nudge it all the way open with your elbow.

As you enter the room, you stagger to a halt. You don't expect the figure sitting on your bed, watching you enter as he faces the bathroom door. You blink and squeeze the bottle tighter. 

You're buzzed. No, you're drunk.

You skin singes with self-awareness. Not only of the alcohol that dulls your mind but of the single piece of fabric around you.

“It's not healthy to drink alone,” Thor grins, a paper crinkles between his fingers, “or other things.”

He shows the slip of paper and you shake your head. He clicks his tongue and squints at it, “didn't take you for a cherry girl.”

“Huh?” You tilt your head, confused until you recall hastily hiding away the receipt in your pants. Fuck.

“I don't really use lube myself. Don't need it,” he reaches to drop the paper on the night table.

“What are you…” you clamp your lips shut as a hiccup rises. You swallow it and sway. 

“I don't make promises I don't keep, “ he stands, towering over you as he comes closer.

“You… it was a joke, wasn't it?” You babble dumbly.

“Why would I joke about that?” He stops before you and wraps his hand around the bottle, “mm, not much for bubbly,” he wiggles it free and swiftly empties what's left before examining the empty bottle, “how was your little business trip, eh?”

You frown and cross your arms over the top of the towel, “why are you here?” You ask again.

“I told you–”

“No, why… why did you come here? He hates you.”

“I got that sense of him,” Thor chortles, “doesn't bother me much.” He backs away and sets the bottle on the receipt, “I'm here to play with him. Have a bit of fun. However, he's not as amusing as I hoped. But you…”

“I…” you shake your head, “I'm drunk. I need to lay down.”

“Happily,” he winks as he reaches for you.

You sidle away, “please, I…” you swallow and your eyes flit around, “I can't–”

“Because of him? You’re wasting your time,” he latches onto your hand and draws it away from your chest, “he doesn't deserve you, little lamb.”

“I don't… it isn't because of him…”

“You're a poor liar,” he tuts, “shouldn't take your lessons from him.”

“Stop,” you try to tug away.

“You don't know what you need,” he drags you towards the bed, “it isn't him.”

“Please,” you whimper.

“You don't need to be nervous, I can be nice, kitten,” he purrs as he yanks you against him.

“I can't–” you squeak into a yelp as the towel falls away from your body, “Thor, please–”

“Louder,” he swiftly picks you up with his hands on your ass. 

You writhe against him as he spins and falls with you onto the mattress. It bounces under you and you nearly choke on your tongue. You slap his chest as he leans over you and smothers your mouth with his.

You close your eyes as they tingle and you dig your nails into the fabric of his shirt. You whimper and feel around with your other hand as he kneads your ass. You're overcome by his brusqueness. More so, you can't handle the touch, the way his hot breath consumes you, and that flicker on your core that has the vision of another flashing in your mind.

You turn your head and let out a croak as your tears leak out, “I can't,” you whine, “you're right, okay? I want him. I'm a stupid girl that wants someone like him.”

You bring your hand up to shield your face as he lifts himself on his elbow. He hovers over you as you devolve into sobs, “I'm pathetic.”

“Shhhh,” the soft stroke along your cheek startles you, “little kitty,” he slithers, “shhh.”

He shifts and comes down to his side. He slips his arm under your neck as you curl up, trying to disappear. He rolls you towards him so your face is against his shoulder. He pets your head as he holds you.

“Oh, little one,” he cooes, “it hurts now… but I can make it so much better.”

He stays like that, embracing you as you quake in your despair. You keep your face buried against his shirt as his thick muscles fill you with a sense of security. His other hand rests on your hip but does not wander.

Heaviness drapes over you and your body slowly slackens. The wine dulls your nerves and swirls in your head. You feel yourself spiraling and quickly fade into the void.

❤️‍🩹

Your brow twitches and your nose itches. You nearly smack yourself as you throw your hand up and groan. The effort makes you wince.

Ugh, hungover. It's been a while.

You bend your leg and the blanket falls away to uncover your naked thigh. You frown and peek down as you lift the blanket. No clothes. You blanch and lay back, trying to summon the memories of the previous night.

The buzzing of the shower draws your attention away from your internal search. Along with the thrum is the deep baritone singing a song you've never heard. You blink, long and hard, and push yourself up.

Your heart feels as if it's stopped beating. Your breath catches and you look around the room. There's clothing hung over the chair in the corner. Men's clothes.

Oh god.

You wouldn't…

As the melody carries, slightly offkey, you recognise the singer. Thor. Oh. Oh no.

You curl your fingers against the mattress, barely able to hold yourself up. You remember the bath and then him waiting and him on top of you but everything else is gone. How can you not remember? 

A pit plunges down to your stomach. No, you're not like that. You've held out all these years…

Well, how many chances did you really get?

The shower cranks off and you gulp, hugging the blanket against your chest as you sidle around to the edge of the bed. You can hear him moving around, humming. You don't know what to do.

As the door opens, you try to think of what to say. Hi, good morning, what the heck happened last night?

You're speechless as he emerges butt naked. Brazen as he has himself on full display. Full display.

You snap your mouth shut as he uses a towel to dry his hair and winks as he drops it down to wrap his waist. 

“Morning, kitten,” he growls, “you seem chipper.”

You try to talk but can only cough. You reach to touch your throat and rub the lump free, “Thor, what… last night…” your voice cracks with each syllable.

“Ha, you think we…” he lets the suggestion dangle and scoffs.

You nod. Of course, he's all bluster. He wouldn't actually want you.

“When it happens, you will remember it,” he taunts, “I like to build up to sleep fucking.”

Your jaw falls open, “Thor…”

“Besides, if anything had happened, you would remember it.”

“I…” you flutter your lashes, “I should–”

“Well here you are,” he knots the towel around his waist, “lucid…”

“...get dressed,” you complete your previous threat.

You stand but he blocks you easily. He catches your shoulders and urges you back. Your legs hit the mattress and you sit, unable to fight his strength.

“Now?” You squeak.

He rumbles with laughter as his hands trail down your arms, “just a taste. To pep me up for the day.”

“Uhhh,” your voice rolls out senselessly as his hand crawls over the blanket and he tugs it. You cling to it desperately. 

He snarls and yanks up the bottom, tossing it over his head as he seizes your thighs beneath. You yelp as he bows and pulls your legs apart. You lose hold of the blanket and it rumples at your waist as you catch yourself on the heels of your hands.

You wriggle and try to resist him as his head pokes up beneath the blankets. He has you leaning back on your arms as he pulls your legs over his shoulders. You lift a hand and slap his head as you realise what he's about to do.

Too late.

Your hand falls against his head as his hot breath tingles along your thighs. His cool tongue slips between your folds and you gasp, electricity coursing through you. Oh!

You let out a pathetic noise as you push futilely on his head, still writhing as he nuzzles further into you. His large tongue spreads wide and he flicks it up over your clit. You spasm and yipe in surprise at another zing.

“Thor,” you breathe.

He pulls back for just an instant, “louder, kitten, can't hear you under here.”

He dives back in and the bed bounces as you jolt. You try to smack him again but only urge him. You gasp and quiver helplessly, toes curling and legs tingling. What do you do?

Oh god, what can you do? This is better than any toy you got hidden in your nightstand. This is an actual man. It's real and it feels so good.

He wraps his arms around your legs and rips you down onto your back as he lifts your pelvis higher. He hums into you and it ripples up to your chest. You hiss and slap the bed as lay defeated.

“Ohhhhh,” you drone out as you succumb to the delightful swirls.

He growls and your breath hitches. He turns his head, just for a moment, and nips your thigh, “louder…”

You mewl and utter his name. It's as much a plea for him to keep going as it is for him to stop. He laps at you again and you cry out. That seems to fuel his fervour as he suckles at you eagerly. 

Your voice rises without your permission. Your whines burst from you as you claw at the blanket and squirm. You can't hold back. It's more than just that moment, it's years of waiting, of wanting.

You don't care that it's not who you wanted. You don't care if anyone else hears. You can't think straight enough for any of that as you call out Thor’s name, bucking your hips desperately into an orgasm.

[obsidiangravity]

Nikto Gets A Cat

I saw this lovely artwork by @quimera-cami and it possessed me to drop all other WIP to write this.

Summary - Spetsnaz are tasked with guarding a remote location. Can’t ask for a simpler operation really. The only downside for Nikto is having to endure the stifling presence of his teammates. Maintaining what’s left of his sanity in such a tiny house is an exhausting challenge, but at least they all get their own sleeping quarters.

Until Rodion returns from a weekly grocery run with a companion.

Word count - 3.9k

Tags - Fluff, Alcohol, Nikto being nice.

It’s no secret to the closest people in Nikto’s life that he despises cats.

The incessant calls for attention. The hair that seems to overrun everything one owns. Their need to mark and ruin upholstery. His disdain for those common house pets are seen as irrational. Perhaps it's a childhood trauma long forgotten, the unsavoury memories regarding these animals locked away in the dark corners of his mind.

But he disagrees. The extreme hatred is warranted. How could it not? What do they provide other than misery and annoyance. He’s grateful to have been spared the torment of living around one since he joined the military over a decade ago.

So the man is rendered temporarily speechless and imobile when Rodion calls out from behind him on the armchair, “Look at what I found outside the supermarket!” and five kilograms of hissing fluff and fury is dumped on his thighs. 

The feline snarls and bares its teeth at the person that dropped it. Long razor-sharp claws dig into Nikto’s flight suit, poking his skin.

He winces, gaze narrowing at the youngest Russian. “What the fuck is this?”

“Mm, it’s a cat,” Rodion mumbles over a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie as he searches for the TV remote and brushes stray crumbs onto the ground. It makes Nikto’s fingers twitch. “Siberian I think?”

Dmitry looks up from his task of chopping potatoes in the scantily sized kitchen, amusement ghosting the corner of his eyes. “Oh, it could be, but they are usually a little bigger, no?”

The cat, in a blur of unruly fur, launches itself off Nikto's lap, nails screeching and scraping the wooden floorboards as it skitters across like one of those rats caught out in the light in this shithole of a house. In a second, the creature vanishes behind a doorway to a bedroom. The one belonging to Maxim.

Rodion clucks his tongue. “Well, someone tell Maxim he has a new roommate when he’s back from patrol.”

An acidic scowl is hidden behind his balaclava when Nikto notices the strands of hair and filth left on his uniform. “Are you soft in the head? Why did you bring it here?”

“Saw her scavenging in the garbage as I was about to return. I couldn’t just leave her there.”

“Get rid of it, or I will shoot it.” His voice low and coarse. It is the only response Nikto gives before he stands up, readying to leave for a shift change with Maxim.

Nikto returns twelve hours later after a quiet night, slips out of his worn leather boots to find his single bed occupied.

The feline saw fit to curl up on it and rub dirt on his clean white blankets and pillows. Of course it would be in here, his room is the only empty one.

He’s able to get a better look at it as it sleeps. Dust clings to its matted and tangled cream-coloured fur. Its scrawny figure and ribs are barely concealed by its thick coat. Thin, elegant, almost silver whiskers a contrast to the extremely bushy unkempt tail.

Three small lines of scar run from its right cheek to its velvet-like ear. This is no pampered house pet, it may have been once, however those times were long gone.

He lightly shoos the cat away. It startles from peaceful sleep and hisses, tries to gouge his hand with the tiny daggers on its fingertips, but ultimately scampers off and hides under the bed.

Nikto sighs, long and drawn out. Questioning if he should bother using the back of his rifle like a stick to force it out of his room. He reaches for it, then decides it’s not worth potentially hurting himself from an accidental discharge.

He flips the switch off and collapses on the mattress.

~~~

He wakes up before everyone else again, the sun heating his face through the dusty window. Nikto blinks against the early morning rays and stretches his stiff muscles with a content groan. His toes collide with something furry and soft, and that brief moment of peaceful serenity is disrupted by a sharp scratch to his bare calf.

The half asleep man jerks away from the sting — accidently rolling off the bed. A shoulder and knee takes the full brunt of the fall and the greater pain jolts him fully awake, a “Blyat,” escaping his scarred lips.

The feral animal dashes around the small room, emerald eyes wide, fangs showing and claws unsheath. It howls and arches its back as it realises its trapped between the closed door and him.

Nikto scrambles to his feet, swearing a string of colourful curses that echo against the concrete walls. His jaw tightens. He wonders if he can turn the doorknob to kick it outside without being inflicted with any more injuries.

Goosebumps form on his arms when a deep rumble emits from it, as if it’s charging up an attack. He eyes the AK-47 propped against the wall on the other side of the room. Of course the one time he leaves a firearm out of reach is when he needs it most.

Tentatively, he takes a step forward and in a whirlwind, the infernal creature resumes its frantic scrambling.

It throws itself up onto the bed, rumpling the messy sheets further and jumps on his nightstand. In its rampage of destruction, it knocks the full bottle of vodka over.

It shatters loudly on the oak floor. Large and tiny shards of glass scatter in all directions as the liquid seeps through the planks.

Nikto, who is usually able to repress his anger and known for his stoic composure, lets his vision go red and a roar of unrestrained rage erupts.

He will gut this mangy stray then dump its entrails on Rodion for putting him through this. He has done far worse for less.

The bedroom door creaks open and Devil Incarnate finally dashes out.

A dishevelled Maxim peeks his head and a broad shoulder in, sleep clouding his eyes. “Can you not make so much fucking noise this early?” Then his gaze shifts to the spilled alcohol and groans. “You’re not wasting anymore of the vodka again,” he says and slams the door shut with a resounding thud before Nikto could redirect his fury at him.

He is left to simmer in the aftermath and he swears to drag Rodion’s face across the broken glass if that imbecile doesn’t clean this up.

~~~

It seems an illness has overtaken his comrades.

With its fur clean and brushed, they dote on the cat at every chance it decides to show itself. Regal grace that laid beneath the grime is now allowed to shine. It moves with the arrogance that all cats possess as it struts around the house.

“Oh, what a cute kitten.”

“Look at its shiny gemstone eyes! What a pretty girl.”

Running their fingers through the fur as they coo and play with it. All three of them mull over what to name it. As if it’s a newborn baby and they’re first time parents.

“How about Mishka?” Dmitry asks as he strokes its back. “Look at its silky coat! Nikto, you have to feel this.”

Maxim scratches his stubble. “I prefer Nina.”

“Satan,” Nikto offers, gaze not leaving his book.

“It’s a girl,” Rodion’s faraway voice interjects from the bedroom.

“Baba Yaga.”

“Doesn’t really suit her… Princess?” Maxim suggests.

Nikto flicks to the next page. “Gluttony.”

“I think Anastasia fits this beauty.”

“Garbage Eater.”

That night, he pulls the covers over him with the feline nowhere in sight.

But dawn finds that yet again the whiskered intruder found its way onto the bed near his feet.

Less scratching and hissing this time. He’s able to expel it with only an attempted swat at his arm and minimal destruction. No caterwauls of wildness, or pointed teeth and claws tearing at his blankets thankfully.

~~~

They take pictures and record videos of the nuisance doing the most inane drivel and send them to each other, including Nikto. As if he can’t see the damned cat himself. At this rate, they would probably snap an image of its excrements and praise it for defecating outside by the end of the week.

The cat takes the greatest liking to Dmitry. It’s no mystery why. Twirling about his legs for food at all hours of the day that it’s not sleeping.

And the meowing.

It doesn’t shut up. Always whining, always mewling. Like an alarm siren demanding more and more meals.

The short period where it is not doing that, usually when one of the Bale brothers has the little gremlin on their lap, massaging the soft fur around its ears  — it purrs loudly. Impeccably imitating a broken lawnmower.

Nikto has no trouble tolerating most discomforts — the filthiness of a barracks, the lack of sleep during a long operation, numbness from the biting cold of Russian winters. He would endure all of it again over this.

Nobody else seems to be agitated by it. Madness has infected everyone but him. No longer can Nikto read a book or relax with a good bottle of vodka in peace. He enjoyed his lone shifts a little more than the rest of the team before. Solitude is always freeing. 

Now, it’s his only solace for true rest.

His equipment, his bed, the whole house, is filled with stray strands of fur. Irritating his nostrils and ruining his clothes. He briefly considers murdering the cat and the idiot that brought it home when he finds a nonhuman hair in his half eaten soup.

The last straw that solidifies their insanity to him is when the living embodiment of chaos vomits a wet furball on the sofa.

They will throw the cat out now for sure. Nikto has no doubts about it.

Except, that does not happen.

They did not throw the cat out.

They mutter words of comfort and pat it on the back, cleans up the mess and offers it a treat.

Nikto occasionally catches the feline watching him from some dimly lit corner. A spark of intelligence in its big round eyes. As if it secretly taunts him, before prowling away.

The following night, he scours his room, getting on all fours to check under his creaking bed frame. His bloodshot eyes strains against the darkness and finds only dust bunnies. No furry form with a demonic glint in its jade irises. Satisfied, he switches off the light and crawls in, the chill of the night seeps through the small crack in the window.

Yet, come morning, the relentless animal inhabits his sheets, purring with satisfaction.

It amazes him that it is able to burrow up so close as he slept again — with him being none the wiser, considering how much of a light sleeper he is. Nikto makes a mental note to seal the window. Clearly the sliver of opening for fresh air is too much to ask for.

He lets out a bone weary sigh, running a hand over his scarred face and rubs his temple. It can stay for now.

It’s not being overtly infuriating. It barely takes up any space. The man observes its sleek fur shining almost golden in the sunlight. Is it as soft as they all say it is?

He reaches for it, his fingers lightly brushes its tail and it lets out a groan of discontent, hopping off the bed, onto the windowsill. It slinks away, landing on the bushes outside.

Nikto watches the raised fluffy tail disappear past the treeline and he pushes the pane fully shut with a resounding snap for tonight.

“She’s nearly done with her moult,” Dmitry comments as he sweeps the tumbleweeds of fur out the front door. There are clumps of it stuck on foliage, mixing with the twigs and leaves.

It’s visually revolting.

When asked why he doesn't simply throw it in the trash, Dmitry says it makes the birds happy to use it for their nests. 

Birds don’t nest this close to winter, you moron. Nikto would have loved to retort, only, he realises he doesn’t have the energy for it anymore.

The one upside to the neverending mountain of inconveniences is there seems to be a decrease of rat sightings inside. Perhaps, it’s not as lazy as Nikto originally thought.

He scowls at the empty packet of potato chips left by Rodion on the coffee table. The cat is now far from being the most useless individual in the house.

He lies awake in his bed, watching the shadows of the tree branch right outside his window dance on the wall as the wind jostles it. Sleep has trouble taking him like most days.

As he is about to drift into unconsciousness, an ear grating yowl echoes in the living room through the walls, loud enough to wake the dead.

Nikto huffs and rolls onto his stomach.

It continues. The sounds of the kitchen’s trash can being rummaged and the occasional meow of discontent prevents him from dozing off.

He’s determined to ignore it, maybe yell at someone else to feed it but realises it’s probably useless. Dmitry can sleep through a bombing. Maxim is likely comatose from drinking and nothing less than a gunshot will wake him.

He sits up, fingers reaching for his balaclava, fully intending to throw some biscuits in its food bowl so it can leave him alone.

The moment he pries open the door, the feline sprints in and beelines underneath his mattress.

Nikto narrows his eyes, tired brain is slow to process what exactly occurred. A defeated exhale leaves his lips and pushes his door shut, returning to bed.

He has grown to expect the cat to claim the territory beside his left foot and is careful not to nudge it come morning.

~~~

Frantic scratching on worn oak is like fingernails on a chalkboard, agitating Nikto's taut nerves. It wasn't just the sound, but the urgency behind it.

He’s not the only person home, someone else can let it out.

He tries to ignore it and focus on his task. Cleaning firearms is a silent and soothing experience. It helps to clear his mind when he needs it most.

The scraping intensifies.

Nikto unclenches his jaw — gently places down the bolt carrier and oil stained cloth, and stands up.

Boots thudding on the floor as he marches to the source of the noise. 

The cat paws at the front door and wails. Wanting to be let out. It looks at Nikto as he turns the corner. Its face saying, please I need to leave.

I need to leave right now.

He unlatches the steel lock and pulls the door open. The feline hesitates, its miniature nose twitching, testing the cool air and the scents wafting in.

Frosty blue irises flash in anger. “You wanted to leave? Then go!” His free hand gestures to the open space outside.

Seconds stretch into a minute.

It stands there. Peering outside. Then, with a flick of its tail, turns and walks away, returning to its favourite spot on the kitchen counter by the window.

Nikto watches it, a mixture of confusion and realisation settling in his chest. It gives him a side eye that speaks volumes before it lays down and gazes out the glass.

He had served this creature. Catered to her whims. Ungratefulness aside, he feels used.

~~~

Nikto leaves for his shift just like any other night. Familiar weight of his rifle in one hand. Vodka in the other. Stars glittering in the sky.

He settles down at his usual spot in the outpost overlooking the area he’s meant to guard. As he’s about to peel back the fabric of his mask to take a sip, a crunch of dry leaves alerts him to a presence not too far from his left.

Drink forgotten, muscle memory and instincts take over, he raises his gun in the direction of the intruder. Two glowing orbs look back at him, and then an inquisitive meow.

Low and behold, it’s Garbage Eater.

Exasperation washes over him. He lowers his firearm and stares at it.

The cat saunters up to his feet, rubbing its face on his boots.

Nikto silently grieves his allotted hours of privacy robbed away and sits back down. How did it even follow him? He was not as alert as he usually is compared during a mission, but for it to have not been detected since he left the house is a feat.

Surprisingly, it keeps a respectable distance. Choosing to lick its hand an arms length away.

He finally gives in. The Russian reaches out to run a hand over its back. A throaty groan of protest erupts.

Nikto stops. Fair enough. He doesn’t like being touched either.

As the night deepens, he offers little bits of chicken from his food container while they sit in tranquil company together. He will never admit to it if asked, but the presence of decent companionship is something he craves. Dmitry is pleasant and respectful, however he can be a little too worried more often than not. That man is not subtle. Nikto catches every glance of concern, every time his lips pull into a hard line.

Animals don’t do that. They don’t have any questions of his mental state barely held back on the tips of their tongues.

Sometimes when it gets too quiet, his thoughts can be overwhelming. Fragmented memories from his past come slithering back. Lately, he has been unable to keep them at bay.

Every now and then, a new door opens, and he often doesn’t like what comes out of it.

Maybe it senses his mood, or maybe it’s just cold, it inches closer to sit beside him for the remainder of the shift. Its green eyes full of concern.

When they return to the house together, the cat doesn’t have to sneak into his bedroom.

~~~

Tiny gifts in the form of dead rats are deposited in his quarters every so often. He could dispose of it normally, but he throws them into Rodion’s room. It grants Nikto a small bit of satisfaction whenever a screech of disgust sounds throughout the house, usually after that man returns from his shift.

A week passes and Nikto wakes up with a feather duster-like object in his face.

It seems that the cat, perhaps emboldened in the darkness, gained some courage and moved upwards long past midnight. She sneaked up close beside his chest as he was sleeping. Her padded foot, soft and warm, rests against his bicep with an easy pressure, tail tickling his cheeks.

She had stuck to the end of his mattress every day before this.

Her forehead nudges his hand, seeking contact, and she rubs her long whiskers against his open palm.

Sundown arrives sooner, the days grow colder and Nikto quickly discovers she likes to be squashed by his arm.

The cat blinks and carefully leaps over him to situate herself in the small space between him and the wall. She sniffs Nikto’s hand curiously and rubs her cheeks against it before rolling into a ball. He buries his fingers into her soft fur and closes his eyelids.

He knows she only pursues his company for his warmth. He doesn’t mind it. His nail traces patterns in her coat and she stretches languidly. Maybe it's not just her seeking him. Maybe he craves the physical touch too.

It has been too long, he realises, since he has hugged another living thing. To feel the pulsing of a heartbeat against his fingertips. It is not so bad afterall.

The even vibration of her purrs lulls him to a dreamless slumber.

He hears the rhythmic clacking of claws on the hardwood floor before the cat jumps onto the armrest. She puts a gentle paw on Nikto’s forearm and meows.

Nikto hums, the words of his fantasy novel momentarily blurring. “What do you need this time?” he grumbles.

Everyone else left ten minutes ago, a rarity. He has plans to finish this book today.

Unfazed by his hollow annoyance, she steps onto his lap and does a few circles before settling down.

He shifts in his chair, trying to find a position that’s more comfortable for them both. “I’m reading a story, do you want to hear it?”

She looks at him knowingly and yawns. Nikto clears his throat, he begins reading with a soft voice that feels unfamiliar, it has been a long time since he last used this tone.

At some point, her eyes drift close and her breathing deepens, yet he continues.

Nikto couldn't help but see the similarities they share. They both exude an independence born out of necessity. He runs a calloused thumb over her old scars. They’re both survivors. No other person he met has understood it truly. Though with the way she regards him, the reserved man thinks she might.

~~~

Nikto takes the last bottle of Five Lakes on a hunt with him before Maxim could — he can have whatever slop is left.

It’s been years since he had hunted, nevertheless, he still remembers how to track deer and rabbits.

Gloved hand securely clutching the cool glass, he ventures further east.

People argue that vodka isn't for taste. Nikto disagrees. 

He values the smooth, barely detectable flavour, a welcomed change to the generic liquor he usually endured on duty. To him, the subtle burn is appreciated. He doesn’t think his alcoholic comrade can tell the difference.

It’s not that he can’t handle the harsh taste, he would simply rather get drunk with a minimal amount of hangover.

He’s not surprised when he hears the rustle of grass and the well-accustomed to call of his four legged companion behind him after he crouches down to inspect the gnawed on vegetation.

She trots up, her sleek form brushing against his thighs and investigates the leaves, sniffing it with a delicate nose.

“Can you hunt rabbits as well as rats?”

She flicks a ear and chirps in response.

Nikto takes that as a yes.

Undeterred by the distant rumble of thunder above, they proceed further, the sparse canopy offers little protection as tiny droplets soon begin to rain down upon them.

Eventually, the soil grows too damp for her liking and she tries scaling up his leg, tips of her claws latching on to his thigh muscle through the thick fabric.

She advances quickly, her pointed nails has no trouble finding purchase on the straps and gear tied to him. Nikto hisses and grips her to his chest with his forearm before she can make it any higher.

She calms instantly, feeling secured in his solid hold.

The mild drizzle subsides quickly, leaving the forest dripping and smelling of fresh earth. However the once stray Siberian forest cat has no desire to return to the damp ground.

He purses his lips and takes a deep breath. “Fine.”

He can’t use his hunting rifle with one hand and he refuses to let her on his shoulders. Daylight is about to leave anyway. Won’t be a terrible decision to return.

As the sun dips below the horizon, dousing the hills with the warm colour of fire, Nikto observes the sky and settles on the grass, Garbage Eater curling up on his lap in content silence — he thinks that having a pet cat isn’t the worst thing in the world.

[janrockart]

Do you have any other social media where you publish your wips and sketches beside twitter? It is currently banned I'm my country and the only thing I am missing is your wips and sketches.

Hey! I haven't been posting sketches anywhere else than twitter so far, and honestly it's only because twitter feels like a garbage dump that's so suitable for hosting terrible scribbles. As weird as it sounds, I've been preferring my tumblr and bluesky to be more consistent and focused on completed works. But since twitter has been steadily going tits up, Brazil fiasco included, I might have to reconsider. I just wish those other social platforms took off for me a bit better in time, before twitter goes full truth social and everybody I know and like there collectively leaves.

[heartfulselkie]

Pick a bunch of your WIPs and summarize them as badly as possible, then ask your followers to vote on which one they'd be most likely to read. Multiple/all/none options are completely optional.

Thank you for the tag @bittersweetresilience 💗 I think all my usual people have already been tagged by now lol

Consider this an open invite for anyone else who wants to do this!

[stabbyfoxandrew]

I love all your stories so much!!! Can I please request Vampdrew this week?

WIP Wednesday (5/22)| Vampire Andrew AU (Part 133)

If he were some sort of disgusting pervert, Andrew could use his powers for evil. He could listen to exactly what Kevin’s thinking and doing and store it in his memory for later. Or he could jump into Kevin’s head for a front row seat. But he’s not. He’s a… sort of decent person.

So he tries his best to ignore it. Until he hears a choked off version of his name that he can’t ignore. It makes his own blood— or the squirrels’ blood, he supposes— rush through his veins to heat his face. And thank fuck no one can hear his thoughts.

“— I could hose you off in the yard.” Aaron offers suddenly, making Andrew’s head snap towards him. What the fuck was that? Twin telepathy?

“Pardon?” Andrew asks, raising a brow. He knows Aaron can’t hear what he’s thinking. And he knows he didn’t react, visibly at least so what…

Aaron gives him a strange look. “I said if Kevin is going to take six weeks in the shower, I can rinse you off outside. It was just a joke, calm down.”

“Oh. That won’t be necessary,” Andrew says. Kevin is… done. And his shower is about to be. Andrew waits for the water to cut off, for the sound of a towel rustling over wet skin, then he heads for the bathroom.

He knocks once, then through the door says, “Hey. Get out.”

Kevin’s thoughts freeze, mirroring the way all his muscles just locked up. And he swallows before saying, “Andrew?”

“I need to use the shower, if you don’t mind. This is my house, after all,” Andrew reminds him. After a beat, the lock clicks and Kevin opens the door wrapped in a towel with his clean clothes held against his chest.

“I’ll… Get dressed out here, I guess,” He says, his face reddened. Whether by embarrassment or the hot water, Andrew can’t tell. ‘Oh my God. Did you— Um. I thought you would be gone longer. I didn’t—’

“Hear what?” Andrew asks, feigning ignorance and holding up bloodied hands. “I just got back. I need to take care of this.”

“Oh, okay,” Kevin lets out a breath of relief and steps to the side, letting Andrew pass him. Fuck, he smells good. His natural scent mixes well with his shower gel and the post-orgasm endorphins add a little something Andrew wants to taste. But he can’t do that right now. He shuts the door between them and strips himself, dumping his shirt into the garbage can to deal with later. Then he steps into the shower and finds himself half hard.

[inkovert]

haven't been on here in any capacity in months and can't guarantee I won't disappear again but just wanted to hop on to dump some feelings that have cropped up lately into a post.

First, let me say that I love my story. it means the world to me. Additionally, I am fairly confident in my abilities as a writer (not saying that I don't occasionally get insecure like everyone else, but I'm past the early stages of my writing journey where I look at everything I put into words and think it's a flaming pile of garbage. I am confident that I am a competent writer and am generally good at what I do). But I'm starting to realize those two ingredients aren't enough to keep me going.

We're always bombarded with posts that say "write for yourself!" and "don't seek validation from others!" and "write what you want to write!". And, trust me, I am doing all those things. But that doesn't mean it's enough or that it solves everything. As much as I love my story/characters, and as passionate as I am about one day turning this WIP into a novel, it's SO easy to just...stop writing, despite all that. Because without some form of a reminder as to why I'm doing this or who I'm doing it for (outside of myself), it makes me question like...why bother putting words on paper for no one to see them? If I'm truly just creating for myself and myself alone, why not just leave my ideas and characters and plots in my head and day dream about them indefinitely to my hearts content? Some may immediately read that and think: it's to improve your writing skills, that's why! But after writing for years and years on end, it's pretty hard to expect to continue to linearly or exponentially improve in isolation. At the end of the day, some form of feedback is necessary for you to continue to improve - which brings us right back to square 1.

Anyway, all that is to say, I'm finding it hard to find a reason to keep writing lately. And even if I dangle the nebulous goal of publication in front of me....I'm a student living off of a stipend, and it's going to take several years for me to have the financial means to achieve that goal. So once again I find myself wondering...what's the point?

[reyesstrand]

wip wednesday

thank you so much for the tags @paperstorm @carlos-in-glasses @freneticfloetry @alrightbuckaroo @birdclowns @theghostofashton @tailoredshirt @strandnreyes @inflarescent @welcometololaland <33333

“So, obviously, the toast is a no-go,” TK says, once they’ve pulled out of their hug, dumping the burnt bread into the garbage under the sink and wiping the crumbs from his palms, “but we’ve still got free reign of dad’s fridge.”

He’s learned after years under his father’s roof, both at home and at work, how to make his penchant for organic ingredients and low-carb alternatives into something palatable. Some of it came from his mom, some of it came from the guys at the firehouse he grew up with, some of it came from his own trial and error.

Carlos is even better at it, and it’s a fun pastime: putting together a meal, laughing with each other, kissing each other, and distracting each other—with smudges of flour smeared onto cheekbones and licking sauce or juice off of fingers. They did it a lot, in the few times TK convinced Carlos to stay over, before they realized how much easier it would be at the townhouse; how making a space their own meant loving louder, and brighter, and without hesitation. It’s something TK’s been craving; something he thinks would do the early work of patching over some of the open wounds Carlos won’t admit to carrying around.

He feels his smile fade when he turns from the fridge and sees Carlos quickly school his expression into something emotionless, casual, as he leans against the kitchen island. His voice is distant as he tells TK: “Whatever you want, babe.”

TK frowns, and steps closer to his boyfriend. “I want you to be here with me.”

It might be a bit much, to throw Carlos’ words back at him, he doesn’t know. Carlos just frowns.

TK smooths his thumb over the crewneck collar of Carlos’ shirt. He steps even closer, and drops his voice. “Talk to me, baby.”

Carlos seems to consider him again, before he sighs and stares down at the ground. They’re mirrors of grief and lingering pain in every way, even down to their mismatched socks. Carlos turns away and reaches for a pair of mugs in the cupboard, and sets them down as he measures out coffee grounds and hot water.

“I hate that I couldn’t protect you,” Carlos admits, like it burns, as he stares at the steady drip drip drip of the coffee from the pour-over maker Owen had kept in the midst of packing and unpacking Gwyn’s belongings. TK turns and watches Carlos, and notes the clenched muscle of his jaw as he unravels more now that he’s started. “I hate that we lost our safety, I hate that we lost our things, and I hate that I can’t just…make it go away.”

“Baby, I don’t expect you to,” TK tells him, stroking his thumb over Carlos’ wrist. “You can’t expect that out of yourself, either.”

getting to this late in the day so i’ll leave an open tag—if you’re working on something and want to share, tag me so i can see! <3

[ap0stle]

WIP questionnaire tag game

THANK U FOR THE TAG @astramachina

umm the wip in question is TMNTDT aka Tell Me Not to Do This aka teenage mutant ninja turtle...dookie time

What’s the first part of your WIP that you created?

oough that was back in like... 2016? 2014? and i started with the first chapter right away which ended up being the fourth chapter and then became Nothing At All because i have wrecked this thang beyond recognition <3

If your story was a TV show, what would the theme song/intro be?

definitely Burn a Church by Coma Cinema bc it's been in my mock-soundtrack playlist for years and fits the vibes really well :3 the playlist in question is kind of a mess and old as hell but i'll link that too just in case ^_^

What are your favorite characters that you made? Why?

curtis definitely, i think i get caught up on the details of everyone but he is the most wholly developed and also umm. very similar to me so i love him dearly. he is the worst.

What other pieces of media do you think your fanbase would share?

if you like weird indie movies about young mentally unwell people that may or may not be queer and/or on da spectrum... you will enjoy my garbage and such movies as I Am Not a Serial Killer, As You Are, Super Dark Times, etc. ALSO magnus archives fans maybe bc of the whole Mold Cult thing that is still under development

What has been your biggest struggle with your WIP?

settling on a format was and is still my number one struggle lol. i have switched between a book, comic, videogame, screenplay, website... i have like 50000 drafts scattered across different websites and applications and if this thing ever comes to life i think i will actually fucking ascend

Are there any animals in your story? Talk about them!

ssssssssssort of. there are a lot of dead animals. and fungi. and mold. there have been some minor pet ideas thrown around for the more. Safe Environment characters but for the time being no actual lovable creatures :/ maybe eventually!

How do your characters travel/get around?

Juno's car because mr. dumbass dumped his murder truck into a river ^_^

What part of your WIP are you working on right now?

....yes. in all seriousness i have so many different versions in different POVs and tenses it's a toss up as to what i work on and if it will even make it to the next round of editing LOL

What aspects (tropes, maybe?) will you think draw your audience in?

its not quite explicitly queer (in the latest version) but heavily HEAVILY implied and i feel like the stories that are sort of ambiguous about their queerness tend to draw more people in ?? or they're more popular anyway LOL. so trope: queerbaiting ????

deeply unwell man who has not slept properly in 600 years. the ladies love that shit

^ unreliable narrator ?

religious horror sort of?

bury your gays except. is he actually dead?? .....

What are your hopes for your WIP?

to settle on a fucking medium LMAO. i cannot for the life of me stick to one, or a point of view, OR a tense so um . makin a goddamn decision would probbaly make the writing process like 600 times easier

tagging UM. shaking my brain for writer mutuals ik ive tagged yall before but i cannot think rn so @hammity-hammer @aether-friskets @xxdrowninglessonsxx @deviantartidentitydisorder

anyway if anyone else wants do this just pretend u have been personally tagged ily THANK U AGAIN MITCH ♡♡♡

[quitealotofsodapop]

Estube pensando mucho que independiente de que Wukong hablemos aparentemente varios se averguenzen de sus cicatrices o no quieran hablar de sus problemas. Sabemos los problemas que tubieron o tendran, su pasado y como esto los afecta en sus presentes (Me acabo de dar cuenta de que new gods!Wukong vive alejado de su hogar y vive en un ¿basurero? y con monos que crea de su pelo... no se si esto implica que no hubo sobrevivientes en el incendio de la montaña... lo que lo haria muy triste...)

Y no se se almenos los mayores podrian comparar cicatrices y que aparente hay un patron...

metrogusta pensar que hay algun Wukong que no muestre verguenza de sus cicatrices por aparentear e interpretar al ''Hermoso rey mono''

No tengo ni la menor idea de que los mono en la vida real vean las cicatrices como algo positivo, como una muestra de que es un mono muy fuerte...

Y si esto es una escusa de mostrar un avance de un fanart que estoy dibujando por ahora es un diseño de bookAcuratt!Wukong en su forma humana en la era moderna, mostrando libremente toda sus cicatrices dhavsdbjasdk (?

translated via google;

"I've been thinking a lot that regardless of whether we talk about Wukong, apparently many are ashamed of their scars or don't want to talk about their problems. We know the problems they had or will have, their past and how this affects them in their present (I just realized that New Gods! Wukong lives far from his home and lives in a garbage dump? and with monkeys that he creates from his hair… I don't know if this implies that there were no survivors in the mountain fire… which would make it very sad…) And I don't know if at least the older ones could compare scars and that there seems to be a pattern… I like to think that there is some Wukong who doesn't show shame of his scars for pretending and playing the "Beautiful Monkey King" I don't have the slightest idea that the monkeys in real life see scars as something positive, as a sign that he is a very strong monkey… (*their WIP art of human-form BookAccurate!Sun Wukong*) And if this is an excuse to show a preview of a fanart I'm drawing for now it's a design of bookAcuratt! Wukong in his human form in the modern era, freely showing all his scars dhavsdbjasdk (?"

It is sad to see Sun Wukongs who've "fallen from grace" or have grown to dislike aspects of their bodies.

I do love the idea of a Sun Wukong who proudly displays their scars as if they were trophies.

And ofc I love your human design for BookAccurate!Sun Wukong. I love her hair, her glasses, and how you've designed her clothing <3

[thebiggerbear]

Six Sentence Sunday - 7/21/24 - Beau x Cassie

A/N: I decided to do something a little different this Sunday. I wanted to share excerpts on my WIP's (series/mini series) that are currently open/posted. I was going to put all of them in one big post but that ended up not working out for various reasons so I separated them all onto their own individual posts.

So this scene is an excerpt from the next chapter of Their Silent Thunder Matches Mine. It's not much but I didn't want to give too much away from this upcoming scene. I took out any specific spoilers. A bit more than six sentences. All unbeta'd.

Please let me know what you think in the comments below.

Warnings: a little drop of angst

Series

Series Taglist: @deans-spinster-witch; @avada-kedavra-bitch-187; @rieleatiel

Beau x Cassie Taglist: @foxyjwls007; @deansimpala

Ships Taglist: @bts24

Call My Name | The Ghosts Are Coming For You | Only Ever Holding Onto You | Follow Me Into the Dark | i need your hand but i don't want to burn it | Keep Me Inside | i want better for you...what's better for you than me?

After forcing herself out of bed to dress, Cassie warily made her way towards where Beau was quietly whistling as he flipped an egg back into the pan he was holding. 

She had warred with herself, not wanting to get out of bed, not wanting to leave this trailer and go back out to where the real world was waiting to swallow her up, but also not wanting to stay in bed one second more, not wanting this horrible feeling to continue to fester inside her stomach. The latter part won out. So here she was, watching her best friend enthusiastically cooking breakfast for her, looking happier and more relaxed than she’d seen him in a long time. And Beau was a perpetually positive type of guy so that was saying something.

Not wanting to think about it, Cassie quietly cleared her throat. “Can I help with anything?”

Beau’s eyes snapped to hers in surprise but his smile was bright once it wore off. “.” He placed the pan down on the stove. “I was hoping you would’ve stayed in bed.” 

Cassie leaned forward and snatched a piece of bacon from the plate Beau had just tossed the strips onto, making him chuckle. “Can’t. Have to pick up Kai and bring him to school.”

“Right.” He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her, giving her a hopeful smile when she gave him a nod of thanks. “You know, Denise offered to take him. I suppose I can’t persuade you to take her up on that this one time, can I?” 

“I really shouldn’t.”

Beau studied her for a moment, narrowing his eyes, before capitulating with a shrug. “Okay.” He turned the stove off, dumped the unfinished eggs into the garbage, moved the pan into the sink, and ran some cold water over it. He then wiped his hands on the back of his jeans and gripped Cassie’s hips, pulling her in for a deep kiss. “Just give me a minute to finish getting ready and I’ll drive you. We’ll pick up breakfast on the way but next time, you’re staying in bed, even if I have to handcuff you to the frame,” he murmured to her lips, shooting her an impish grin before letting her go and moving past her to head for the bathroom. Cassie watched him go, sadly wondering why she wasn’t allowed to have this when Beau clearly wanted last night to happen again. In the same moment, she knew the reason and she just hoped Jenny would be able to forgive her.

Please let me know if you would like to be tagged for this series.

dividers by @firefly-graphics

Main Masterlist

Main Tag List Submission Form

[jeysecretive]

Before the portrait in my eyes inflamed with fatigue loses its divine beauty, I will present it to the public. It's still a wip, but I can't wait to show it off :)

This is my piece for @tadc-harlequin-au , I throw my daughter on some interesting happenings.

Below the cut I put some beta sketches of her outfit design and a little bit of something.

Plus an approximate description of her story

***

J-formerly a human girl, now an untamed wild animal surviving in a city full of mindless puppets.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––

She used to have a home and family. But they were brutally murdered by marionettes who went insane. J herself briefly became the only person amongst the apocalypse on the streets. But then she was found by people who needed sane guards. Her mind and soul had been moved into an iron body.

In desperate attempts to find a way for puppet's madness, scientists and the wealthy tried to create fierce and obedient soldiers who would not hesitate to protect their miserable lives. But crumbling cyborgs made of rotting flesh and bad parts did not serve as a proper defense. After the puppets began destroying the city in a frenzy, J was able to escape from the lab.

Out of fear, she hid in a junkyard. The shock of what had happened haunted her throughout the time after her capture, making it impossible for her to live her life in peace. Attempts to instill in her the rage program she needed for battle had created a monster in her heart. Ruthless, uncontrollable and enraged.

But fortunately, the girl was born with a relatively cool mind and a pure soul. Her senses of touching the world around her were greatly sharpened, aggression and beast instincts appeared, but J remained in her mind. Instead of attacking anyone, she hid in a safe place, trying to repair herself and get rid of the parts of the human body that were no longer needed.

Thanks to the mechanical engineering skills learned in the lab she was able to ineptly but quickly replace her body with iron.

During her recovery, she lived permanently in junkyards, afraid to walk around the city. Puppets in the streets attacked her, pushing her back to abandoned areas. She believed that there were no sane puppets left and survived by trying to build a comfortable place to live.

Once she had settled in and repaired her body, she began to fight the crazed puppets, hoping to clear the space, but quickly realized there was no point. There was nothing for her to do in the city.

She needed food like a living creature. She didn't know what the reason was, as there wasn't a shred of human flesh left in her.

Trying to look for food in the city, she ran into puppets trying to rip her apart. There was no point in wasting her time on them, so she began to eat birds caught in garbage dumps, rodents, dug up roots and collected rainwater. She grew wild grass and made bread and chowder from it.

But eventually she began to weaken. Food became scarce and rats fled from the puppet graveyards to places rich in food. Grass began to grow poorly because of the coarse soil and lack of good sunlight. Due to his inability to repair some parts in himself, J began to slowly deteriorate and look more like a rusty skeleton than a robot.

It was during this period that she decided to leave the junkyard. Decided that even if death is near, she will die in a place that pleases her, either in battle, instantly and painlessly.

For a week she walked around the city fighting dolls. Looking for places suitable for a quiet end to her life.

At the end of the week, almost desperate and losing her strength, she saw the Mansion in the distance. It caught her eye immediately. It was different. More whole, more colorful. More... cozy? Residential?

A very different building from the others.

Her animal instincts knew there was someone there who wanted a place to live. It was just a matter of finding out who.

[classpectpokerap]

tentacleTherapist [TT] has begun pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]. TT: Hello, Rose. TT: Hello? TT: Damn, no chronological markers. One of few genuinely good Alternian inventions. TT: I'll just change my text color. TT: Okay. TT: Well, suffice to say, I'm you, from the future. And I have a very important message to convey. TT: Ah, of course. Because what I needed today was another alliterative personality describing my future, clad in viridian. TT: Have you and GG considered that I am obstinate on this matter? TT: Whoever you are, I simply do not wish to glean my future from colored text. TT: Pleasingly green as it may be. RL: I'm changing my chumhandle. Wow, I forgot how much of a shit I was at thirteen. TT: You're one message away from being blocked, "RL." Prove you're not a troll. RL: I'm from the future, and you've written the word "MEOW" on your walls. TT: Goodbye. tentacleTherapist [TT] has blocked roseLalonde [RL]. tentacleTherapist [TT] has unblocked roseLalonde [RL]. TT: What the fuck did you do to me? RL: And now you want to talk.

TT: "Want to" implies that I weigh my options and decide on a course of action, furthering my desires. TT: "Want to" implies a measure of consent that simply does not exist. TT: Through conveying a short message to me, you either covered my walls in garbage lettering, or you made me aware of the existence of said lettering. RL: It's the latter. Go through your phone's photo gallery. TT: Phone? RL: Laptop, then. TT: I don't take selfies. That's Dave's thing, Rose. RL: Fuck. RL: Okay, more proof. Open your second journal. Not the Complacency draft. TT: How do you -- okay. RL: Jaspers' secret. TT: Yes. TT: Unsurprisingly, it is as I left it. TT: It... TT: God damnit. This matches my wall, does it not? RL: Yes. RL: The sequence starts at the top of the room, directly above the sketch of Beatrix. RL: Confirm it if you'd like. It doesn't matter much regardless. TT: It matches. Congratulations, Rose. You've got my attention. RL: No need to ascribe such aggrandizement to me. This wasn't supposed to be the hard part. RL: I'm sure you've already gathered that said hard part is Sburb. TT: Yes. TT: It is all anyone has spoken to me about all day. RL: Prepare for the rest of your life, frankly. TT: Oh. TT: Wonderful. TT: Are you exaggerating? I ask out of a frightened, confused hopefulness. RL: Not in the slightest. RL: It does at least become interestingly complicated, though. TT: I wouldn't have expected anything else. TT: Well? RL: Well, what? TT: What's the urgent message?

wip..... mostly using this an excuse to show off HOMESTUCK5PLUS

this was SO painless to format i literally just dumped it in and it spit this back out. insane

[pan-de-queer]

20 Questions Game

Tagged by @jadedloverart! for once, i've finished work early and am free to write fic and answer tag games today hahaha thanks for the tag!!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

31 lmao, feeling a lil fandom old or whatever haha

2. Total AO3 word count

157,459 ??? wild considering i mostly post one-shots hahaha

3. Fandoms you write for

for the past few years it's been supercorp but you can also find bechloe, junksen/embry, some choices (the cyoa game), and les mis sprinkled in my ao3. all wlw too

4. Top 5 fics by kudos -

ruined nights make for perfect first dates (bechloe)

'cause you know all of my secrets (supercorp)

maybe i matter (because i knew you) (bechloe)

love tastes like spring and blood (bechloe)

kept my face to the sun (you drive away my shadows) (supercorp)

most interesting thing for me abt this is that ruined nights is the shortest one out of all five of these??? love that ppl liked it so much tho

5. Do you respond to comments?

as much as possible yeah! which reminds me that i haven't replied to @jadedloverart's comment on my fic. and other comments. i should do that hahaha

6. Fic w/ Angstiest Ending -

i don't end with angst haha i'm angst with a happy ending or bust lmao BUT the closest to angst would probably be love tastes bc the issue isn't solved until the very end

7. Happiest ending? -

all of them 💕 but if i had to choose then probabbbly cause you know

8. Do you get hate on fics?

not that i'm aware of!

9. Do you write smut/what kind?

nope! never been interested in writing it mostly bc my brain sees it as "action with even more emotions" and i have a hard enough time with action as it is lol

10. Do you write crossovers?

used to! and if you count the mcu+comics!marvel crossover i only posted a tidbit of, then yes, i still do

11. Ever had a fic stolen?

again, not that i know of

12. Ever had a fic translated?

yeah! can't remember for what tho but someone very kindly asked and i said ofc!! and then they sent the link but i can't remember where lmao

13. Ever cowritten a fic?

a long long time ago haha, wouldn't be opposed to doing it again though!

14. Favorite ship?

it's been supercorp since the pandemic! but who knows where the winds of my silly lil whims might take me?

15. A wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

all of them 💕 lmao jk jk but seriously i have a LOT of wips and i put them all under ONE file so it's like wading through a garbage dump trying to see what i'll do next and that's just for supercorp, i have separate untouched wips for allll my other old fandoms too lmao (some wips i doubt i'll ever finish for sc though are the undercover fake lovers one, the coastal cleanup one even though it SHOULD be easy in theory, the hanahaki au that's lena's version instead of kara's, and the one based off of emily the song by jeremy zucker)

16. Writing strengths?

anything descriptive! i can go in depth about shit forevveeerrrr

17. Writing weaknesses?

dialogue. like i can WRITE it and i can even write it WELL but that dialogue came from the bloodbath of thousands of drafts so

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in a different language?

many thoughts! number one being that if you don't know it, get someone who's above average fluent to help you if you feel like the language is needed in the story! and if the language is fake (like using kryptonian) then make the inclusion of it make sense! other thoughts are for my thinking only 💕 (and my unfortunate friends who have to listen to me lecture)

19. First Fandom you wrote for?

MAYBE ranger's apprentice or percy jackson

20. Favorite fic you've ever written?

i can't pick favorite for my babies but i'm hella proud of all my supercorp fics rn! it had been so long since i joined a new fandom that i felt suuupppeerrr awkward posting at first! but it's been a nice experience shifting fandoms ever since :)))

for the no pressure tags! @nostradamus0 @sssammich @ridiculously-over-obsessed @tiny-maus-boots and anyone else who wants to join!

[awaytobeunshaken]

For WIP Wednesday, a peek at the upcoming chapter of Spinning Through Stardust

“Your fucking pride, I swear.” Milo muttered once the comm had gone silent. Ashton was already combing through their meager belongings, trying to decide what was worth bringing with them. “You’re the one who wanted me to get some exercise.” He dumped the handful of remaining ration bars into a bag and crawled back toward his sleeping area. “That’s been short trips; we haven’t covered this much ground in one go.” “I can walk, Milo. Most of the damage was above the waist, anyway. Besides, they have to land where they can land. Not much we can do about that. Should this come with us?” Ashton slapped a hand on top of the synthesizer. Milo gave a grumpy sigh. “Maybe just the board… I hate to leave it but it’ll be a lot to carry.” They glared at Ashton before he could offer to take it. Or tried to, at least; Milo wasn’t exactly the glaring type. “Don’t worry, I don’t wanna have to lug that thing either.” Ashton settled down into the dust outside and leaned against the pod while Milo fiddled with the synthesizer. “I think I see ‘em,” Fresh Cut Grass announced maybe half an hour later. Ashton pulled themself to their feet and and peered in the direction F.C.G. was looking. “I don’t see shit.” Ashton heard a whirring sound coming from F.C.G.’s head, probably some kind of telescopic viewer for their optics. “There’s definitely someone out there. A tall one and a short one. Hope they’re the folks we’ve been waiting for.” “It’d be a shitty coincidence if they weren’t,” Ashton muttered, but it would be just the sort of shitty coincidence they’d encountered throughout their life, so somehow it wouldn’t surprise them. “Anyway, I never said I didn’t believe you; I know my eyesight’s garbage now.” “Don’t say that.” Ashton shrugged. “Lying about it ain’t gonna fix it, Grass. Anyway, thing that has me more worried is just what the fuck I’m gonna do once we get out of here. It took me years to get my own ship in the first place. I do not want to be stuck working in a kitchen again.”

[marvel-ous-m]

WIP Wednes-eekend: Summer Challenge Edition  

tagged by @devondespresso 💕💖💞 Thanks for the tag, friend! How did you know I desperately needed this as inspiration?! Lol.

The Rules

Post the file names of up to 5 of your WIPs for people to send you asks

Post a snippet of one of those WIPs

When people send you an ask with the name of one of your WIPs, write 3 lines of that WIP.

(Optional) Post the lines you wrote.

You can send multiple requests especially since this is going on through the weekend!

Also feel free to send as many as you want, im gonna devote my free time to this anyway so your just directing the adhd energy to a specific section

WIPs

I REALLY need to focus on my untitled Baker!Steve/TattooArtist!Eddie enemies-to-lovers fic (mostly because it's already been a year in the making and I just... do not spend as much time on it as I should). However! I also know I will hate myself if I only work on that sooooooo I will add three other tiny wips I have.

Untitled Baker!Steve TattooArtist!Eddie Fic

5 Times Steve feels the effects of the last four years (and one time he helps someone cope)

Untitled: Steve and (now famous) Eddie take a ten year dating break

My next update to Librarian!Eddie and Teacher!Steve

WIP Snippet from Baker!Steve/TattooArtist!Eddie (chap. 2/10 currently written, 20 planned) under the cut.

Steve blinked, finally putting two and two together. “You’re Corroded Coffin?”

The man winked, then bowed extravagantly. “I am the owner, yes. Eddie Munson, in the flesh.”

“Jesus, you even sound like you’re from a shitty metal band.” Steve rolled his eyes, then dumped his dustpan in the garbage and started to take his apron off.

“Whoa- hey, shitty? I’ll have you know, metal music is the foundation of the music we know today. We wouldn’t have musicians like Gerard Way or Taylor Swift if it weren’t for shitty metal bands.” Eddie squinted at him, tilting his head slightly. “What’s your deal, anyways? You could at least say thank you, you know.”

Steve let out a surprised laugh, hanging his apron and turning to Eddie. “Thank you?! For what?”

“All of your extra business today! I got a ton of customers coming in with your cute little cake boxes. I’m sure quite a few of my clients came by after their appointments, too. I know it’s a pretty popular area, but that much foot traffic is rare for a weekday. So, you should be thanking me, I got you some extra sales today.” Eddie smiled at him, teeth bared and shoulders squared, the epitome of confidence.

Steve decided right then and there- he hated this guy.

Quite literally tagging anyone who wants to participate, please just tag me so I can see your updates!

[glitterdustcyclops]

okay can someone do me a favor and read this and tell me it's not absolute garbage so i can get my brain to stop second-guessing itself? thanks

this is the first part of the first chapter of one of my WIPs, which is like if velvet goldmine were a romance novel instead, featuring my favorite neon disaster girl frankie, her BFF and platonic life partner gabriel, and gabe's new love interest, the Very Totally Heterosexual matt

“Wake up gay boy!”

There were a lot of moments in Gabriel Foster’s life that he regretted, but he thought this one would probably rank in at least the top ten. And wasn’t that sad? But he couldn’t say he appreciated being awoken by the sound of his best friend in the entire universe, Francine Takahashi, quite literally throwing her bedroom door open and practically screaming at him at the top of her lungs as she did.

There was a woosh of a soft and heavy lump landing on his head, and that turned out to be pants. His pants.

And that was when Gabe realized he was lying in Frankie’s bed with his face mashed into her pillow and his bony body wrapped in her hand-crocheted granny square afghan, clad in nothing but his sluttiest club-going briefs. And, of course, there was the fact that he was also horribly, inescapably hungover.

So just like any other Saturday morning, really.

Gabe groaned in indignation, his head pounding merrily away while obnoxious amounts of sunlight poured in through Frankie’s thin lacy white curtains, painful even from behind his desperately shut-tight eyelids. He decided right then and there that he hated every atom in the universe that made up this moment very, very much. Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to stop the horror from occurring, of course.

Christ what time is it?

Probably, if his past experience was anything to go by, late enough in the morning it technically counted as afternoon, and Gabe figured he had to have been pretty fucked up last night if Frankie had brought him back here instead of dumping him at his own place. It wasn’t exactly a rare occasion to find himself here in his best platonic soulmate’s bed under her (actually rather soft, he had to admit) afghan, feeling like the residue on the bottom of a garbage can. No. It was depressingly becoming a regular occurrence at this point, and Gabe thought he should probably worry about what that said about his steady descent into alcoholism at some point, but for the moment he couldn’t be fucked to do more than lay there wallowing.

Snatches of the previous evening were coming back to him. Most of it was still blanked out by lots of alcohol and neon lighting, but he was getting enough to form a somewhat coherent picture of the events, and definitely enough that he could be utterly mortified by it.

They’d all gone out together, The Peaches, like they’d been doing a lot lately; soaking up the hard-partying rock-god lifestyle while they could, before their tour officially started. Frankie had been performing at The Ruby—their favorite queer burlesque/drag venue—and everything had been so sultry and seductive under the glitter of the lights, the warmth of expensive whisky flooding his belly, and then…fuck. Warner had been there too, of course. As the lead guitarist for The Peaches William Warner was no stranger to The Ruby, and he had just looked so incredible there in all his untouchable golden glory, so confident and sure in himself even as the lone heterosexual at a queer club. So of course the two of them had started dancing together, and Warner had been laughing and he always looked so fucking good when he was laughing, and then—

Gabe moaned in utter agony as he remembered what else the two of them had got up to last night. In the bathroom of a gay bar. With his supposedly straight bandmate. Again. Jesus Christ could he be any more of a cliché? Gabe made a silent promise to himself then, one that he knew he would never actually keep, that he would not do this again. He would stop drinking if he had to. Not another drop of alcohol would touch his sinful lips for as long as he lived, and then he would stop getting himself into Situations with Straight Boys.

Amen.

“And how are we this morning?” Frankie practically sang at him in perfect Disney Princess pitch, as she plopped down at the foot of the bed. Right on top of his poor vulnerable ankles.

Damned harpy Gabe thought, but all he managed in reply was a small anguished “unnnnhh.”

Frankie giggled. Meanly. “Y’know, I bet the fansites would get a kick out of this. I should go grab my camera.”

The sound of her joy at his misfortune felt like iron stakes being driven directly into his skull, and Gabe groaned pathetically again.

“Nnnnh fuck you.”

“I know babe, love you too.” She patted his leg condescendingly, and Gabe could just imagine the wicked smirk that would be on her face as she did. “C’mon, get up, get dressed, let’s go. Hangover Breakfast. My treat.”

It had been their Saturday Morning-or-Afternoon Tradition, even long before they’d started staying out all night being indie-famous rockstars. Back when Gabe had just been a newly-out self-conscious college freshman and Frankie had made it her mission to induct him into the Homosexual Lifestyle by taking him out to bars and watching him make a fool of himself in public. The two of them had been doing it for over half a decade at this point, and time had proven there was no better cure for an evening out drinking than a quality Hangover Breakfast at their favorite seedy local diner, Mel’s.

But for the life of him, at that moment Gabe honestly couldn’t remember why. Just the thought of sitting upright, in public, let alone in an establishment dedicated to serving heaping plates of artery-clogging fare, sounded like a scenario straight out of a bizarre breakfast-themed Saw rip-off. All Gabriel really wanted to do right now was curl into the smallest possible ball he could manage, and then die.

“Nooo…don’ wannaaa…”

“Oh yes you do, ya big baby. Come on, up up up! You’ll feel better after some food, I promise.” Frankie poked him somwhere near his ribs and Gabe squirmed helplessly as much as he could, trapped as he was underneath her blanket.

He honestly didn’t think he could handle putting anything else in his body right now—and of course he wanted to groan again at the reminder of what, or rather, who he had been putting in there last night—but Gabriel knew better than to try and argue with Francine Takahashi: Most Stubborn Person in the Universe. So instead he kicked his feet vaguely in her direction as a final act of rebellion and then managed to pull himself to sit up, muttering darkly the entire time.

Frankie positively beamed at him, her neon-pink-orange dyed hair glowing almost painfully bright from the light through the windows, and Gabe flipped her off before he disentangled himself from her sheets and then stumbled out into the hall, towards the bathroom.

For a split second he worried how it might look, coming out of Frankie’s bedroom practically naked, but Frankie’s roommate Aurora tended to be so blithely self-interested it was like she didn’t notice anything that wasn’t happening about four inches from her face on the glowing surface of her phone screen. He shook his head a bit. Aurora was a weird one, making her living dressing up as a mermaid and being photographed at hotel pools, but she and Frankie had somehow remained good friends since her first year living in the dorms, when they had been thrown together through the whims of the University Student Housing Department, so Gabe tried not to question it.

It was a little strange that Frankie was still living here at all, he couldn’t help but think. At this point none of them strictly needed roommates since The Peaches’ last album was doing so much better than any of them could have predicted. They had been signed to a shiny new label and were about to go on a sold-out North American tour, a fact which made Gabe’s stomach nearly lurch up his throat every time he thought about it for too long. It seemed that his and Frankie’s starving artist days were officially going to be over. But maybe it was nice for her to be somewhere familiar, when everything else in their lives were changing so fast. He honestly couldn’t help but envy her a bit, for that she had that.

Gabe reached the shared bathroom in the hallway opposite Frankie’s room without further incident, and he didn’t bother to turn on the light as he shut the door and awkwardly hovered over the sink, the glittery plastic skull nightlight glowing eerily purple next to him casting strange shadows across his face. Things were a bit dicey there for a moment, but he guessed he must have already vomitted up the contents of his stomach at some point during the previous evening, because all Gabe really managed were a couple of weary dry heaves that lead to nothing but painful hacking coughs that scraped across the sandpaper surface of his throat.

The water from the sink was almost pathetically refreshing after that, and he took several grateful gulps to get rid of the dead-carcass-picked-over-by-vultures feeling in his mouth.

He observed himself in the mirror then. The remnants of his eye makeup had been smudged past the point of “artfully dishevelled” into raccoon territory and his lips were dry and cracking, while a very obvious hicky was already purpling up along the sharp incline of his collarbone. He winced. Hiding in Frankie’s bathroom for the rest of his life seemed a more appealing option than having to go out there and face the sober light of day, and at that point he was actually desperate enough to consider it. Until Frankie herself appeared, pounding on the door and threatening to drag him out by whatever parts she could grab, clothed or not.

So Gabe emerged a few minutes later, hungover and grumpy and feeling ever-so-slightly used and a whole lot pathetic. But at least he had pants on. And at least he was a bit less nauseous than he had been before. Small miracles.

Frankie laughed again, but she managed to make it sound slightly sympathetic that time.

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” Gabe muttered as he followed her from the hallway out into the living room.

“Yeah, I honestly kind of am.”

The living room was even brighter, somehow, than Frankie’s bedroom had been. Clean white late-morning-or-early-afternoon (Gabe still wasn’t sure, and he couldn’t be bothered to check) light flooded in through the shitty wooden blinds that did fuck-all to stop the glare, while Aurora herself had been haphazardly thrown across the futon, her face awash in the familiar glow of her phone, a look of deep concentration etched into her furrowed brows.

Only that woman could’ve made scrolling through Instagram look that intense.

“Morning,” she said vaguely, without looking up, her long blonde hair slipping loose from the clip holding it up in a messy bun to hang around her face.

“Morning!” Frankie trilled back while Gabe said nothing, because he was too busy covering his ears to muffle the sudden pain.

Frankie left him listing slightly to the side but mostly still upright in the entryway to the living room while she skipped over to the kitchen, grabbing a giant bottle of Gatorade out of the fridge and a mysterious bottle of generic pills—probably Tylenol, or maybe if he was lucky, tranquillizers—and then skipped back over and shoved them in his hands. The magical combination of lemon-lime Sport Drink and painkillers made him feel marginally less like a reanimated corpse than he had before, so Gabe murmured a grudging thank you in her direction before he was shuffled out the door and into Frankie’s precious lime green Volkswagen Beetle, Daisy—so named for the white daisy stickers she’d stuck all over the sides—and driven to Mel’s.

Gabe couldn’t decide whether or not the routine was comfortingly familiar, or just depressing. Or maybe both. But he liked having these places that belonged just to them. Mel’s Diner was something of a local institution, Gabe’s one-time employer and the secret hideaway of several local bands, including The Peaches. They were familiar enough with the staff that no one would rat it out to the press, and the peeling red glitter vinyl booths and slightly-sticky plastic tables had become a safe haven for him over the years. Which was rapidly becoming a necessity, the more recognizable The Peaches got.

Well, at least if Gabe had to put up with getting recognized in public (which was still a total mindfuck every time it happened), he was glad to have Frankie beside him. She had been his bestest best friend for practically forever at this point. Over a decade, now. Since that very first day when she had knocked over the music stand they were sharing in sixth grade orchestra. She’d giggled like mad and Gabe had fallen ever-so-slightly in love with her, just like that.

God.

That felt like it was an entire lifetime away. Probably there was something unhealthily co-dependent in relying on one person for that long, but whatever. She was his Frankie, his Manic Pixie Fag Hag, self-appointed platonic soulmate and rhythm guitarist for The Peaches, and as much as he liked to complain about what a terror she was, Gabriel knew he would never trade her for all the money and riches in the world.

She was even being considerate for once, keeping the volume of her car stereo low—Pet Sounds on tape as always—and not talking incessantly as she drove, like she normally would have. Gabe slumped against the side of the car with his face pressed against the cool glass surface of the window, his hand on the crank ready to roll at a moment’s notice. Just in case. He’d fished out one of the many pairs of heart-shaped sunglasses that Frankie kept stashed in the glove compartment and they made a valiant attempt to block out the 2:00 PM sunlight.

Well, 2:00 according to the dash clock, anyway. So it could have been anywhere from 11 to 3, depending on the last time Frankie had actually bothered to update the thing. And who knew when that was.

Gabe was still stubbornly refusing to check his phone. It seemed better to exist in that timeless morn-afternoon void than be confronted with…well, Warner probably hadn’t bothered to text him anyway. Rarely did, these days. And of course Gabe wouldn’t have cared if he did. At least, he tried to tell himself that, but he wasn’t sure how well he was listening, as some horrible stupid moronic part of his brain insisted on making his stomach go all fluttery at just the thought of reading Warner’s hypothetical texts.

Ugh.

Ridiculous.

They ambled into Mel’s eventually, Gabe trying to rub the sleep crumbs from his eyes as he followed behind Frankie and they took their usual booth. It was blessedly empty, another perk of being friendly with the staff. Frankie sprawled across the entire left half while Gabe dutifully took the side facing the doorway, and after a moment’s hesitation he threw himself onto the surface of the table with another pitiful whimper.

“You are such a drama queen!” Frankie admonished him, and Gabe could practically hear the eyeroll in her voice. He’d known her for way too long. “Seriously, babe, worse than me.”

“Frankie?” Gabe replied, his voice muffled from where his head still rested against the table. “Shut. Up.”

“Blehh,” she responded eloquently, and then they were interrupted by a new voice.

“Hey there you two! Can I getcha started with some drinks?”

Gabe’s brain was too busy pounding like an entire invading army company was marching through it for him to even contemplate doing something as unthinkable as lifting his head up to look at their waitress—not one of the ones he was personally acquainted with he guessed—but still he knew, deep down in his soul, that he hated her deeply. Intimately. And the sound of her too-cheery voice sliding along all his nerve endings like a cheese grater definitely didn’t help matters.

“I’ll have a strawberry milkshake and he’ll have water,” he heard Frankie say.

“Alrighty! I’ll be right back with those, go ahead and take a look at your menus and let me know if you have any questions.”

Questions? It’s a diner not the Ritz.

Eventually Gabe did manage to sit up, resting his palm under his chin and attempting to give Frankie his most dour of glares, but the effect was probably ruined somewhat by the pink heart-shaped sunglasses he hadn’t bothered to take off, and you know, the massive hangover too. He was sure his expression was giving more “pained grimace” than “haughty glance” but it was close enough.

“Isn’t the traditional hangover remedy always coffee?” he groused, just to be difficult.

Frankie wrinkled her nose in response, a move Gabe normally found rather endearing when he wasn’t committed to hating her for forcing him to be in public when he felt like a hungover gay disaster.

“And when, my dear, in the history of forever, have you ever voluntarily drunk black coffee?”

“Touché.” Gabe shrugged, and couldn’t quite hide the hint of a smile lurking at the corners of his lips.

“I swear,” she continued, fiddling idly with the paper band from her napkin, because this was a classy joint, “It is actually amazing how bad you are at being hungover, considering how often you do it. You’re the worst rockstar ever, babe.”

Frankie giggled again.

“Wasn’t aware it was something you could get a good grade in,” Gabe replied, before sticking his tongue out at her and laying his face back down on the table.

Sure, he wasn’t exactly new to this particular experience; if not for his misspent early twenties as a slutty club kid, then the past three or four trying to become a rock legend and playing in shitty bars would’ve seen to that. But even so, this particular hangover felt like a new and exciting kind of terrible, especially when he considered the whole moronically-throwing-himself-at-his-straight-bandmate part of the deal. And the worst part was that Gabe knew, as sure as he knew his own name, that as much as he was protesting right now, he would probably be doing it all over again the next time they performed.

The feeling was just too addictive. Everything went all shiny-bright and warm; electric and alive as the alcohol pouring through his veins turned all his limbs loose and free. When he was under the influence, he could get out of his stupid head and away from his stupid too-short limbs, the whole of him flowing out to spread around to all those other warm, interesting bodies surrounding him on the dance floor or the stage. That sweet release of escaping into the beat. It was a high, plain and simple, as thrilling and seductive as any Gabe had ever known. Whether he was singing to a crowd of hundreds or one anonymous body in a sea of others, the feeling was the same.

But he couldn’t think of a way to describe that to Frankie that wouldn’t make her think he definitely had a problem, so he just sighed dramatically and let her continue gently poking fun at what a ridiculously miserable lump he was right now.

After a while he vaguely overheard Frankie ordering food for them, and just the sound of it was enough to make his stomach turn again. He almost ran to the bathroom but he was too tired to move, and after a couple of worrying lurches the feeling passed, so he let it go. Instead he fantasized about melting off the booth to settle into a puddle on the floor underneath so he didn’t have to person anymore. But then Gabe shuddered to imagine what crumbs and things could be lurking down there, so maybe no melting. Not today.

And it didn’t matter anyway, because suddenly Frankie was kicking him rather pointedly in the shin with one of her stupid platform heels, and he was pulled out of his head with a petulant whine.

“What?”

“Food’s here.”

“Ugh,” Gabe sighed, managing to pull his head up again.

Which was a mistake, because then he found himself face-to-face with an honest-to-God breakfast fucking orgy. Just sitting there across from him, wafting horribly tormenting smells his way: a huge platterfull of all of his very favorite things. Bacon and eggs and hashbrowns and sausage and pancakes and more bacon, all of it lovingly arranged and mouthwateringly decadent in that perfect greasy-diner way.

And all of it Frankie pulled towards herself, before nudging a small, sad plate of dry toast in front of him.

“Eat up.” She smirked.

“You are a cruel, cruel woman,” he sniffed back.

“I mean, yes, obviously. But come on, I doubt you could actually eat any of this right now. Toast’ll help soak up all the gunk left in your stomach, babe.”

“I don’t want toast. I want bacon.”

Gabe knew he wouldn’t have been able to eat it just then, but still. Bacon was worth that sacrifice. Frankie gave him a dubious look.

“Let’s see how you do with toast first, kay?”

“Harpy.”

He gave the corner of his toast an experimental little nibble as he leaned his chin on his hand again. The slice tasted mostly of cardboard and sadness, but he knew it was about the most he could handle at the moment. Which, of course, didn’t make him feel any better as Frankie helped herself to a thick, perfectly crisp slice of bacon, gesturing around with it and dancing by herself in the booth, conducting her own private symphony as she devoured her breakfast orgy. It simply was not fair that Frankie could be so effortlessly carefree at a time like this.

Of course, that was how it had always been. Frankie had a disturbingly high alcohol tolerance, and what was worse was that she also never drank, apart from maybe two times that Gabe could remember in their almost two decades of friendship. She didn’t smoke or do drugs either, not even weed. She never judged anyone around her who did, but she preferred a “natural high” as she described it once. And with anyone else that would have been obnoxious as hell, but it was Frankie.

He wouldn’t want her to change for anything in the world.

It was one of the things Gabe loved most about her, actually. Her carefree zest for life without chemical enhancements. Her ability to find humor and joy even in the smallest of moments. It’s what kept him sane, kept him grounded when everything else in their lives felt so shiny and unreal it threatened to overwhelm him. It was what made her precious, his sweet slice of sunshine. Even if it made him terribly, horribly jealous sometimes.

Because Frankie would never have the pleasure of getting wasted at a gay bar before performing ill-advised fellatio on a bandmate.

God.

Thankfully the finer details of last night were still mostly blurred behind an alcohol haze, but one singular moment stood out in shining awful clarity, of course: Gabriel, on his knees like a wanton harlot, the grimy tile of the men’s bathroom digging into him as he looked up at Will above him, with all those miles of perfect golden skin peaking out from underneath his tight white t-shirt, his flushed cheeks and panting chest and oh, the wanting, such wonderful longing all for him. And Gabe wanted just as much. Wanted everything, the heat and thrill of Will’s calloused fingers against him, the desperate yearning to be taken apart.

In the present Gabe sighed again, staring somewhere at the middle of the table and fiddling idly with a butter knife, having given up on the toast completely.

The rational, objective part of his brain knew it was totally pathetic to be so wrecked over the whole thing, but the rest of him couldn’t seem to stop. It almost felt good in a painfully self-indulgent sort of way, to soak in all of his misery and terrible gay pining. He was helplessly, hopelessly head-over-heels in love with his supposedly straight friend, and the fact that Warner was also the lead fucking guitarist of his band didn’t seem to be a deterrent. If anything it made the whole thing more appealing, getting to watch him on stage night after night gilded in those bright lights, playing his heart out, sweaty and raw and so alive.

All Gabe’s strict rules about not fraternizing with fellow band members had flown right out the goddamn window, long before he’d gotten to his knees in that bathroom stall, if he were honest. It should have concerned him more. He knew he was probably fucking up everything he’d worked so hard to build, all for some dumb boy with pretty green eyes. God. He was fucked.

Tomorrow, Gabe resolved, he would take all of these feelings and lock them back up in a box and bury it somewhere deep deep down in his psyche. Last night was the last time. He needed to get over this pathetic crush and focus on what really mattered. If this tour went well the label would be more willing to give up some creative control for their next album. The Peaches were on the verge of greatness, as absolutely wild it was to think, and all the things Gabe tried to tell himself were silly to want, the money and the fame, actually seemed within their grasp.

So. It was time to pull his head out of his ass and focus. But, for today at least, he would stew as much as he liked. And thankfully Frankie seemed content to let him marinate, busy amusing herself by playing with her pancakes and making dinosaur noises as she ate.

Gabe couldn’t help the fond smile that lurked at the edges of his mouth as he watched her from behind his borrowed glasses. Frankie was usually so bright she almost hurt to look at. His neon-colored girl. She was giving excellent Manic Pixie today, with her clashingly-bright vintage floral dress and her signature magenta-orange bisexual bob cut and thick black cat-eye frame glasses, her bangs blunt and her smile the color of a blue raspberry snowcone, yellow glittery pineapples dangling from her ears.

That was who she had always been. Loud and sparkly and too much, the exclamation point at the end of a sentence that demanded attention. It was how the two of them worked so well; Gabe was all mystery, all dark shadows and dark hair and dark eyes and soft-spoken voice, and Frankie was the dazzling disco ball that cast the light on whatever she was around. When they were younger he appreciated that she would soak up all the glorious spotlight for herself while he faded quietly away into the background, but now as Aiden Wilde, frontman of The Peaches, he had learned to channel his darkness into something sultry, something seductive and a little dangerous. The leather-clad panther against her neon sparkling weirdo, the contrast that brought both into sharper clarity.

They were a pair, and whatever else happened around them, Gabe was never ever gonna let her go.

But of course, right at that moment, with Gabe feeling like an absolute pathetic mess while Frankie did something ridiculous in the background, was the same exact moment that William Warner himself waltzed into Mel’s like he’d been conjured specifically to fuck with Gabe, and he felt his heart nearly lurch up into his throat. Jesus Christ Warner looked so good and it wasn’t fair; he had to have been as drunk as Gabe was last night. But you couldn’t tell by looking at him, in his loose jeans and tight t-shirt, his stupid floppy sandy blond hair hanging as if it were hand-sculpted by the gods to look that fucking good.

He wasn’t alone either, surrounded by the members of Massive Aggression, a local alternative band that was also gaining prominence among the indie scene, and all of them were laughing and talking like the popular clique in a 90’s teen romcom.

Fuck.

In addition to his posse of much-cooler friends, Warner had a frivolous little piece of arm candy dangling off him, all pin-straight extensions and fake tits, her eyes gleaming like a cartoon wolf who had just spied a particularly juicy steak. Frankie would’ve probably called Gabe out on the misogyny of describing another woman like that, and part of him hated that he was going all “Jolene” about a straight dude he drunkenly went down on like twice, but still. Gabe’s hands curled into fists of their own accord, his heart beating rapidly and his stomach full of butterflies as he nearly choked on a desperate intake of breath.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Of course, as Satan was the personal set-designer for Gabe’s shitty goddamn life, and because their table was close to the entrance, the Cool Kid Clique would have to pass right by their booth to get to one of the open seats.

“Oh fuck me,” Gabe moaned in horror, slamming his head down onto the table again.

“Babe, don’t you think you’re being a leetle overdramatic? I mean, it is just a hangover.” Frankie was probably rolling her eyes again, totally unaware of the mortifying ordeal that had been unfolding behind her.

“Oh my God Frankie, please,” Gabe pleaded, as if Jurassic Park rules applied and as long as they didn’t make any sudden moves no one would notice, “for the love of God, just shut the fuck up.”

“No I will not shut the fuck up! Look I’m sorry you don’t feel super great but you’ve been acting like kind of a jerk all morning and I love you, but I think it’s fu-uh-err—”

And then suddenly Frankie had stopped mid-rant, her voice trailing off into an awkward little squeak.

“Oh, Warner,” she said desperately, after a beat of horrible silence. “Uh hey dude! Fancy meeting you here, ha ha!”

“Hey guys,” that achingly familiar warm voice rumbled right next to their table, all surfer boy charm dripping like honey from every syllable.

God.

All the hairs on the back of Gabe’s arms were suddenly standing at attention, a helpless little shiver running up and down his spine at the slight rasp to the edge of Warner’s voice. He was abject over the man, and it was pathetic.

Gabriel bolted upright, part of his brain wishing this was all just some weird alcohol-induced nightmare, even as he tried to pretend he wasn’t still hungover as hell and dying inside at the sight of him.

“Uh hey man! What’s up!” Gabe practically shouted, pretty sure his smile was edging into deranged territory.

“Y-ya okay?” Will asked instead, an edge of genuine concern knitting his brows.

Gabe gulped, pointedly ignoring the amused chuckles from Warner’s little posse behind him. Massive Aggression had been trying to court Warner over to their side for a while. He always claimed he wasn’t interested, they were just buddies, but seeing them all together like that…

Something hot and angry and sharp flared in Gabe’s stomach then.

Warner looked away guiltily, as if he could read the thoughts written on Gabe’s face. Hell, he probably could. Fuck, this was the worst. Gabe wanted to unzip his skin and crawl out of it like cicada shell. He wanted to run very very far away, and at the same time dissolve himself into nothingness. But most of all, he just really wanted Will to stop looking at him like that, as if he had been caught. Red-faced and ashamed.

So Gabe panicked, just a bit.

“Oh yeah man, totally fine! I mean, why wouldn’t I be? Haha, yep, it’s all great over here. So thanks but we’re all super fine, okay? See you later!”

Frankie and Warner both stared at him, and Gabe was pretty sure he was in the midst of an actual breakdown. Warner’s posse all laughed rather enthusiastically, and he could swear Frankie’s mouth was actually hanging open a bit.

“A-alright?” Will attempted, blinking back and forth between Frankie and him as if he was trying to understand a complex puzzle. “I guess…I’ll see you guys at practice?”

“Sure thing!”

With a final awkward wave William Warner stumbled away, turning back to his cooler friends. Who were openly mocking Gabe at this point as they all went to their own table. Neat.

Gabe managed to turn his gaze back to Frankie, who was still perched there with her blue lips in that perfect little “oh,” genuinely stunned silent, for once.

“Not. One. Word,” Gabe growled through clenched teeth, glaring at her from behind his sunglasses, as if it would help anything.

Frankie blinked once, twice, and then finally errupted into a fit of hysterical laughter.

“Oh my God babe,” she said, breathless with giggles, leaning her own head in her hands as if she couldn’t hold herself up with how ridiculous Gabe was, “what the entire fuck was that?”

“Nope.” Gabe was definitely not blushing right now. “Nuh-uh, nope. I’m not saying anything.”

“You are the most absurd person I know,” she said, finally calming down enough to speak normally, though her eyes were still practically glimmering with mirth. Because she was a horrible person. “And you know it’s bad, cuz it’s me saying that.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed, his arms crossed in front of his chest defensively and his foot bobbing wildly underneath the table. Running away was seeming the more appealing option by the second.

“Soo…” Frankie started, when it became obvious that Gabe was intent on sitting there in stone cold silence for the next millennia or so. “Do…are we gonna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Oh come on! I’m your platonic life partner, I’m here for you! You can tell me anything!”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Come onn Gabe,” she pouted. “You can’t just sit there pining for forever.”

“Frankie,” Gabe said, an acid edge of warning to his voice. “Leave it.”

“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes.

There was a beat of silence then, Frankie looking everywhere but at Gabe’s face.

“I said leave it,” he growled at her again.

“What? I didn’t say anything!”

“I can hear you thinking it.”

Francine Takahashi gave her best friend a very vocal look, the singular deadly quirk of her sharp black brow speaking volumes. Because of course she already knew every intimate detail of Gabriel’s hopeless wretched crush on Will; on the past few years he’d spent pining and the previous nights of drunken mistakes. Because she was his best friend, and she knew everything about him. Unfortunately.

And of course Warner was refusing to talk about any of it, preferring to stay in the zone of plausible deniability. And Gabe let him. He knew he was a total moron for it, but he kept going back anyway. It had to have been some kind of masochism or something. Some self-destructive impulse to take the one good thing in his life, the thing he’d wanted so desperately and dreamed about for so long, that he’d never thought he’d have but somehow managed to build anyway, and then completely fuck it up over a stupid crush.

But whenever they were on stage, and William gave him that look, all heat and longing—just for show, he’d claim—or whenever they were together in private, always sitting close as possible, sometimes Gabe perched right on Will’s lap, and he never seemed to mind then, or whenever Will gave him one of those rarer, soft smiles that he only shared with him, God. It was like being lit up from the inside. He was powerless to stop.

And Frankie’s judgmental little eyebrows were definitely not helping the situation, at all.

“I seriously hate you,” Gabriel finally said, sighing in defeat.

“No you don’t,” Frankie replied, another roll of her eyes. “I mean, who’s the kind-hearted soul who, instead of focusing on perfecting her legendary drag act, took the time to ferry your skinny hipster ass out to the club and then babysat you while you got smashed, and didn’t complain once the entire time? And who’s the absolute saint who then drove your drunk stupid ass back to her own apartment at like three in the goddamn morning, when she could have instead been spending her time being flirted at by hot queers, listening to you moan about him the entire fucking time? And who then spent the rest of the very very late evening-slash-early-morning scrubbing your vomit out of her precious Daisy, huh?”

Gabe cringed.

Okay. So maybe he was being a bit of a total asshole, when she put it like that. He wished he could blame the way he’d been treating her on everything going on with Warner, but that wasn’t really fair to her. Honestly, Gabe knew he’d been taking her for granted lately. And sure, Frankie was a horrible person who had bullied him into going out in public when he was feeling miserable and hungover and ashamed, but she was still his very best friend in the entire universe. And sure, she had been a little bit too amused at his plight earlier, but she had also been spending the entire time—and probably most of the previous evening as well—taking care of him.

Honestly, she’d been doing that for a lot longer than just last night. Because she always did. That was Frankie. And it wasn’t her fault that Gabe’s life felt like such a disaster zone right now.

“I—” he sighed again. “Thanks, Frankie. I’m sorry you have to put up with such an asshole for a best friend, but thank you for looking out for me.”

He hoped she could hear the subtext behind those words. I love you.

“You’re right, you are such an ungrateful bastard,” she snipped back at him. “And you’re welcome.”

Then she smiled, and Gabe knew what she really meant to say. I love you too.

And with that their weird little fight was forgotten, and Frankie went back to her normal ridiculous pixie self. The two of them sat in companionable silence for a bit, Gabe’s face propped back up on his hand while he watched Frankie drag a half-eaten sausage through the remnants of her pancake syrup and hum a little melody to herself. After a while she valiantly offered to go up to the register and pay while Gabe did his very best impression of a slightly-less-miserable lump.

She’d left him the last piece of bacon, he realized, and he was ridiculously touched by that as he munched slowly on it and waited for her return. Gabe knew then that the situation was more dire than he first thought, because not even bacon was able to lift his spirits.

Frankie waltzed back eventually, taking a final slip of the mostly-melted milkshake remnants in the bottom of her glass, before setting it back down and smirking at him.

“You better yet?” she asked, towering over the booth in her absurd platform heels. She was wearing the electric blue ones today, to match her lipstick. Of course.

Gabe gave her a noncommittal mumble, but made no further effort to dislodge himself from his side of the booth just yet.

“Because if you get any more vomit on Daisy I will be dumping your ass on the side of the road, hangover or not.”

“Time to go?” he asked instead.

“Yeah I’m bored.”

Gabe didn’t really want to be in this place any more either, so he finally pulled himself up and followed Frankie as she skipped her way out the door.

And out of some idiotic whim he would never, ever understand, Gabe took one last look back over his shoulder, scanning the tables. For him. And of course, there he was. Gabriel was like a stupid horny moth drawn to that golden-bright flame; Will in the center of his table surrounded by cooler people, that bimbo basically in his lap as he laughed, gilded in the attention of the group around him.

Suddenly Will must have felt Gabe’s eyes on him, because he looked up just then, and for one lingering perfect moment, they made eye contact across the diner. Gabe felt his insides go all gooey like taffy as the weight of Warner’s dazzling gold-green eyes settled on him, but then the moment was gone. Warner broke their eye contact, looking away and laughing at something someone had said to him.

Wrecked Gabe utterly, just like always.

“Gabe?” Frankie called, standing expectantly by the doors and holding one open for him.

“Yeah?” he shook his head, finally managing to tear his gaze away. “Coming.”

And at least he did not turn around again as he walked out, trying to put the saunter back in his steps. Just because he felt like the residue on the bottom of trash can didn’t mean he had to act like it.

Gabe expected to be bundled back into Daisy and driven back to The Factory—the literal converted factory warehouse that he’d bought with the advance from the label, part apartment, part home recording studio, part rehearsal space—but he thought Frankie must have realized he was still in a funk because instead she grabbed his hand and lead him off down a side-street, deeper into downtown. One of her mad little Adventures. They used to do it all the time when Gabe still lived near Mel’s. Frankie’s incorrigible sense of weirdness tended to lead them to all sorts of strange little places that he normally overlooked.

First, a local record store that they liked to pop in on sometimes, where Gabe argued with the clerk about genre classifications and Frankie called both of them pretentious assholes. Then they found their favorite thrift store and played their usual game of finding the most ridiculous stuff to force each other to try on; Frankie threw an impromptu fashion show right in the middle of the store as she modeled her face off, wearing an oversized atrociously 80’s sweater paired with a floral silk kimono and a feather boa.

Just to make Gabe smile.

He thumbed over the video on his phone fondly as the two of them ambled down the street. They came across a farmer’s market of some sort spilled across a brick-lined plaza in the middle of a nearby park, in defiance of the already-hot weather, and there was live music and the overlapping chatter of milling voices. People hawked their wares while a cute couple chased their dog down and some of the milling crowd laughed, while a few kids were running around in that carefree way only children could manage. Even from here it smelled like fresh grass and baked goods, and Gabe wanted to bottle up the moment and tuck it away inside his pocket, to keep forever.

Frankie turned to face him, her hand warm where it still gripped his and her chipped glitter nail polish glinting faintly in the early-afternoon sun. She had a wicked glimmer in her brown eyes, a smirk on her face.

“Shall we?”

Like he had a choice? But Gabe laughed anyway, feeling just a bit lighter as she lead him down the little walkways between the stalls, her free hand poking and prodding at everything she could, interrogating each person she talked to about their raw honey or organic bath products or whatever else they were selling. Because that was Frankie. She dazzled in the small moments, her attention flattering and overwhelming in equal measure. Gabe was content to bob along behind her, smiling warmly whenever someone glanced at him, but not saying much.

As Frankie scrutinized a fresh brie from a local cheesemonger Gabriel let his attention wander, and that’s when he heard it. It wasn’t hard to miss, and he’d been attuned to it over the past few months. That sound was becoming more and more familiar lately; whispers somewhere behind him, along with a few nervous giggles.

“Oh my God I think that’s them!”

“It totally is. Should we go up?”

“Eee! I don’t know, you do it.”

“No way, you do it!”

He turned and saw two teenagers standing a close-but-respectful distance away, sporting obviously-amateur dye jobs and all-black clothes, one of them wearing a truly impressive amount of heavy black eyeliner for a Saturday afternoon. A pang of fondness, a certain nostalgia flared in Gabe as he took in the two Youths. A memory of a lifetime ago, of Frankie and him with similar amateur dye-jobs and ratty Converse and too-much makeup, and he couldn’t help but smile. He caught their eyes and flashed the two teenagers his best smolder, beckoning them closer, and they both squealed.

God. That would never stop being weird.

“Hi, um, are you Aiden Wilde?” one of them, the purple-haired one, tall and curvy with a they/them pin on the strap of their shiny black pleather bat-shaped backpack, said hesitantly.

“The very same,” he said, letting the smoke come out in his voice.

“Oh my god, hi!”

“I’m sorry if this is lame, it’s just, we’re such big fans,” said the be-eyelinered one, blushing profusely.

“Nah, that’s awesome. You guys wanna take a selfie?”

“Oh my gosh yes please! And oh you’re Frankie! Oh my god I love you!” Purple Hair said to Frankie, who giggled sincerely.

“Aww, you flatter me! Here, I have long arms, I’ll take it.”

They Took the Selife, and after a bit more fawning and the hurried signing of whatever piece of merch they could grab, Aiden Wilde bid adieu to his young fans. Frankie was smirking at him as the two youths scrambled away still squealing. Gabe blushed, but there was definitely a glow in his belly. As much as part of him still thought he was getting away with something, and eventually the universe would realize the error and come correct it, there was something still thrilling about being recognized. About being able to make someone’s day just by taking a selife with them. He hoped he never got used to it.

After a silent negotiation they ended up in the park with Gabe’s head pillowed comfortably in Frankie’s lap as she fed him slices of brie and strawberries from a little brown paper bag she’d bought when he hadn’t been paying attention. The berries were ripe and sweet as a summer’s kiss, and Gabe’s stomach had settled enough he could actually appreciate the juicy flavor of them exploding across his tongue, the contrast of the creamy-salty cheese she fed him after. Frankie giggled at nothing, still humming whatever melody was in her head as she fed him, her free hand tangled in his hair. It was a gorgeous early summer afternoon, blue sky forever and not too deep in the 100’s just yet, and they had found some dappled shade under a tree. And it was just…nice. A sweet little moment, and Gabe felt most of his bad mood slip away with the berries and the barest hint of breeze that rustled through the leaves.

But of course eventually it had to end, as all such moments did. They strolled back to Daisy silently and Frankie drove them back to The Factory, singing along to The Beach Boys softly as she tapped out a rhythme on the wheel.

It still blew Gabe’s mind, just a bit, that he owned a goddamn warehouse. So far he’d been keeping the Rockstar Extravagance mostly to a minimum—part of him convinced that it was just another glitch in the Matrix and any minute now The IRS or whoever would be showing up on his doorstep to take it all away—and apart from some flashy clothes and a couple dream instruments he’d had his eye on for years, he tried to stick to his former starving artist budget. But when the lease on his old apartment was ending and he realized he didn’t have to find another one, he could afford to live wherever he wanted, Gabe couldn’t help but live out a little House Hunters fantasy, born from years of watching HGTV late at night with nothing to do. When he saw the listing for this place, it felt like fate calling to him.

He was trying not to get too pretentious with it, at least, but it felt wrong not to indulge in his deepest-held arty bohemian whims at least a little bit. And of course, since Frankie’s love of home décor almost rivaled his own, he had let her go a bit nuts with the makeover, sourcing vintage Oriental rugs and bespoke iridescent acrylic tables, a gigantic disco ball hanging down from the ceiling like a glam rock planet with its own galaxy. It was a legitimately cool little space, with plenty of room for The Peaches to hang out and even play music together sometimes. And it was his, and he could cover the whole thing in nude male pin-ups and as much glitter as he wanted, and no one could stop him.

As Gabe let her through the rolling garage door he heard a thumping bass rhythm and figured Lance and Kiki must have already shown up, probably warming up on their respective instruments. Well, Lance was warming up. Kiki was lounging on the vintage dusty rose velvet sofa Gabe had found at a consignment store for a steal, frowning in concentration as she played something on her yellow Nintendo Switch. Probably Animal Crossing, if he had to guess.

It was just a random chance that he had found the two of them, but he would always be glad for it. The Peaches had become something like a family over the years, and while he would never love them the same way he loved Frankie, he wouldn’t want anyone else in his band. In a way, it felt like Lance and Kiki were always destined to find him. Gabe knew things wouldn’t be the same without either of them there.

Kiki, whose birth name was Kimberly Kikuchi but if you called her that she would try to stab you, preferred to dress like a sweet, innocent little porcelain doll; but that was the disguise she wore to distract from the fact that she was a total bitch and she owned it. She loved playing into men’s expectations of her as a cute piece of empty-headed cotton candy fluff, with her long blonde hair and penchant for babydoll dresses, and then proceeding to absolutely destroy them on her drum kit and ruin their fragile egos. And it made Gabe die laughing every single time.

Lance, by contrast, was The Quiet One of the group, but that didn’t stop them from being a total chaos gremlin, and a little bit of a heartbreaker to boot. A Black Nonbinary Icon in their own right who used both he and they pronouns and shredded on the bass with a flair for tasty funk rhythms, Gabe was also lowkey jealous that they had a lovely longtime boyfriend—a professional chef named Ash—waiting for them at home.

Together with Warner the five of them made The Peaches what it was, a collective of (mostly) queer weirdos with eclectic tastes. They brought influences from all across the music spectrum, Kiki’s love of metal and Japanese folk music and Frankie’s longstanding obsession with disco, Lance’s jazz and soul influences and Warner’s taste for harder rock and alternative. It was their secret ingredient, the bit of magic that also made them the buzz of the indie scene lately. Gabe wouldn’t have traded any of them for any one else in the world. Even Warner.

“Well you look like shit,” Kiki said bluntly, once she’d heard Gabe and Frankie come in.

“Doesn’t he?” Frankie giggled back, before adding something else in Japanese which made Kiki laugh louder.

He knew the two of them well enough to know whatever she’d said, it wasn’t flattering. But he also knew better than to say anything back, because that would only dig the hole deeper.

Lance just gave him and Frankie one of their signature cool-guy head nods and went back to strumming on their bass, their long thin ring-covered fingers dancing across the frets as they played something intricate and lovely that they’d surely written themselves. They had their long braids down today, tossed casually over their shoulder, while one of their fancier bejewelled septum rings glinted attractively from under their strong, striking nose, the inky black polish on their nails catching the light too as they played.

Frankie set her ridiculous little frog-shaped purse down and pulled her glittery pastel purple guitar out of its case and started tuning while Kiki finally put her Switch away to join them at her kit. There was the pleasant noise of the four of them warming up together, finding their rhythms. Gabe started doing his vocal exercises, pacing around and trying very hard to ignore the lead weight in his stomach as he kept his eye trained on the front door.

Warner was late.

Warner was never late. In over three years of practices, not once had the guy shown up later than ten minutes early. They all made fun of him for it; Frankie liked to say that he wasn’t gonna get a better grade at the end of the semester for always being on time, that he wasn’t cut out for the rockstar lifestyle. And Warner had just smiled good naturedly and mumbled something back about wanting to do the right thing, while Gabe had privately found it incredibly fucking adorable. That was always Warner, affable and sweet, earnest. Golden-haired and easy with a smile.

Was it any wonder Gabe had fallen head over heels for him?

3:45 PM.

Warner was late late. And he hadn’t texted. If Gabe hadn’t literally seen him just an hour or so ago he would have panicked, thinking something had gone wrong. Still the asshole anxious part of his brain tormented him with it any way, horrible flashes of Warner at the bottom of ditch, bleeding out and dying alone, no one the wiser.

But no. Gabe realized, with a sick sinking feeling in the pit of him, that it wasn’t an accident.

Warner just wasn’t coming.

And that fucking asshole hadn’t even bothered to text him.

Fuck.

Just then Lance’s hand went to their pocket, fishing out their phone. Their eyebrows knit in confusion, and Gabe’s heart sunk further.

“Guys, Warner, uh. Says he’s not coming.”

Fucking bastard.

“What?” Kiki said, her eyes going large enough to take up half her face as she spun on her stool, her pigtails swinging wildly. “Is he bleeding from the head? Is he insane? Tour starts in like two weeks!”

“And he couldn’t even call?” Frankie scoffed, eyebrows going lethal as she fiddled with her strings, plucking at them randomly. She hadn’t plugged into her amp yet so there was just a faint discordant jangling, and it felt appropriate. Matched the rhythm of Gabe’s heartbeat.

“We saw him at Mel’s. With Massive Aggression. He’s…I don’t think he’s coming back.”

Kiki cursed loudly in Japanese while Lance whispered a soft little “oh fuck.”

That about summed it up.

And then the rest of the band launched into Damage Control mode while Gabe stood there and felt like the scum of the earth.

“What do we do? Do we know anyone who can cover for him?”

“I mean, Dani’s band is already opening for us, she’s the only person I can think of who could conceivably pick up Will’s solos in time. Shit.” Frankie scrubbed a hand through her hair, staring up at the disco ball glittering down from the ceiling as if she could find the answers reflected in its shiny surface.

“Don’t suppose you wanna pick up lead guitar duties for once, eh?” Lance smirked slightly and Frankie glared at them. It was an old fight-that-wasn’t-really at this point. Frankie would always be Gabe’s right hand woman, his Platonic Life Partner, and she was a fairly good guitarist in her own right, but she preferred letting someone else take the lead parts while she held down the rhythm section. And Lance liked to needle her about it.

“Fuck you.”

Lance chuckled softly and blew her a kiss.

“What about Jesse? He knows like, every fucking band in Vegas, doesn’t he?”

“Well every fucking band in Vegas will probably be busy touring, same as us. You wanna ask him if he has a student he could lend us?”

“You want to tell Rick we’re letting a twelve year old join us on a sold-out national tour?”

The three of them continued to bicker back and forth while Gabe wished he could melt into the floorboards. Fuck. He’d ruined everything, and there the rest of The Peaches were, gamely trying to fix his fuck-ups for him. He didn’t deserve any of them.

He sighed as he fished out his own phone from the too-tight pocket of his painted-on skinny jeans. There was only so much sitting around waiting for someone else to clean up his mess he could handle. It was time to act like the Band Leader, as much as the sick pit of acid-hot dread in his belly tried to convince him it was all ruined beyond saving. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and then he pulled up the number quickly.

“Hey Rick?”

There was a hush amongst the rest of The Peaches as Gabe finished the call with Rick’s normal brevity. He’d been their manager almost since the beginning, and all of them both feared and respected the man in equal measure. He dressed like the hapless dad in a 90’s sitcom and acted like a mix between the cattiest queen Gabe had ever met and a bloodthirsty business shark, and he was exactly the kind of fearsome protector they had needed to guide them through all of the shady twists and turns of the music business. The man could be an absolute terror, but it was usually fine as long as you did your best not to be on the receiving end of Hurricane Rick.

Something Gabe had somehow managed to forget, until Rick steamrolled into The Factory seemingly a second later, already in the middle of a call as he swept in.

“You signed a contract, asshole. If you don’t get that tight little twink ass down here and play that fuckin’ guitar like your life literally depends on it—cuz it does—I will wrap you up in so much fucking litigation you’ll look like I let a Japanese pervert let loose on you with a bundle of rope when I’m done. Do you hear me, fucker?”

There was heavy silence as Rick glared down at the phone, Warner’s tinny voice saying something back, before Rick disconnected the call.

And then he rounded on Gabe.

“What the fuck did you do to him?”

“Me?”

“Hey leave him alone!”

“Yeah, it’s not Gabe’s fault!”

“He’s citing ‘artistic differences’ as his reason for taking a ‘leave of absence,’” Rick hissed back, with the air quotes around “artistic differences” and everything. His eyes narrowed then, as if he knew exactly what “artistic differences” was code for.

Gabe’s heart plummeted down by his kidneys with the sudden wave of fresh guilt that hit him. As nice as it was to have his friends defend him, he knew that it was, quite literally, his fault. God, if he hadn’t been such an idiot, throwing himself at the boy like a desperate cock-hungry harlot. No wonder Warner had run screaming for the hills and into the arms of Massive Aggression. He’d fucked up, and he’d known it, but the consequences of his actions still really fucking sucked.

“No, guys, Rick’s right. I’m the leader, this is my mess.”

“Sweetheart I don’t really give a shit whose mess it is, because I’m the one who has to clean it up. So listen up kiddos, because if another one of you fucking brats pulls anymore stupid stunts between now and the start of this fucking tour I will quite literally murder you, and then pay my lovely friend Garett who does taxidermy to stuff your corpse and shove an instrument into it. Alright?” And with that evocative threat hanging in the air, the rest of The Peaches gathered around, and listened as Daddy Rick laid down the law.