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#THIS IS AN OPEN CASKET FUNERAL GODDAMMIT
txemrn · 1 year
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Pour Two Glasses
Chapter 5: "... Wake Me Up When It's Over..."
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✨ Have you checked out this teaser video yet? Pour Two Glasses Teaser✨
Word Count: 3935 (+/-)
Series Synopsis:In the midst of a violent political war, Queen Riley Rys’s life is dismantled overnight, forcing her to flee Cordonia to live in hiding as a commoner with a loyal, best friend
Series Song Inspo: “Pour Two Glasses” by the Movielife
Chapter Song Inspo: "Wake Me Up" by Tommee Profitt ft. Fleurie (Avicii cover)
Series Warnings: 🔞 For Mature Audiences Only 🔞angst; profanity; major character death; grief and mental health discussion; discussion of violence & war; alcohol use; NSFW material
A/N: Characters and some plot references belong to our friends at Pixelberry. Big projects like this often takes a village of cheerleaders, barnstormers, listeners and readers. I am so blessed to have such a supportive village--huge thanks to y'all for making this story come to life! This was not beta'd, so please excuse my errors.
A/N 2: It's been a while, so how about a quick review? *clears throat* Previously on Pour Two Glasses... Sensing her need to be close to her husband, Drake coordinates for Riley to sleep each night of Liam's Royal Wake next to his closed casket; he also gives her a necklace to wear that holds Liam's wedding ring and signet ring; Riley and Drake have a heart-to-heart, which included the intimate story of the promise Liam and Riley made to each other: a promise to "pour two glasses"; after the funeral, a member of the 'Les Combattants de la Liberté' (the same coups that shot down Liam's plane) opens fire during Liam's funeral procession in an attempt to assassinate the queen. Despite Drake's efforts, Riley is shot.
~🖤~
"Ahhh! Fuck!" Drake grimaces, holding pressure to his left arm as blood seeps violently from his fresh bullet wound. Sucking in a sharp breath from the pain, he glances to his right where he had pushed Riley down, and hopefully out of the way.
Her body lies completely still as a pool of deep rouge grows from under her petite, lifeless frame.
"Brooks?" He stretches his neck in hopes of a glimpse of her face, but the abrupt shock of sharp torment in his shoulder knocks the air from his lungs. Anxiously panting, he glances back at Riley, realizing she remains motionless to the sound of her name. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Riley!” He frantically searches for a way to get closer to her. He peers at his injured shoulder and his crimson-stained fingers, weighing the options that don't exist on borrowed time that has already expired.
He grabs the collar of his shirt, bunching up the material in his palm before biting down on it. He rolls onto his stomach, his screams of torment muffled into his makeshift gag as he gnashes his teeth. With his good arm, he army-crawls on his side, pulling himself across the pavement with his elbow. The balls of his feet push to propel him, all the while he moans in agony.
His body finally gives out from the misery. "Brooks? Brooks?" He gruffly pants. He lays flat on the ground, reaching to her sprawled out hand with his unaffected arm. He nudges against her skin, but she doesn't move. His fingers find her wrist; he feels a weak, slow pulse.
"Goddammit!" Drake cries out in pain as he sits himself up. "No–no–no… Riley!" Groaning in anguish, he single-handedly pulls her body to himself, propping her head up in his lap. He tenderly peels the blood-drenched wisps off of her cheeks and forehead. Her head suddenly lolls back, her neck extended across his thigh with her pale lips agape. "Riley!" Tears flood his eyes, "No…" Surveying her body, he notices two bullet wounds to her left shoulder near her chest. 
Near her heart.
Drake turns to the other guards that are tending to a few critically wounded people in the otherwise desolate courtyard. "We need help over here!" He cradles Riley's head as he watches the color drain from her face. "Don't do this, Brooks,” he growls, “Don't you dare fucking do this.” He sobs angrily, gripping firmly to the fabric of her dress. "You can't leave me, too…"
------
A crisp gentle breeze catches her brunette waves in a delicate waltz of silk and sunshine. The softness of the evergreen grass tickles her toes as she ventures through the fragrant blooms. Somewhere amongst the fresh harvest of Cordonian rubies, a handsome melody echoes across the meadow, a deep baritone that Riley instantly recognizes.
“Liam?” Her steps begin to quicken as she searches behind the bark and the bend. “Liam?” Her voice is earnest and hungry as her widened, ocean-blue eyes survey the area for even just a glimpse of his beauty. She grips the sides of her skirt, lifting the hem to her hips as her feet become more swift amongst the uniform rows of bountiful trees.
As she approaches a knoll, a large shadow grants her body brevity from the warm sun. She brings a hand to her forehead, shielding the brightness from her eyes. She strains to make out the broad shapes and chiseled lines of the man standing before her, but she knows it's him. His eyes shimmer with the brilliance of the Mediterranean, his skin like the soft sands of Nissi.
“My love,” he smiles endearingly at her; he cups two filled wine flutes in one large hand as he extends his arm out towards her, his open palm ready to take her into his arms.
“My king,” she breathes, her heart swelling at the very presence of him. She drops her skirt. She draws closer to him as a smile brightly bubbles across her lips. It’s him; it’s really him.
But as their fingertips almost touch, Riley missteps. She trips over an imperfection in the terrain as she falls to her knees, her hands catching her on the ground. As she looks back to her husband, he is gone.
“No,” she whispers as she frantically scours the rolling hills around her. Empty. Not a single trace of life. Riley is alone. “No–no–no… Liam?”  She spins wildly around, searching for him. But suddenly, she hears an ear-piercing crackle like thunder.
And then another. 
A searing pain abruptly burns deep into her shoulder and chest, knocking her off her feet. The impact of the fall robs her of the air in her lungs. In a state of panic, she begins gasping for air, but the rise and fall of her chest makes her whimper, tears collecting in her eyes. 
"Liam?" She tries to scream, but can only muster a rough whisper. "Someone? Please?"
Riley tries to sit up, but an intense scorch of discomfort stuns her to lay back amongst the long blades of grass. Her mouth falls open from the sensation, but only silent sobs pour from her lips.
With a trembling hand, she carefully touches her fingertips to the painful area of her chest. Biting her lip to stifle her screams, she feels a thick oozing of warm fluid escaping her shoulder, flowing between her fingertips.
Blood.
"Help," she strains, but her words falter as her eyelids fall heavier with each blink. 
She hugs her body with her other arm as the breeze suddenly feels frigid against her pale skin. Her breathing becomes more rapid, each inhale growing laborious, more challenging than the last.
'Anyone?' Riley mouths as she grows still. The light in her eyes falls dim, her lashes fluttering as they begin to close.
Stillness.
Darkness.
Suddenly a large, calloused hand squeezes tightly to her petite weak fingers.
"Brooks," a deep, trembling whisper calls to her, "it–it's going to be okay, baby. Hang in there." A sense of relief rushes over her; hearing the familiar gritty voice comforts her, grounding her back with reality.
Riley can hear a soft shrill of metal on metal from squeaky wheels underneath her. She feels a light current of air swishing across her body as if she is being moved rapidly. The pungent smell of medical-grade antiseptic with the slight undertone of decay hits her nostrils, reminding her instantly of the night she had to identify her husband’s remains.
She tries to speak, but her mouth refuses to move; even her whimpers fall silent, unable to get anyone’s attention. She tries to grip onto the hand that is holding her fingers, but despite her effort, nothing moves.
As she relaxes her body, an excruciating pain suddenly penetrates through her torso, an inexplicable affliction of torment tearing through every last nerve, leaving her senseless, breathless, motionless.
An abrupt alarm of rapid analog chimes begins to whistle.
"Heart rate 152. We need to move, people…"
Riley's eyes flicker open to blurred fluorescent lights, flashing obnoxiously into her field of vision. She hears a twisted garble of concerned voices around her, but can barely make out the faces of the strangers surrounding her.  
"Hang another liter of NS. Go ahead and draw up fifty of hydromorphone…"
"...BP 88/42…"
"... prep OR six…"
"... order four units of O neg…"
The swift movements around her makes her stomach turn as the searing discomfort ravages throughout her chest. She grimaces, her eyelids shutting at the furrow of her brows.
Suddenly, she feels a pinch, like a tiny sharp prick of pressure pushed into the swell of her thigh.  A warming sensation follows, infiltrating through the area before finally swimming briskly through her body.
"Hydromorphone with Phenergan 25 in…"
The room begins to swirl into nothingness, the chatter falling into silence. Her hand falls limp, no longer able to feel Drake's tight grip on her fingertips. No more background noise; no more strange smells. Like falling into the deep end of the ocean, a single, high-pitched shrill rings incessantly in Riley's ears as she flails her arms and legs into the blackness. She finally clenches her eyes shut, terrified of the loneliness, terrified of the struggle, terrified of the emptiness.
Stillness.
Darkness.
Until a warm glow grazes her skin.
A gentle caress of her cheek leads to a tender stroke of a thumb across her full bottom lip.
Riley's eyes cautiously flit open.
And she gasps.
"Liam?"
------
"Sir, this is as far as you can go."
Though he understands hospital safety protocols, Drake scoffs as Riley's hand is pulled away from his grasp. An abrupt loneliness tugs at his heart as he watches the gurney rapidly wheel down the white sterile hallway. As his left arm hangs limp, Drake drags his fingers down his face, swallowing a sob. Will this be his last memory of her alive?
He feels his chest begin to dramatically rise and fall, his breathing becoming quicker as his expression contorts into remorseful anger. He was supposed to protect her. He promised her–shit, he promised Liam that he would look after her, and now Riley is fighting for her life.
As Drake's jaw trembles, a petite hand tenderly pats his unaffected shoulder. He jerks around to find a familiar raised eyebrow, her piercing jades sympathizing instantly with his downcast stare. “Liv,” he whispers, a crooked smile flashing across his lips as his face twists with emotions. “You’re… here. You’re… you're okay,” he chuckles into a choked cry.
Noticing the sincerity of his tone, Olivia Nevrakis’s typical stone-cold presence melts into something more human and warm.  She smirks, holding her arms outstretched. "Come here, big guy," she snickers, waving him into her embrace. “You know that even rogue militant coups can’t get rid of me that easily.” The longtime friends squeeze each other more snuggly; though they might not always see eye-to-eye, they silently gesture in agreement that life is better together.
“Christ on a Kraken! Riley is never going to believe this.”
Drake turns towards the cheerful, flamboyant voice. He casually tosses his head to the side, his chestnut fringe cascading out of his field of vision. The corners of his mouth curl, grateful to see the youngest Beaumont brother alive and well with no obvious injuries.  
"Hey, man," Drake reaches out to take Maxwell's hand, pulling him into a brotherly embrace.
"We were so worried. I thought you were dead," his breath hitches in his chest, "and–and Riley…" The young lord succumbs to his tears, unable to speak. Drake endearingly pats his friend on the back as he flashes a knowing look to Olivia.
"I'm fine, Max," Drake mutters, signaling for him to let go. 
"Have you even been seen by a doctor yet?" Maxwell looks at the crimson gore, dried across the guard's once pristinely pressed suit.
"Not yet. I–" he freezes as he peers down the now empty corridor, the last place he saw her, the last place he touched her. The last place he felt her life in his own hands. A large lump forms in his throat as the horrific scene plays in his head.
The definitive cocking of the chamber of a glock; the smell of smoke and blood in the air; the unraveling of fearful screams of hopeless onlookers… 
"Riley! Look out!"
He tried to shield her; he tried to protect her. He tried to save her.
Was he too late?
The queen's guard shakes his head, staggering away from his friends, willing the sting of his tears away. He already lost his very best friend almost a month ago; he can't lose Liam's wife, too.
"She's strong, Walker–"  Drake stops in his tracks, turning to the fiery red head that fell into step with him walking down the hallway. He leans up against the wall, shoving a hand in his pocket as his head falls forward in anguish.
"I just… I feel so fucking guilty, ya know?” he mutters under his breath. “I was supposed to be there for Liam–I should’ve been there with him, and Riley?" He looks away, blinking away tears. “It should’ve been me–"
"No," Olivia interjects sternly. "Don't go there. You are not responsible for his death. And Riley?”  She takes Drake’s face between her palms, commanding his attention to focus on her words. "She will survive this–'
"I should've been there–"
"And you were," she interrupts. "Drake, she would've been killed if you hadn't intervened when you had."
"You saved her life, man," Maxwell tearfully steps forward, holding out a cup of coffee for the guard. "She's been through a hell of a lot worse." They all chuckle knowingly with one another. "She's going to survive this," Maxwell states encouragingly as he dabs away his tears.
Olivia nods in solidarity, looking towards Drake. "She will."
Drake stares at his styrofoam coffee cup before bringing it to his lips. "She has to," he breathes before taking a sip.
"Cmon, buddy," Maxwell's mouth begins to curl as he slaps Drake on his wounded shoulder. "Let's get you checked out–"
"Ow!" Drake roars, "Limp dick motherfffff–!" Drake bites his tongue as he shields his arm.
"Oh, there he is," Olivia snickers to herself, taking a seat in the waiting room. "I was concerned he left his balls next to his snuff in the back pocket of his Wranglers."
—---
Tangled in sheets of silk, Riley cradles Liam's head against her bare chest. He kisses tender pecks along her velveteen skin, her fingers mindlessly combing through his golden waves. 
Coming down from their euphoric bliss of making love, the gentle warmth of intimacy saturates the air. A soft hum escapes Riley's lungs as she is overwhelmed with the desire to cry streams of joy. To be at peace again. To feel whole again. To be herself again.
This is perfect. Too perfect. Riley had craved for weeks now to have just one more moment, one more breath with her beloved. And now…
Is this really happening? 
She presses her lips into his disheveled, blond hair, breathing in his intoxicating scent. His fingertips graze across her shoulders and down the slope of her full breast, his familiar touch igniting a scattering of goosebumps across her body. But when Liam looks up at her with his hungry gaze, his crystal blue stare that rivals the Northern Lights, relief floods her senses.
I'm home.
Biting her bottom lip, Riley guides her husband up her body until he's lying face-to-face with her, their longing stares never breaking from one another. She delicately traces the angles of his jaw, the contours of his neck until finally resting her palms in the scatter of hair on his chest.   
She rests her head against his body, her fingers lacing with his.
"Liam," she exhales as she listens to the rhythmic pulse of his heart. "I've missed you." Her words softly shudder against her stifled sobs, tears coursing down the curve of her nose. She nuzzles her forehead into him, wanting to be closer, deeper with him, thirsty to drink every last drop of him.
"Please tell me this is it," she flutters her eyes close, his large hands draped across her back. "Please tell me this is where our forever starts."
Feeling his piercing stare on her, Riley instantly meets his mouth in a searing kiss. She slips her tongue between his full lips as the passion continues to burn between them. 
Riley guides him to lay on his back, straddling his broad physique as their tongues continue to caress in steady pulses. She nips at him, coaxing for more.  Gently rocking her hips, Riley sits up on her husband, his length pushing against her slick folds. Taking his large, rugged hands in hers, they cup her peaking breasts, fondling them together.
"I love you," Riley moans into the darkness as her desire builds for her husband once more. 
But then she stops.
She looks back to Liam's handsome face. And a sudden chill runs down her back.
He didn't say, 'I love you'...
"Love," Riley grips one of his hands, bringing it to her lips to kiss. "Is this okay? Are–are you okay?"
He doesn't answer.
An uncomfortable coldness floods her veins as a familiar burning sensation grows in her lower left shoulder.
"Liam?" She shakes his body. "Liam baby, please," her eyes begin to water, "please talk to me." 
Riley glances around the dark room; it looks like their royal quarters, but deep in her heart, she abruptly knows she's far from home. 
And far from Liam.
And like an old film reel, the fantasy around her begins to burn away, slowly at first as a blinding light pierces through the darkness.
"This… this isn't real, is it?" She trembles, bringing his hand to her heart. "Please, baby…" the room becomes stifling as Riley begins to gasp for air, her husband’s touch nothing but a phantom pain. "Please don't leave me again…"
Suddenly, Riley feels like she's choking as a soreness forms promptly in her throat.
"That's it, your majesty," the assured voice of a stranger calls out to her. "We're done with your surgery. Take some nice big breaths for us."
Riley barely peeks through her heavy eyelids, but her stormy blues are instantly met with the brazen shine of surgical spotlights. And she grimaces, discomfort etching across her delicate features.
"Good job. Take another breath."
The queen can feel something weighted and quite warm being folded across her frigid body. Suddenly, she feels soft fabric engulfing her toes, then her feet.
Where am I?
"Let's get you some Fentanyl and the rest of your Zofran for the ride, your majesty."
Abruptly to her arm, she feels a twinge of heat expanding in her veins, traveling first to her shoulder before dispersing across her body. The panic that was building in her nerves subsides as she relaxes into a subtle snore. And then into nothingness all over again.
—---
"Rise and shine, little blossom…"
Hearing the muffled, yet familiar whisper of her dear friend, Riley cautiously opens one eye. But in an instant, she closes it. Her eyebrows knit together, the burn from the bright sunlight too much for her right now.
“Max?” She croaks softly, her lips dry and cracked. “Maxwell?” She makes a small effort to move, but a sudden ache knocks her back onto her bed. She mouths the word ‘Ow’ as she slowly reaches up towards her injured shoulder with a trembling hand. 
“Shhh, Riley,” Maxwell tenderly pats her arm. “I’m gonna go get someone. I’ll be right back.”  With a squeeze of her fingers, Maxwell takes off to the nurse’s station.
Feeling the agonizing pulse in her left shoulder, Riley tries to open her eyes again.  Everything remains a blur as her eyes dart to the glass door. Two large men stand just outside the windows like perfect statues on either side of the frame, wearing what appears to be… guard uniforms?
“Drake…?” She tries to call out, assuming he's one of the men, but the hoarseness of her voice silences her attempt as she winces at her sore throat. Where am I? She frantically peers around her bed, noticing a collection of monitors and clear bags of fluids, all attached to her body with various cords and wires. 
What happened?
Riley’s head feels a bit swimmy, dizzy from the heavy medications she has been given, not to mention the anesthesia slowly dissipating from her body. She was trying to put the puzzle pieces back together, fact versus fiction. Each part played like a vignette in her memory. 
Laying in bed with Liam… The airplane crash… Giving herself a progesterone shot... Sneaking into the church with Drake…  Dancing at the award ceremony.  Gunshots…
Had it all been a dream?
Suddenly, her eyes widen with realization, wishful-thinking blooming across her face. It was a dream.  Noticing a big red button on the bed with the word ‘Nurse’, Riley frantically presses it. A jolt of hope bursts within her chest. 
It was just a dream– a terrible dream– but just a dream.
The sliding glass door to her ICU room hurriedly rolls open, an older nurse with peppered short hair hurries in with Maxwell hot on her tail.  “Well, well… look who’s finally awake!” She smiles kindly, her hazel gaze sparkling with genuine joy. “Your majesty, my name is Vangie, and it has been an honor to care for you through your recovery–”
“Recovery?” Riley looks to Maxwell with curiosity.
“You have two nurses that have been assigned to specifically care for you per the guard's protocol,” Maxwell informs as he takes a seat next to Riley’s bed, gently grabbing her hand. “Vangie here is your night nurse, and she has been incredible.”
Riley turns to the nurse, giving her an uncertain half grin before giving her attention back to Maxwell. “But… what is going on? Why–why am I here?”
Maxwell grips tightly to her fingers, a pensive-look crossing his features.  “You’re in the hospital, Ri. You had surgery–”
“Surgery?” 
“Yes, your majesty.” Vangie finishes administering medications into Riley’s IV before glancing back to her queen. “You’re quite lucky, actually.  You lost a lot of blood, and it was touch-and-go our first night together, but you have pulled through nicely–” her pager suddenly beeps, a slight annoyance flashes in her eyes. “My apologies, your majesty,” she bows, “I need to take this.”
Riley gently nods, offering a soft smile before turning back to Maxwell. He sweetly leans over her, resting his elbow on her bed as he pushes away stray hairs on her face.  “I’m so glad you’re finally awake. I've been so worried.”
Riley’s eyebrows furrow, an expression of confusion falls over her as she glances around the room. “Maxwell, I–” she cinches her eyes closed in frustration, “how long have I been out?”
“A good part of three days.” His words drip with worry, “They said the injuries you sustained were pretty severe, but thank God, one of the bullets missed your heart by two millimeters–”
“Bullets?”
Maxwell pauses inquisitively. “You don’t remember much, do you?” 
Riley chews on her lip, shaking her head.
“That’s honestly a good thing,” he sighs heavily.
“Max,” she softly pleas, “please… tell me?”
Maxwell sits up in his chair, combing his fingers through the relaxed style of his hair. “Ri, you just woke up. I think you should get some more rest before we dive into what happened. Heck, Olivia and Drake will be back in the morning, and we can–”
“--and Liam?”
Maxwell freezes, the color draining from his face at the mention of his dear friend and king.  He swallows thickly. “Wh–what about him?”
“Is he–?” She presses the heel of her hand against her forehead. “I must sound like a lunatic,” she chuckles anxiously, “but… it’s all bleeding together, these thoughts in my head spiraling and mixing reality with fantasy. I feel like when I’m awake, I’m dreaming, and when I’m dreaming, I’m awake, and–I mean, I just…” She tosses her hands on the bed, another titter escaping her throat as tears prick her eyes. “The airplane crash, the funeral, his casket… please tell me the truth.”
Maxwell’s breath hitches, causing a sobering chill to overwhelm Riley.  Of all the images flashing through her mind–the morgue, champagne in the orchard, his wedding ring on a necklace–she had hopes that maybe–just maybe– the worst of them all was actually a nightmare, that maybe Maxwell can ground her back into reality, that maybe—
“My husband… ?”
A wave of sorrow pours onto Maxwell's features as his ever-optimistic expression drains. And he shakes his head.
It wasn’t a dream. 
~🖤~
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slenderverse · 9 months
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PLS I LOVE HEARINV ABT PPLS SPIDERSONAS!!!!
(explodes) ok uhm. uhm. GRABS HIM (well he uses he/she)
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this is martin riley (born mary james riley yes this is important) and "his" spider name is spidershfiter :) he has DID but he's from 1976 so he has no clue what the fuck that is and nobody will tell him because MPD isn't even in the DSM until the 80s.
he was generally a kid who stayed by himself bc he spent all his time outside of school helping his mom out w the rooms that she rented out in their home (her dad was a mechanic and they were outside of town, so it was normal for someone who needed to get their car repaired to stay overnight etc etc) BUT he was best friends w a boy named peter parker :) peter called her MJ.
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IM GONNA PUT STUFF UNDER THE CUT. UH. TW FOR CAR CRASHES/MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH/ ITS REALLY LONG SORRY IVE BEEN THINKING ABT THIS FOR WEEKS.
and then peter got bit. and riley found out about spiderman by complete accident! but he promised peter that he'd never tell a soul about it. so that went on for a couple months, with peter secretly acting as spiderman and riley being a big supporter of it but still dealing w his system & frequent loss of time etc etc
THEN. uh. there's a car accident. and peter dies, riley lives, and he doesn't quite know what to do with himself? but one of the thoughts in his head gets louder and louder demanding that he needs to be spiderman because without peter there IS no spiderman. nobody knows that spiderman is dead. riley does not want to be spiderman. but He Does:
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nick forms as a trauma response to the crash. he wants to be spiderman. and goddammit he's gonna BE spiderman. so he starts to force himself to front and reverse-engineers all of the spider tech that peter was using to use for himself. and it works! he's able to be spiderman without having any powers, it's a miracle. but he's doing his best to hide it from riley. imagine hiding your secret identity from yourself.
meanwhile riley is going to college and getting an english degree. he picks up a job at his college library doing copyediting for other students. then someone from a big scientific organization comes over and is like "hey we need copyeditors. you're good at your job. c'mere." so he gets hired at alchemax, not for anything cool, just to copyedit people's papers/research/etc to make sure everything is clean and comprehensible.
that's when he meets jonathon ohnn :) who is a scientist as part of the budding space program but really his passion is alternate realities! he writes a lot. and riley keeps getting his papers. so eventually they decide to close the gap and start working one-on-one.
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(i'm still debating what i want jon's backstory to be, my main thought is MAYBE Vietnamese family that immigrated? i don't know i gotta do more research on that)
they fall in love and start living together :) jon learns abt riley's system and tries to be as adaptable as he can towards it, which amazes riley bc he's never had someone in his life active acknowledge it.
THERES SOME EXTRA LORE ABT THE SPIDERS JUST KNOW FOR NOW THAT THERE ARE THREE WAVES OF SPIDERS. the original (bit peter) the spy (bit riley. spoilers oops) and the brute (bit eddie/venom and carnage bc aliens do not exist in my timeline but fucked up science does!)
riley gets bit when nick feels really bad about the "neglected" spiders and when trying to feed one gets bit. that gives them powers. the thing is w the spy powers is that a majority of them focus on stealth/reading people/etc. so like for example riley's webs are laced with a mild amount of hallucinogenics that it acts as a "truth serum" etc.
woahh now she's spiderman (SHE DOES NOT WANT TO BE SPIDERMAN.) nick is spiderman yayyy he likes being spiderman.
and uh! then jon dies. riley wasn't there. he was supposed to be at work that day but he called out. and he gets a phone call. jon's dead. he dies and it's never clear how he dies. his funeral is open casket and riley never gets full closure because his relationship w jon was never seen as what it actually was.
he stops fronting. nick starts fronting. nick is fronting for months. then an anomaly shows up in his dimension and he has to fight it, peter b shows up, is like "hey kid you need a part time job?" and nick's like YEAH I WANNA SEE THE OTHER SPIDER PEOPLE!!! PLEASE!!!! so into the multiverse they go!
but it had a strange reaction on riley and his system. basically, now, whoever fronts, the body shifts into (thus the name spidershifter).
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(small image wip etc)
they get assigned on spy missions because all things consider, it's impossible for them to cause a paradox because nick/mickey/vanessa/etc do NOT exist in these universes! (but what about riley? you may ask. aren't there other rileys?)
here's the thing about riley: he is dead in most universes. he's a canon event. he's the uncle ben for johnathon (if he lives long enough to see him at all). he's supposed to be dead. why isn't he? because he became mj. so he's an outlier from a realistic timeline shift and he hates it. he hates it so much but. he tries to find jon in the universes that spidershifter is sent to spy on. he just wants to see him. talk to him, maybe.
the spot happens and uh why does he sound like his dead boyfriend. why does he remember him. why is he talking to him. Help. (my hc is that when 1610 jon became the spot, he fused with all other versions of him. there is no other jon. there is just him and he remembers all of them)
uhm and that's all i have rn bc that's where the movie ends and i dont want to go into detail talking abt specific alters or interactions w specific characters unless asked. bc this is already so much. im so sorry.
TL;DR: this is spidershifter vvvv
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16 notes · View notes
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am i dead or am i dead? (qon spoilers ahead)
cardan: “This is my room. And that’s my wife.”
me:
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*literally two lines later*
jude: "Oh, I don’t know. Maybe he’d like to hear me scream.”
cardan: “I would. And perhaps one day I will.”
me:
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2K notes · View notes
runicrigel · 4 years
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The Dead Hen
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Author’s Note:  In November of 2019 I went to live off grid and work on an organic farm outside of Austin, Texas for a month.  I stayed in a camper from 1973 I renovated and wrote small memoir blurbs.  This is one of the most poignant.
MEMOIR  POST 2 - THE DEAD HEN
“They’re dead,” I announced sagely.  "Everything and everyone dies.“  It was a finite statement made desperately upon a patch of sandy earth in southeast Texas.  I loosed a guttural, "Huuuugh!”  Into the sky, literally hanging my head back for additional dramatic effect.  For a moment, I was vaguely self-conscious about this display but no one was around other than the chickens at my feet, clucking and strutting.  One chicken crowed and stomped a single foot.  It flapped it’s wings as though acknowledging the death of the grey hen crumpled at our feet.  I stared at the odd ritual, then back to the corpse.
I understood both then and now that this level of gravitas is likely not befitting the life of a nameless hen. She is just, “chicken.”  But I have no direct experience with dead things, or escorting them to their final resting places.  When I was young I had a small dwarf hamster named Tutter that had died.  My dad had gently carried him into the computer room, cradled in a large, callous palm, and offered kindly, “Do you want to see him?”
“Nooooo!”  I howled, and ran out of the room.  Death is natural, but there was something terribly unnatural about it to me.  I wish I could say that uncanny feeling vacated with age and maturity but it didn’t exactly.  All I know is that  I couldn’t bare to see my little Tutter lifeless, even if he was but the size of a pair of cotton balls.
Those strong but tender hands that had once cupped my little dead hamster were cold when I wrapped my own hands around one of his palms.  "His hands are so cold.“  I’d remarked through a shutter and then tears broke free as I stood by the casket that made him seem so small.  I didn’t sob.  I just cried, hard, like a helpless person does.  When my father died we knew he had wanted a close casket funeral but somewhere along the line that idea had received an override by those left to grieve.  He hadn’t wanted people to remember him that way, and after the funeral, I had an inkling as to why.
As I stood both staring and trying to not look at this chicken memories flooded me of pets I’d known to pass.  I was there for my boyfriend when his cat was put to sleep, and when the other began to labor and then died right in his arms.  More than once I had considered how grateful I was to Spooky and Baldric that they had let me be there for them at the momentous occasion that is the end of a life.  Yet, when each feline was buried I had let Jason go alone, unable to look on their corpses.  Afraid of what I might see as they disappeared underneath a bed of loam.
I had always been this way.  When I was a girl and our dog delivered a stillborn litter I sobbed outside on the suburban sidewalk of our street in my nightgown while my younger sister (who wanted to be a nurse) helped my mother deliver the unmoving pups.  When my step-father’s brother killed himself I cried terribly at his funeral and was a ghost of myself for weeks.  It didn’t matter that he and I hadn’t been close.  I barely new him.  At a young age, every one of Death’s intrusive visits were otherworldly and bitter.
And now there was this nameless chicken, it’s death incomparable to my father’s own.  This defiant chicken, who had decided to die during my journey of healing and renewal.  Rude.
She had been refusing to sleep in the coop for days — opting to hide under it at night instead.  While the others piled into the coop to be stowed away from the jaws of coyote or other predators, she scrambled under it to take her chances.  Only when the sun warmed the sky and the coops were opened to let the others flutter out to feed, did she enter to perch alone.
Looking back on it, this behavior was likely indicative that she was nearing the end of her life.  That night she had died under the coop and now she was laying there so still — like a pile of slate feathers.  Morning dew glistened on her neck.  When I’d come upon her I’d gasped in surprise.  It was apparent immediately that she was dead, lying in a completely unnatural slump unachievable in life.
I knew right away that it was unsanitary for her to stay lying there.  It was also my first day completely alone on the farm.  There was no one I could defer the task of moving her to.  No one to set upon this task that I myself had always avoided.  So now here I was howling into the sky, trying to convince myself that this chicken was dead and that no matter how much I didn’t want to touch it I had to touch it and move it out of the pen.
I stood in the sand trying to force my brain to reckon with the fact that the chicken was not going to move.  "It isn’t sick or debilitated.  It’s dead.  It’s not going to move now or ever again.  Really?  Are we sure.”  I had to process, “No it’s really never moving again and nothing I do can change that.  It’s final.”  I felt cold some where deep inside.
I’m on a farm. And chickens die on a farm sometimes.  "Where there’s livestock, there’s deadstock,“ John (the farmer and my host) had warned me with a chuckle.  
"Goddammit.”  The sentimental, mostly vegetarian in me, wanted to say something to mark this occasion which I’m sure my hosts, now callous to chicken death, would’ve have groaned or laughed at.  This chicken didn’t even have a name.  It’s just a chicken.  And now it died.  It’s no one’s fault, it just died and that’s how things were.  "You were a good chicken,“ I finally decided on with a gulp.  Was she?  I have no idea.
I reached down with my work gloves, the body felt heavy and everything in my body crawled.  I stepped back.  Another five minutes explaining to myself things die, and this was my task.  I was going to hold my own on this farm, so help me.
Another round of my mind flashing back to the pets I’d watched surrender to darkness and what I had learned from those moments.  I thought of what it might be like when my dogs pass.  Would I be so remiss then to cradle their small bodies one last time?   My heart broke a little at that thought but I knelt down, took a deep breath and very gently lifted the hen from the ground.
It’s bony feet were curled.  It’s tiny head and bushy neck lulled back almost delicately.  I rested the little body in a tote and found myself adjusting it so that it wouldn’t lay on its head or neck, as though it might find that uncomfortable.  I had to remind myself that she no longer felt anything.  I carried the tote away from my body illogically anticipating the chicken might spring out at me, and then as my boots crunched up the hill I huddled the tote more comfortably to my body.  I trekked along in resigned silence.
I got to the house in time to see that John was just pulling out.  I hadn’t missed him after all.  He lifted the creature by its feet and rest it in the back of his truck. "It took everything in me to pick up that chicken.”  I confessed.  He gave me a smile that was both sympathetic but rueful.
“Sometimes chickens just die, it probably won’t be the last time.” I nodded and wished him safe travels.  He bid me a good day.  I crunched back up the hill and stowed the once again empty tote in my Jeep.
I embarked on this journey largely in part because my father’s death had left me feeling changed, hollow and wounded. Stowed in the confines of a suburban household I was listless, heavy.  The walls became a reflective chamber with no tunnels or corridors towards escape.  There was only rumination of thought like chewing on already regurgitated cud.  I could not obtain peace through anything side of me, it was time to reach outward.
During my walks among the rustling leaves and cool nights however, I had felt free.  Something called me beyond the shores of a linear lifetime spent roaming a cage of drywall.  I yearned to  — if not attain my father’s joy for life and those he loved — then to at least strive towards it.  I wanted to work with my hands, feel fatigue in my body at night and go to bed satisfied with my day’s work.
I thought of my Zazen Buddhist practice and studies.  I recalled, as I often do, the stories of the Buddha, sitting in meditation, legs crossed with his fingertips pressed to the earth. It’s called the Earth Witness mudra.  The story goes that as Siddartha obtained enlightenment under the bodhi tree he reached down to touch the earth, quite literally grounding himself, and the Earth cried, “I am his witness.”  Fibers of carpet and scored linoleum did not offer the same effect I yearned for.  I wanted to go to bed with dirt under my nails.  I wanted to touch the earth.
So I embarked in a camper that’s older than I am and took a chance on this gorgeous farm in southeast Texas ran by one of the most generous married couples I have ever encountered.
The stages of grief and the stages of enlightenment share a certain quality.  The pursuit of acceptance.  Part of life is sitting with death, and I am grateful to this nameless chicken who taught me another lesson.  As I took that small body into my hands, and lifted it from the sand I believe I cradled acceptance there too.  Maybe there isn’t as much gravitas in the death of a single bird as I wanted to assign to it, but maybe there was just enough.
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tutti-writes · 5 years
Text
Let’s Play a Game of Ghost or Hallucination
You’re dead.
           You’re gone. You’ve kicked the bucket. You saw the light. You are no longer alive. Alive and you are now mutually exclusive entities. You have run out of time. You are six feet under. You gave up the ghost. You went out for a pack of smokes and ended up in the gutter. You pulled the trigger and it worked. You are dead. You are a once was. You are a has been. You are fucking goddamned wasted.
           You’re dead.
There’s a lot of living people do without ever being alive.
           FUCK! Another wasted hour on a deadbeat score. I sit up and crouch over the steel bench, warming the goosebumps popping on my arms with the rub of my hands. I cannot say I am particularly surprised. I pushed the embalming fluid through Mortimer Saperstein’s blotchy purple shoulder almost four days ago. The effects of the fluid wear off by day two; day three if the person really fucking believed in something. No, Mortimer was a goddamned Catholic. You can’t get a day three out of shoulder tapping and breadcrumbs, let alone a day four.
           A huff and a sigh expel from my lips causing a white puff to form as I shove the frozen Mr. Saperstein back into the freezer once more. My dry cracked fingers squeeze my temple as I turn around to scan the area for who could quell this ache. Fuck, I needed a fix and I needed it bad.
           I take a spin around the room, opening and closing the metal bins in search of some morsel not gone stale of fridge aftertaste and rotting innards….
Now for the ever-popular Morgue Styles of the Stiff and Lifeless, featuring Hedy Lincoln, Rose DeMastris, and Leeroy Ginkin. Hedy was an art teacher from Pekin whose rollover time in the peace movement of the sixties earned her a fine for doping it up in the oncology bathroom just before she croaked.  Rose studied English Literature in Chicago until a wealthy proctologist persuaded her into mastering the domestic life. She died surrounded by family, without a book in sight. Lastly, poor Leeroy. Leeroy led his life fighting the good fight. From becoming a respected black soldier in WWII to being beaten by police at a peaceful protest. What a hero! He froze to death alone in a back alley, homeless.
           Goddammit! Fuck! Shit! Damn! Hell! Fuck on a stick on a brick none of these yesterday’s headlines will work. Hedy and Rose will get their time in the casket spotlight tomorrow morning, a week after their arrival. I’m not going to risk fucking up my work for a less than ten percent chance of a high, no matter how devout Rose was.  It’s been two weeks since Leeroy came to join us and we still can’t find his family. Three weeks since the subzero temperatures petrified Leeroy’s feeble shivering body causing his organs to shut down one by one until not even a last breath was left.
           BAM! The sound of my slamming Leeroy’s slot shot through the room.  I glance up at my metallic reflection in the locker. Dark brown twists matted and rested in waves of a tangled nest of unwashed, unbrushed hair. A complexion paler than beach sand barely reflected against the white walls behind. White walls are my tiny body’s camouflage. The most prominent feature beyond the dip in the bridge of the nose was the dark smudging circles encasing the startling light green eyes. Part of the bruise looking came from unwashed eyeliner, the other half from four nights without sleep.
           This is what you did with your life. You took the heaping piles of money your fucking Romeo and Juliet parents left you and bought a fucking funeral home. Not a pony, not a car, not  a goddamned Italian Villa….but a hearse and a mortuary.
BEEBOOPBEEBOOOP…..
           The sound of my cell phone breaks me from my moment of pity. I dig the rectangular device from the black hole of a pocket in my charcoal colored smock and swipe over the scratches on the screen several times before it allows an answer.
           It’s Cadence.
           “Yeah?” I ask.
           “Got one for you. Coming in around back in five minutes,” she says and immediately hangs up.  
           The tension releases from my shoulders and I race up the stairs to tell my apprentice to get ready for a new arrival.
           “C’mon Marley! We got an un-live one!” I yell reaching the top of the stairs. Marley’s obnoxiously large suede shoes appear in the kitchen entryway a second before the rest of his towering gangly self catches up. His tan skin appears darker in the shadowed entryway as he stands peeling a banana, shoving it whole into his mouth before speaking.
           “Y’know, I did not find that funny the first time you said it. I still don’t.” he manages to clearly say amidst the mushy chomps and hint of a British accent, the result of his living in London for twelve of his childhood years. He came to live with his aunt after his parents died in an accident. Maybe that is why I took him on as my first apprentice; some orphan bond or orphan hood or something. We both have dead parents, just his did not involve matching revolvers.
           “Look, I don’t have time to argue if Brits even have a sense of humor. Cadance has a new client for us to meet. Should be arriving any minute. So please, swallow your banana in your unusually large throat and make yourself useful.” I say, emphasizing the double entendre of his throat size until a red flush grazes over his modelesque cheek bones. I swear, if death did not fuck people up, he’d be in Hollywood.
           Marley rolls his iridescent mahogany eyes and shrugs his squared shoulders as the buzzer rings. His robin’s egg blue polo ripples catching the whites of the overhead light as he makes his way past the four tables adorned with fake flower arrangements. I stare down at the just flung grey patterned carpet to avoid the wind of the doors Marley just flung open. I chose grey to mask any stains, and carpet to muffle sounds of feet and falling. People are so unaware of how many of their loved ones tipped over like wine bottles being carried in.
           “Ms. Hugh, I believe we are going to need your help. This fellow is rather large.” Marley says.
           “Will you fucking not call me….” I begin.
           “Darcy.” He grins as a child in knowledge of their own mischief.
           We roll in our new resident, who Cadence calls Jason Malone. I ask how he bit the dust and she explains he literally bit it on a back road on his motorcycle. Not necessarily the smoke and glory most riders aim for, but I guess it is better than my last rough rider who died of dysentery in a men’s stall in Jersey. Cadence and I tuck Jason Malone in on top the of the cool metal frame of the morgue car before she departs. She waves through the thin window of as it shuts with a thud. Cadence hates how clinical the morgue smells so she always leaves quickly, but frosted guts and Lysol is the odor of home to me.
           “48. Wife. Children. Bloody hell grandchildren. Geesh, what a mess.” Marley exclaims flipping through the police and coroner reports, breathing deep heaving sighs. He keeps his empathy as a family crest, or as the only family he has left I’m not sure which. The iridescence in his eyes flicker to a dark, almost reaper black, as he turns to put down the file and pick up the disinfectant.
           “Marley, it’s late. Why don’t you call it a night? I got it.” I say, giving him an out to escape.
           “I’d rather stay and learn…” He begins.
           The grit of getting past the tinge of loneliness lingering on every syllable he spoke and getting to my oasis outweighed any faculty of loyalty to his teaching. “This is going to be a solo job, tonight. Got it?” It is past six in the evening. The family shouldn’t call for arrangements until tomorrow. Marley can compose himself tonight and deal with them tomorrow.
           “Yeah, yeah, yeah. If I’m to learn anything you’ve got to let me help sometime…” He said, drifting off in defeat as he saw my shrug of an care when the door drew shut.
           I begin the process and make Mr. Malone a sparkling gem, certified clean by scientists and moms everywhere. The needle goes into the artery of his right shoulder next to his chivalrous and patriotic tattoo of an eagle emerging from the American flag with U.S.S. Navy written underneath. The deep crimson and purplish hued blood drains and pours from the body like nectar in a sieve. When all the life juice finally drips from his veins I fill him back up with the fluid that makes people look like people and not rotting masticated meat from Thanksgiving dinner. I finish through the veins and replicate the procedure through the abdomen. And there lay Jason Malone, safe and soundless.
           Washing up I barely kept my fingers from twinging in anticipation. The lock clanked as I chained the door and dimmed the lights to where everything was barely detectable. Grabbing a syringe from the cabinet next to the washing station, I held it to get a reflection and smiled openly at the prize before extracting some of the embalming fluid from Jason’s tattooed shoulder.
           What do you believe? What is your life after death? Do you stay in your memories and relive your childhood and children? Do you anal fuck twelve virgins because you deserve it? Do you reach heaven’s gate? Do you stay here on earth reliving your homerun over and over? Do you find the cure to cancer? Do you sit with Buddha? Allah? God?
           This is what I find out. What you believe is what I get off on.
I sit back in my frigid chair and use my teeth and my right arm to wrap the tourniquet around and tie to reveal my vein. The needle pierces the already circular red marking and I breathe in relief.
           They ask:
How does she know what music my grandma likes?
           Why does she know the names of unknown corpses?
           Why does she seem so familiar to my brother/mother/aunt/sister?
           I’m not a fucking psychic. I’m not a fucking medium. I’m fucking high.
           I’m tripping balls on grannies’ memories. I’m getting fucked up on grandpa’s Jesus juice. I’m walking next to fucking John Lennon on a bed of clouds with your acid dipping uncle. I am watching your priest blow David Bowie dressed in feathers and glitter.  
           This is my stage and I must perform. In front of the bereaved I am the goddamned ringmaster and I light up the show. But here? Behind the curtain, I am the hallucinogenic spectator with popcorn and a beer. You die, I get fried.
           The rooms clinical atmosphere begins to shape shift as I hear the chain stretch and I jolt up with a start. The cart in front of me crashes and the needle spins into unknown places.
           “What the fuck!” I shout, looking heinously at the idiot who dared to disturb me.
           “Sorry Ms- I mean Darcy. But…the Malones just arrived.” He stammers.
           “Who?” I manage to say amidst the fluttering orbs of light around me.
           Marley points to the corpse on the slab. “Mr. Malones family is here to see about him.”
           The hallucinations pour from a liquid state to a solid and I freeze, staring wide-eyed back at Marley’s casual overcoat. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. An infinite amount of fucks for this situation. I am at the tipping point of nonsense and about to enter the green fields of Jason Malone’s eternal happiness when my own eternal damnation personified in Marley’s earnest voice slashes the whole illusion to pieces. I’m running in strides back to the reality line…
           “Darcy? Darcy? DARCY!” Marley’s voice turns to an almost hysteria as the clanks of him tying to barge through the door snap me to the present. “Darcy open the damn door!”
           “Alright, alright. Jesus, Marley, who knew you even had a pair of anything.” I assure him of my state of being in my own quip nature as I pull the chain out of it’s lock. Marley treads back a couple steps and looks me up and down, studying.
           “Are you alr-“He begins to ask.
           “I’m fine.” I bat back quickly.
           “But your eyes, they’re dark and your pupils are…”
           “And Oh My, grandma, what big teeth you have!” I reprimand sarcastically, cutting him to a place that makes him wince back in hurt.
           “Well, you look like shit and you smell ghastly.” Marley manages to say with a singe. I am actually impressed by his tone, but not enough to show it.
           “What I am is considerably irritated. I’ll use the back way and shower quickly, change, and be back in ten. Just stall, okay?” I state, and Marley begrudgingly offers a nod of adherence. I know he wants to ask more but there isn’t the time. He couldn’t have seen everything, but he saw enough to warrant an inquiry.  Thank the godless I installed the chain on the door.
Once Marley sways his dancers’ hips around and disappears to the upstairs I return to my state of frenzy as before he called my name. The door sweeps my hair behind me as I fling it as fast as it can open, searching the floor with eyes for any sign of the needle. Five fucking years of painstakingly careful execution of hiding my high ended at my own foil. Good job, Darcy, your common failure of crash and burn now comes to your favorite hobby.
On this episode of: Dude, Where’s My Needle? I hit the floor on hands and knees and scour the place to find my evidence. The jagged edges of my fingernails extend out in marks along a black tar highway. Wind brushes through my arms and around my waist as I stare forward to the dreamy fuchsia, orange, and burning yellow sunset horizon….
           Shit. I shake myself and the horizon fades black into the marble flooring. With a push, I jump from the floor and look at the standard doctor’s office plastic clock. Three minutes I lost on Mr. Malones highway ride. There’s no fucking time to find the damn needle.
A shine gleams off Jason Malone’s nose as I shut off the light. My fingers flip the switch back on and I walk in inches towards the corpse. There, atop the corpse like a birthday cake for a funeral, the needle stands up. The tip of the needle stuck directly in Jason’s wide bridged nose. I poke the top of the injector and it waves back and forth like a metronome. It’s real, I’m sure of it I think, as I grab it and fling it into the wastebasket before heading upstairs to my quarters.
I don’t stop to turn on the light and illuminate the catastrophe that I call my upstairs apartment. Trudge through, shower, move the fuck right along. No amount of makeup will ever cover the hollowness incased in a shell of a tiny little pale whiny bitch such as myself. Suck it up, fucker, you’ve got business to do. You do your best work while being barely alive.
           The echo of grinding my teeth ricochets in my brain as I stomp down the stairs. Fucking high cock blockers, this family, coming in here unannounced after hours. The dead may not keep hours, but I sure as hell do. I curse Jason Malone’s nightshade blue motorcycle and  put on my “condolences” face as I enter.
           Action! Time for the scene. Sweet docile funeral director enters stage left with a woeful demeanor and a basket full of tissues. She assures them their dearly departed is in the best of care while handing the grieved a napkin to wipe their fresh and relieved tears away. The director keeps decorum and shows the best salesman review of how to usher the dead a final farewell…
           “It’s about damn time you get here!” croaks a raspy male voice.
           Marley chimes in ahead of me, “Ms. Hugh, this is the Malone family. Everyone, this is Ms. Hugh, our director here at…”
           Each of the family members give me their names. Old lady grey-fro is first to tell me she is the poor Jason Malone’s mother, Blanche. To the left of her sits her leather clad biker gang appearing eldest daughter, Marie, who despite her appearance talks in a delicate voice. Next to Marie, pen and paper ready for notes and blonde hair disguising her face, a girl who says her name is Roe. Across the table Jason’s older daughter Mona attends to two children while her husband Brent introduces them. Seated to my right in a barely audible voice a petite woman tells me she is Jason’s wife, Diana.
           “Okay,” I say, “Now that I know at least your names, I think we can begin to talk about the arrangements if you are ready.” The quiet of reluctancy puts everyone to a silent moment. It’s the type of silence I hear nearly every day. The silence that screams, “No we’re not fucking ready!” No one is every fucking ready, especially not this crowd.
           An overpowering scent of musk chokes me as Grandma Blanche leans over passed any personal space and plants her bosom on my shoulders, adjusting her silver spectacles to look. “You see,” Blanch points… “right there…I want that one and….”
           “Jason….JASON….are you even listening to me? Bet you can’t hear a damn word I’m saying on that motorbike of yours. You love that motorcycle than you do your own mother! You hear me! I’m done!”
           I’m blinded by bright lights and the honking of a large vehicle……AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.
SMACK!
           “Mom doesn’t want that package, Grandma, she wants this one.” The voice said dragging me back to reality with a jolt. It was Mona’s manicured finger with I am sure some polish titled, “Slutty Pink” or “Tit Juice” or some other obnoxious name for fucking pink contrived by the bored and corporate. Tit juice nails Mona’s colored her thin lips in with almost the same color lipstick and rouge for her cheeks. She talked like a reject eighties popstar from New Jersey with hair to match.
           Blanch places a hand to her heart as if she’s a thespian of a great Shakespearean work in the deep south., “But, I am…”
           Mona cocks her head and points her index like a trigger, “I don’t care who the hell you think you are, but that’s my dad and over there is his motherfucking wife, so if you don’t just back off…”
           “I AM HIS MOTHER!!!!!” Blanche exploded, throwing both her hands in the air like this expression should render awe and applause from the audience instead of eye rolls.  “Fine, fine, FINE! I can see I’m not wanted here. None of my kids care about me. My grandkids don’t care about me. I’m leaving!” Blanche’s hair ignites in a grey fire as she leaves the room, but I know that’s just the hallucinogens…I think. Marie and Diana chase after her, but no one shouts, “FIRE” so it’s just me tripping balls. I can deal with their fucking crazy, I just have to keep my fucking unreal crazy separated from their crazy. Sometimes reality is more batshit than tripping balls on highway to heaven.
           “Now, mom, no one wants you to go anywhere. We want you here. But we..” I hear Marie tell her mother in as calming a tone as possible.
           “I don’t think my poor heart can take any more, Marie! No one knows how hard it is to be me right now. I’m his mother!” Blanche says in sobs that put the Academy to shame. The award of the night, however, did not fall to her, but to Mona. She leapt up, leaving behind a mist of hairspray and face powder behind her and shuffled out the door.
           “Oh, hell the fuck no!” she exclaimed as she walked out, her black dress flowing behind her like a cape in heroic flight to the villain. I don’t think I’d have a better vision stoned in the basement. Super Tit Juice rushed towards her grandmother followed by her sister and husband who ran passed me to hold her back. I went to the entrance to calm down the commotion when I felt a tug on the back of my skirt.
           I turn around to see a girl no more than five looking up at me. Her features were barely grown but enough to know she’d always have dainty features. She looked down and tugged at the hem of her floral dress before she asked, “Aren’t you the funeral lady?”
           “Yes, yes I am.” I say sweetly.
           “Where does he go now?” she asks genuinely. Her bangs tread around her eyeline giving the impression her eyes are twice the size than their normal state as the sea blues begin to flood with burgeoning tears. Fuck, I had to come up with something. Luckily, my extracurriculars make this occupational hazard easy.
           I bend my knees to reach her level and place her hand into mine. “You see, there is a bright green field and a never-ending stretch of highway, and he never has to get off his motorcycle. The skies are always clear and never rainy. And every evening has the most beautiful sunset where he can ride and never get weary.”
           “Are you sure?” she questions, pursing her thin lips together.
           I smile almost completely sincerely, the top of my overbite protruding over my lower lip, “You know what? I had a lot of those same questions when I lost my parents at a young age. It is one of those questions if you focus on too much, you’ll miss every real thing right in front of you searching for the afterlife. But I can assure you almost one hundred percent, he is where he believes is the happiest place for him.” The happiness shining on her face suggests she understands as much as a five-year-old can. The girl giggles and skips down the hallway.
           My head throbs as I turn back around to the screaming match between Blanche and Mona. Here we are ladies and gentlemen for another round of Family Smackdown! Here in the first corner sporting her turn of the century musk de old person and fanny pack, It’s Our Fair Lady Grey-Fro with the dramatics to keep you sighing and the pacemaker to keep her going, going, going.
In the adjacent corner, wearing her patent ant Pepto-Bismol colored and decades old everything, is Super Tit Juice! When she’s not busy fighting for family justice, she can be seen at the local dollar mart getting a fresh manicure for those cat scratches!
One-Two-Three- Let’s go! First strike comes from Grey fro with a swift, “I’m your grandmother you won’t treat like that!” But Super Tit Juice recoils quickly with a, “You’ve never been there for us!” Grey fro takes a few paces back to recover but then comes from behind with a “I’m not going to be around forever, you know! “Super TitJuice is no fool and grabs Greyfro by the head and body slams her with a, “It’s not about you right now! It’s about our dad and he’s dead!” One-Two-Three-Four-Five-Six-Seven-Eight-Nine-Ten. Victory!
“If you all are finished, we can adjourn back in the room. Otherwise, the police can escort you out.” I say, causing everyone to file in silently to the conference room.
Once seated, I begin, “Everyone here is very passionate, and that can be a good and bad thing. Sometimes it allows us to show those who have passed how much we love them. Sometimes it makes us say things we regret…And sometimes you can’t take back what you say before it’s too late,” I pause on my words and Blanche settles a little lower in her seat and looks away, “But what we can do now is sit here and decide together what Jason would have wanted. Jesus Christ, this little girl here acted with more common sense than any-“  the looks of bewilderment on everyone’s faces stopped me in my moment of rally.
           “Uh, Darce..” Marley interjects quizzically.
           “What” I asked.
           “What girl are you talking about?”
           “His granddaughter.”
           “Darcy, Mr. Malone only has grandsons.”
           Fuck.
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Passive-Aggressive Undertaking
Title: Passive-Aggressive Undertaking Link Pairings: Dean/Ketch/Meg (poly v), Dean/Ketch, Dean/Meg Square Filled: Enemies to Lovers Tags: Prank Wars, Business Rivals, Enemies to Lovers, Hate Sex, Rough Sex, Frottage, Polyamory, Poly V, Open Relationships, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Aromantic Dean Winchester, Aromantic Meg Masters, Pansexual Arthur Ketch, Biting, Hair-pulling, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, funeral homes, Morticians, Fist Fights Summary: Dean hates Arthur Ketch. It's bad enough that the asshole keeps stealing his clients, but once they get caught up in a prank war the bastard has the audacity to actually be good at that, too. Meg thinks they should just fuck it out, but Dean's determined that he's going to win this one. 
“That motherfucker,” Dean hissed, jerking away from the blinds. He turned away from the window, crossing his arms over his chest, huffing.
“What’d Arty do now?” Meg asked. She was across the room, polishing the dark wood of the china cabinet across the room.
“The Adlers,” Dean said, “he sniped the Adlers.”
“Ouch,” Meg said, pulling a butterscotch candy out of her pocket and plopping it in her mouth.
“I’ve been waiting five years for that bastard Zachariah to die and what happens? Fucking Ketch swipes him right from under my nose. I was this close!” Dean held up two fingers, less than a centimeter of space between them.
“Yeah, well, you don’t have exclusive rights to dead folks, Dean,” Meg said around her candy.
“They picked out a casket!”
“Yeah, but they didn’t start paying for it,” Meg said.
Dean sighed. For years, he and Meg had been the premier funeral providers for Salina and the surrounding small Kansas towns. Most people didn’t want to drive all the way to Wichita to handle the care of their dead relatives, and Dean had found himself dealing with entire lines of families, arranging for caskets and funeral plots for entire generations of families, like his grandfather before him. It was a morbid business, but it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. For the most part, all he had to do was provide a solid and sympathetic presence, guiding grieving family members through the final decisions they’d ever make for their loved ones. He didn’t do the embalming; that he left to Meg and Ash, who always made sure to make the departed look as life like and peaceful as possible.
It was a good business, and one he didn’t have to worry too much about competition in – that was until Arthur Ketch moved in across the street. Ketch decided to open up his own funeral home about a year prior, and he’d been steadily creeping on Dean’s business the entire time. It wasn’t even like he had better services or lower prices or anything like that because Dean had checked. If anything, he was gouging the hell out of people with the price of cremations and transportation. It was probably that fucking accent. Stupid British dude and his charming accent and his charismatic “I’m so good at this and you should trust me because I’m posh and shit” attitude. Fuck him.
Dean turned around, parting the blinds again and glaring out the window. There was Mrs. Adler, all dressed in black and walking into her car, trailed by her many children. The Herse was already waiting at the end of the parking lot, ready to drive out into traffic and take Adler to the graveyard. Damn. That man had wanted a massive headstone, too.
“That’s at least $20,000 driving away from us right now,” Dean said.
Meg scoffed. “You know, the way you talk people would think you’re some kind of dirtbag mooching off grieving old ladies.”
“You know it’s not like that,” Dean said.
“I know,” Meg said, coming up behind him, setting her hand on his shoulder, “still. It’s not that important. This is what? One account this month? We’re still in the green. It’s just one client.”
Dean shook his head. “Yeah, I know, but it’s the principal of the thing.”
“Dean, hon, we make stupid money off grieving people who only need a few minor prods and pokes to buy ‘hermetically sealed caskets’” she used freaking finger quotes and everything, “that just blow up anyway. We’re not the most squeaky clean in terms of truth and fairness. So this dickhead snapped up one of your clients, it’s not the end of the world.”
“You have a knack for making everything sound way worse than it actually is, you know that?”
“One of my many talents.”
Dean rolled his eyes, leaning over to kiss the top of her hand.
“Ugh,” she snorted, batting Dean’s head away playfully.
Dean rolled his eyes. “Don’t you have a stiff to look after?”
Meg snorted. “Fine, fine. Be that way. I’ll be in the back if you wanna bitch about your boyfriend some more,” she said, letting her hand slip down Dean’s back. She sauntered off towards the back room.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Dean hollered back.
~~~~~
“Goddammit!” Dean shouted, throwing the morning paper down on the kitchen table.
“What now?” Meg asked. Though he didn’t sigh or scoff at him (this time) Dean could tell by the flat tone of her voice that she was absolutely exasperated by him.
“Ketch did it again.”
“Did what?” She pushed the pedal down on the toaster, leaning back against the counter and sipping her coffee.
“You remember Naomi Milton?”
“Not especially.”
“She was a state senator for a while. Not important. Anyway, her memorial service is going to be at Ketch’s.”  
“Ouch.”
“I buried her mother!” Dean put his coffee cup to his lips, but it was empty. He glared down at it like it was somehow the cause of his distress.
Meg shrugged, grabbing her pop tarts as the toaster shot them out.
Dean pulled a face, mocking her shrug. “Is that really all you have to say about it?”
She sighed, plopping down in the chair across from him. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I’ve commiserated. I’ve offered advice. I gave you a blowie. I don’t know what else you want me to do. Ketch is a dick. A weirdly hot dick, but a dick. You’re gonna lose business to him and that’s just the way it is.”
Dean scowled at her. “He’s not hot.”
“You don’t think so? I figured he’d be right up your alley. Dark hair, strong jaw, looks like he could throw your subby ass around…”
“Okay! Not the point! The point is: I need to figure out what to do about this.”
“You mean other than spending more on advertising and moving on like a grown up?”
“Yes, other than spending money on ads. I’ve got to do something to keep him from stealing business.”
“Like?”
“I dunno yet.”
“Just don’t get arrested,” Meg said, biting into her pop tart, “I’m not bailing you out of jail. Again.”
“That was one time.”
Meg shook her head, brushing the crumbs away from her lips. “So, what are you thinking?”
“Yelp reviews.”
Meg snorted.
“What?”
“Yelp? Seriously? I don’t think anyone looks at Yelp when they’re looking to bury grandma.”
“Maybe I should send him a glitter bomb.”
Meg cackled at that. “You’re gonna send glitter to a funeral home?”
“Yeah! Why not? That’s a good idea right! No one gets hurt. Well, maybe his stupid fucking suit gets hurt. Plus no one is gonna want to deal with a dude covered in glitter when he’s not supposed to be.”
Meg shook her head, licking cherry pop tart filling off her fingers. “Whatever trips your trigger.”
Two short weeks later, Dean was pleased to see, while he was chatting with the landscaper in the parking lot, Ketch walking out of his funeral home, suit jacket off and tucked under his arm, the faintest glimmer of pink reflecting light in his hair. Dean waved, smirking.
~~~~
“Sonofabitch!” Dean yelled. He really should have known.
Meg rushed in, mask and gloves still on when she pushed through the door of his office. “What the fuck happened?”
Dean sighed, picking up the small cardboard tube on his desk, spring hanging out of the open end. “The fucker got me back,” he said.
Meg sighed, leaning over the desk and picking up one of the shiny purple cut outs. “He sent you dicks.” She chortled.
“Yup.”
“He sent you glittery purple dicks.”
“Yes, thank you, I’ve seen then,” Dean said gesturing to his front. There were glittery little dicks clinging to the front of his pants and his suit jacket. Thankfully they were better than the usual, microscopic craft herpes he’d sent Ketch, but this was almost worse. Greeting customers with glitter all over you made you look like an idiot, but greeting customers with glitter dicks all over you made you look like an immature idiot.
“You think you could stop by the house and get me some pants when you go for lunch?” Dean asked.
“No way, dude. You got yourself into this mess, you get your own pants,” Meg said.
“But you’re getting lunch in like,” Dean glanced at his watch, “fifteen minutes.”
“So you want me to waste my lunch hour getting both of us food, then go out of my way to get you pants when you could just go do it yourself?”
“I can’t go out in public like this.”
“You won’t be in public. All you have to do is walk to the parking lot.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Not gonna happen,” Meg sang, walking out the office door.
“You’re the worst, Meg,” Dean called out.
“Eat me!”
Dean sighed, looking down at his lap. He could probably get out of and into the car relatively easily, but then he’d track glitter dicks into the car, too.
When he got to the door of the Impala, he noticed Ketch, standing in his own parking lot next to his bike, smirking but not looking directly at Dean.
“That’s it,” Dean said once he closed the Impala door, “I’m sending him a dick.”
~~~
Dean was kind of an asshole. He could have chosen to send Ketch a dick from one of those internet sex shops, the ones that only shipped things in discrete packages, but there wasn’t any fun in that. How would he know that Ketch even got it if he didn’t get to see the aftermath? Plus he doubted it would cause the significant embarrassment he’d hoped it would. So, instead, Dean went to his usual place and bought a whole ten inches of realistic rubber cock complete with suction cup. It set him back about forty bucks, which was probably a little too much to pay for a little passive-aggressive revenge, but fuck it.
Shortly after the funeral home opened at seven in the morning and all the employees were in their places, Dean sprinted across the parking lot, licked the suction cup, and stuck it to the leather seat of Ketch’s bike.
Yeah, Dean was an asshole.
~~~~
It had been a long ass day. Dean had spent the day dealing with a couple of new clients, of them a young couple with a child who was way too interested in the caskets for a normal four-year-old, an old woman and her daughter who was more interested in keeping costs down than she was what her mom wanted, and a family that wanted to bury their son who’d recently died in a car accident. Needless to say, it was not a great day.
Dean was ready to just go home and pass out on the couch for a week. When he pulled onto the highway, however, that all changed. There was a strange, humming noise coming from inside the car. Dean immediately turned off the radio and shushed Meg, even though she wasn’t saying anything.
“Do you hear that?” He said, leaning into the dash as much as he could without taking his eyes off the road.
“Is that… humming?” Meg asked.
“That’s what it sounds like,” Dean said. Fuck. That’s just what he needed today. “I’m gonna pull over,” Dean said.
Meg didn’t have a chance to object before Dean was pulling off to the shoulder and flicking on the hazards. The humming stopped before Dean shut off the car, but Dean stepped out anyway, peeling his suit jacket off and rolling up his sleeves. He lifted the hood, peering down at the engine. Nothing seemed amiss. The fan and fan belt were fine, the engine block seemed okay, and all the hoses were fine. There wasn’t anything wrong with anything, as far as Dean could tell.
Dean got down in the dirt, looking under the car, just on the off chance that something had gotten lodged under the car. Nothing. Dean shook his head, sighing and getting back into the car and starting it up again. It didn’t take more than a few minutes for the humming to return.
“Fuck,” Dean hissed, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. “You’re hearing this right?”
Meg nodded, and Dean pulled off to the shoulder yet again. This time, Meg go out of the car with him.
“What do you think it is?” Meg asked.
“I don’t fucking know,” Dean grumbled. Still, nothing seemed off. “What time is it?”
“Six,” Meg said, glancing down at her phone.
“Fuck,” Dean grumbled. “Bobby’s garage isn’t gonna be open.”
“It’s not gonna blow up on us if we just drive it home, is it?” Meg asked.
“I don’t know. Probably not. I have a toolbox in the trunk. I wanna check the tire pressure real quick.”
Meg stepped back, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest. “Tires? Really?”
“I just wanna check,” Dean said, leaning into the open car door and pulling the keys out of the ignition. “I wanna make sure it’s not something stupid before I start looking at other shit.”
He had the trunk open when Meg spoke again. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” Dean asked.
“This thing, here in the grill right here.”
Dean set the small toolbox down in the dirt. “What thing in the grill?”
“This thing,” Meg reached down at the grill, pulling at something. “I think it’s taped.”
“The fuck?” Dean walked over, leaving the trunk open as Meg pulled up whatever was stuck there. She laughed, holding it out to Dean.
“What?” He took in the little lump of tape and flimsy white plastic. It had several rectangular holes along the front. Dean scowled. “It’s a fucking harmonica.”
Meg burst into laughter as Dean took the harmonica, doubling over on herself.
“A fucking harmonica! You’ve got to be kidding me! That dick!” He chucked the tape covered toy towards the open field on the side of the road.
“Okay,” Meg said, catching her breath, “but you’ve got to admit, that was really fucking clever.”
“It was fucking cruel is what it was.”
“Oh come on. It’s not like he really fucked with your car. That��s funny.”
Dean huffed, pouted as he slammed the hood closed a little topo hard. “Get in the car, Meg.”
Meg giggled the whole way home while Dean sulked, coming up with his next plan.
~~~
Two months later the feud between Dean and Ketch was still in full swing with no real signs of stopping. Things had steadily increased as well, though they were thankfully just short of need to get authorities involved, even if writing “Honk if you’re Horny” on the windows of the hearses in paint marker was technically vandalism. Also, thankfully, their vehicles had remained off limits after Dean retaliated for Ketch’s cling wrap around the Impala trick by putting Ketch’s bike in the bed of someone else’s truck. Dean sure was glad that he caught the intercepted floral arrangement one, though. It would have been beyond mortifying to show up to a funeral with a wreath that read “Congratulations on your Engagement”.
Dean also had a suspicion that Ketch had figured out a way into his business, in fact, he was positive of it, if for no other reason than that he had done the same damn thing. Granted, his was just to plant whoopee cushions in the best strategic places (under couch cushions in the lobby, wedged in the hinges of a few of the caskets of sale, and, of course on Ketch’s desk chair). When Dean walked into his office and slammed his knee directly into his deck, he’d known without a doubt that he’d been infiltrated as well. (Okay, so that was technically breaking and entering, too, but Dean wasn’t going to call the cops on Ketch for moving his freaking furniture.)
It had been three days without any sort of retaliation from Ketch when Dean found him in the casket showroom.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing in here?” Dean asked.
Ketch turned around, leaning up against one of the solid walnut caskets, bottle of scotch in hand.
“I wasn’t aware there was a rule against being in here during business hours,” Ketch said.
Dean rolled his eyes. “What do you want, Ketch?”
“I propose a truce,” Ketch said, raising his right hand and the bottle of scotch therein.
“You givin’ up that easy?” Dean asked, “Didn’t think you were the type.”
“I suppose you haven’t found the tarantula yet, then.”
“What tarantula?”
“Never mind. The point is this has gone on long enough wouldn’t you say?”
Dean snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sounds like something someone would say when he’s all out of ideas.”
Ketch huffed. “Right. I could easily drag this out until kingdom come if that’s what you really want. But as it is we both had to deal with each other. We see each other every day and unless you want to continue to drive us both insane with pranks and retaliations and potential clients turned away I’d say it’s in both of our interests to act like adults and sort this out.”
“So this is you being the bigger man then?”
“Naturally.” Ketch’s eyes skimmed up and down Dean’s form and Dean couldn’t help scoffing.
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Art. Sounds to me like you’re just certain you’re gonna lose but whatever. You wanna call and end to this, fine, we call and end to it, but you need to quit sniping my business.”
“Your business?”
“Yeah. The Alders, the Milton’s, the Richardson’s. They were practically done deals until you showed up and grabbed them right from under my nose.”
“Perhaps you’ve just grown complacent. You were the only funeral home in the area for quite some time. Maybe your former customers enjoy having an option.”
“Please. You’re not special. If anything you’re more expensive than I am.”
“Perhaps. But I’m charming.”
“You’re somethin’ alright.”
“As I was saying – “
“Nope. I’m not dropping this. You stop swiping my customers or I’m going to continue sticking cellophane dicks to your windows and whatever else I can think of.”
“That’s mature of you,” Ketch said, smiling.
“Oh, fuck you. You started it with the dick glitter.”
“Only because you send me glitter first.”
“Because you swiped my clients!”
Ketch rolled his eyes, setting the bottle of scotch down on the closed lid of the coffin he’d been leaning on. He strode over and walked right into Dean’s space. “What do you expect from me? Should I ask your permission before I can take on any new clients? Perhaps you just can’t handle the fact that I’m better at this than you are.”
Dean squared his shoulders, staring Ketch in the face. “Maybe you’re just an asshole.”
A small smirk lifted the corner of Ketch’s lips. “I might be an asshole but at least I can keep my clients.”
Dean shoved Ketch’s shoulders. He swayed on his feet but kept standing. “Is that the way it’s going to be then?”
Dean didn’t say anything, he just sneered and stepped right into Ketch’s way as he tried to slip past Dean.
Dean wasn’t sure what he was expecting or why he felt the need to get physical. He wasn’t even sure who technically threw the first punch, all he knew was that he’d thrown his jacket on the floor and unbuttoned his wrist cuffs and Ketch had done the same. They were mostly dancing around each other, ducking and swinging until Dean overextended and lost his footing. Before he knew it he was thrown against the back of a casket, his face flat against the polished wood.
“Really, Dean? A fist fight in your place of business. I thought you’d be better than that,” Ketch said.
Dean thrust his hips backward, his ass brushing against Ketch’s groin.  He hooked his ankle around Ketch’s and pushed backward, harder. Ketch lost his balance, falling to the floor with Dean in his lap. Dean swung his legs around, knees on either side of Ketch’s waist before grabbing his wrists and pinning them to the floor. They were both a little flushed, their chests rising and falling with each deep breath.
“You give yet?” Dean asked, panting.
Ketch scowled up at him, planting his feet on the ground before thrusting upwards and jostling Dean enough to make him lose his balance and fall forward so their chests pressed together.
“At least buy me dinner first,” Dean laughed. His laughter dissipated, however, when he could feel the hard line of Ketch’s erection against his hip.
“Oh, sorry,” Dean said, letting go of Ketch’s wrists and rising up. Of course, Ketch took the opportunity to flip them so that he was looming over Dean, the two still connected at the hip.
“Really, dude?” Dean asked.
Ketch raised an eyebrow, self-satisfied smirk on his lips. “I saw an opportunity and I took it.”
“You’re an asshole,” Dean said rolling his hips. Ketch’s smirk fell and a soft groan fell from his lips.
“You don’t exactly play fair either. Though, if you didn’t have a girlfriend…”
“Meg’s not my girlfriend.”
Ketch perked up a bit, still looming over Dean. “No? You live together, don’t you? Sleep in the same bed?”
“Yeah well, she’s not… It’s a platonic life partner thing but we also have sex.”
“So a girlfriend?”
“Well, I guess if you wanna call it that but we’re not exclusive. We’ve both had other partners.”
“So she wouldn’t mind if I did this?” Ketch’s lips were on Dean’s in an instant, hot and demanding, his tongue flicking against Dean’s lips. He ground down into Dean’s crotch, brushing against his growing erection, causing Dean to gasps. Ketch then slide his tongue inside, licking at the inside of Dean’s mouth but never giving Dean the chance to reciprocate. He pulled back, hovering just out of Dean’s reach.
“Yeah… she’d uh, she’d be okay with that.”
Ketch smirked, leaning down to bite at Dean’s bottom lip.  Dean squirmed, groaning. Ketch chuckled, thick and heavy against Dean’s skin.
“Dude, let me up!” Dean said.
“Why? I’m enjoying you like this.”
“Yeah, but if you don’t let me up this ain’t gonna get very far.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ketch said, grinding his hips down and making Dean gasp, “I’m enjoying myself.”
“Asshole,” Dean huffed. “I’m not ruining these pants.”
Ketch rolled his eyes but released Dean’s wrists, his hands then pulling at the buttons on Dean’s shirt collar. Dean attempted to roll them over, but Ketch wasn’t budging, and Dean gave up in favor of tearing at Ketch’s belt and pants buttons.
Ketch wasted no time sucking on Dean’s neck and collar bones as soon as the skin was bare, biting down a little too hard and making Dean groan. He pulled Ketch’s hair, jerking him off, only for the man to stare down at him with wide eyes after his eyelids stopped fluttering. They kissed again, fighting each other the whole way.
There was more biting, most of which Dean was certain was going to bruise but he didn’t especially care. He liked the fight. Meg was good at being rough when he wanted it, but it was always an illusion of power when he was with her. Neither of them forgot the fact that Dean could easily throw her off him whenever he wanted, but Ketch was different. He was firmer, more solid. He really could pin Dean to the floor and make him fight for it.
Ketch let out a loud moan as Dean bit into his shoulder. He pushed Ketch’s shirt up and out of the way as he scraped his nails across his ribs. Dean unbuttoned his own pants before slipping them and his boxers halfway down his thighs. Ketch sat up, following suit before pouncing on Dean once again and rolling his hips. Their cocks ground together, and Dean threw his head back against the hard carpet, moaning.
He bucked up to match the rough pace. It was almost too fast and too hard, but it was what he needed. He could do much more than scratch and claw the skin of Ketch’s back digging in and hopefully leaving marks.
“Fuck!” Dean barked, digging his nails into the meat of Ketch’s ass.
Ketch groaned then chuckled, his breath hot and warm against Dean’s ear. “That all you got, Winchester?”
His words came out more as a series of pants than as a sentence, but Dean took it as a challenge nonetheless. He grabbed on to the globes of Ketch’s ass, pulling him hard into his own hips. Ketch hissed as Dean bit down on his neck, not hard enough to mark but hard enough to warn and pulled him in as he thrust upward. Ketch’s balls slid up and down against Dean’s cock and Ketch shuddered.
Dean then flipped them, this time successfully, planting his hands on either side of Ketch’s head. Dean rolled his hips hard and fast and Ketch clutched at his arms before whimpering pitifully. The buttons on Dean’s open shirt kept smacking against his stomach, hard enough to sting up not nearly hard enough for Dean to stop.
“This good enough for you?” Dean taunted, gasping when the heads of their cocks rubbed together.
Ketch groaned through gritted teeth.
“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”
“F-fuck you.” Ketch hissed. His grip on Dean’s arms tightened, and his hips jerked in an uncoordinated pattern as much as Dean would allow.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought you said.” Dean leaned his weight on one hand, using the other to take both of their cocks and once and jerk them together. It only took half a dozen strokes of his hand and a few halfhearted jerks before Ketch was coming with a strangled moan. Dean jerked himself as fast as he could before he was coming, too, all over Ketch’s bare stomach. Luckily, he had the forethought to fall to his side and land on the floor.
It took a few minutes of gasping and deep breathing for Dean to register the slow clapping coming from the doorway of the showroom.
“Nice job, boys,” Meg said, leaning against the doorframe.
“Aw, fuck,” Dean groaned.
Ketch sat up but didn’t move to cover himself. “Oh. I didn’t know you were here.”
“Yeah, well, you’re damn lucky I was because someone had to make sure the closed sign was up. Not that that wasn’t worthy of an audience.”
Fuck. Dean didn’t even think about it. As bad as the stupid shit was there was probably no way to lose business faster than to get caught fucking on the showroom floor. “Thanks, Meg.”
“Yeah, yeah. You want a towel or something?”
“That would be appreciated.”
“Oh, but first,” Meg said, smirking, “there is something I need to hear.”
“Please?”
“Nu-uh.”
Dean rolled his eyes and threw his arm over his face. “This changes nothing, Meg. Hate sex does not negate business rivalry nor does it put a halt on the prank war.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ketch piped up, “I was willing to call the pranks to an end before all this. And perhaps the rivalry could be dealt with by more… productive means.”
Meg snorted. “Oh come on, that clinches it.”
Dean sighed. “Fine. You were right, Meg.”
“And?” There was an obnoxious lilt in her voice and Dean just knew she was smiling.
“I was wrong.”
“Thank you,” Meg said. “I’ll get you a towel and you two can put your dicks away. And you better let me know the next time you feel like fucking it out. I might just hate both of you enough to tie you to some furniture.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ketch said.
“Now that’s what I liked to hear,” Meg said. Her footsteps grew distant as she left the room and Dean groaned. He was likely never going to hear the end of this.
“What was she right about?” Ketch asked.
“Fuck. Don’t even ask.”  
Tag list: @maliciouslycreative, @samanddeaninpanties, @jerksarehot @spnpolybingo
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now that i've read qon...
i hereby stand by my earlier declaration that i would let the greenbriars repeatedly and perpetually run me over with bus.
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