#now my desk is covered in packing peanuts because I had to make a stupid joke

[cadmusfly]

YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAH

PACKING PEANUTS

#cadmus rambles #cad paints minis #cad rambles about dead Frenchmen on main #now my desk is covered in packing peanuts because I had to make a stupid joke

[kerwritesthings]

The Exquisite Taste of Love

Summary: Everyone’s love language is different and special, getting to share that with the one who you call your heart is something else entirely

Word Count: almost 5.2k (Oops? But not really!)

Warning: tooth rotting sweetness, a touch of naughty and a whole lotta of love

Author Notes: What started out as inspiration from a gif, because the muse likes her pretty, evolved into the idea of a cute little Valentine’s Day blurb which then morphed into a bit of a love letter to the folks in this crazy corner of fandom who have been my biggest cheerleaders when it has come to my writing, with such open arms and friendship. My Valentine’s Day gift to them (and even to the rest of you) – but specially for @whenidance​, @parkerdavis​, @sinplisticshawn​, @fallinallincurls​, @illumecherry​, @hollandraul​ - y’all will notice little special fun in here for each and every one of you. My little love language gifts to you <3 

This, as always, falls again in line with this little world I’ve created, but again can be read as a stand-alone one shot piece, however I would recommend taking a read so you understand the build and the dynamics  – the masterlist of everything can be found here. 

“Can we do a baking night, like a date night?” he inquires, slinging himself against your back and nuzzling into your neck as you finish packing the cookies scattered across the kitchen island into Tupperware. You tried to get a jump on it this year, it’s your tradition to always gift your friends and family little homemade treats for Valentine’s Day. This year, you included adding in plans for special batches for some of Shawn’s team and his family, as well as a surprise for Shawn himself. Tonight’s adventure was for the folks whose items must hit the mail to get their treats in time.

“Wait, did I hear you right?” you giggle. “You, you’re asking to do something in the kitchen? By choice? That has nothing to do with trying to mix drinks?”

“Hey,” he whines, drawing out the y, licking sloppily at the side of your neck. “Can’t get better if I don’t try to learn right? And this is fun stuff, not like chicken or broccoli or pasta.”

“Baking is a lot more precise though than cooking. You need to follow recipes and instructions down to a tee,” you explain. “But you’re right, you won’t get better without trying it more. We’ll start with something a little on the easier side. I was going to do salted caramel cheesecake brownies and chocolate covered strawberries for your family to drop off on Friday. We can make them together.”

“Yay,” he replies, blowing a raspberry against your skin. “What else do you have to do?”

“Nothing else tonight thank goodness, these baby Linzer tarts and chocolate cherry truffles were enough,” you tell him as you package up the last of the chocolates. “I still need to make chocolate pretzel drops and spritz cookies for my office. The boys are going to get the crazy squares they inhaled the last time they were here, so I’m going make those for them. Need to figure out what to send the rest of your out of town contingent. Maybe Nanaimo bars. I may have something up my sleeve for you too, but you will have to wait and see on that.”

He shifts you about in his hold, pressing you into the back of the island before kissing you soundly. “I love that all my folks are now tangled up in your traditions, especially when they don’t need to be.”

“Of course, they do,” you state so matter of factly with a smile. “They’re a part of my life now too. You love them, so. Hell, I even have come to love some of them, despite me questioning why on a few.”

He laughs, swinging you around in his arms before sitting you down on the island before cupping your cheeks. The next thing you know, he’s kissing you again, “I love you. Now let’s plan out the next couple days of your crazy baking adventures.”

The next night while he’s locked away in the studio, Skype session with some of the LA crew you think, you at least get the dough made for the spritz cookies, settling in the fridge to chill, and the crazy squares done for his friends here at home. You’re elbows deep in coconut shortbread when you hear him padding down the hall.

“Ok whatever that it, it smells amazing. Coconut, vanilla and what else is in that?” he asks, hopping on the counter behind you. His long legs start swinging and his socked heels tapping against the cabinets like he’s a child.

“These my dear, are the Nanaimo bars. Or at least my version,” you explain, pushing your hair back off your face with your forearm not to get dough all over the place. “More coconut, vanilla and caramel than chocolate. It’s a coconut vanilla shortbread base, it’ll have a vanilla bean studded caramel custard in the middle. That’s in the fridge already, then I’ll do a chocolate caramel coconut topping for them. Figure little taste of Canada to send out to the rest of your folks.”

“I have no idea how you do it, but it looks and smells yummy. Think we can find candles that smell like this somewhere? That’s a scent I could get used to around here. Could sneak one on the road too, have for when I’m missing you,” he replies, poking his nose in some of the new Tupperware you have on the back counter by him. “What are these? They smell different, they’re not that.”

“Those are the crazy squares. It’s basically like a kitchen sink cookie, but in bar form. And since your friends are human garbage disposals when it comes to eating, I think it’s a good choice,” you get out through a laugh. “Oatmeal, chocolate chips, pretzels, potato chips, peanut butter and a little bit of toffee.”

“My little baking machine,” he comments with a tiny grin, stealing a small bar from the container he was sniffing in. “Damn, these are really good.”

“Shawn,” you yell, flicking the towel that was over your shoulder at his knee. “Those are gifts! No eating the presents. You’ll get your own treats.”

“’M sorry, but not really,” he mumbles through a mouth full of crazy square. “Ooh! We need cards to go with these.”

“What? No, baby we don’t,” you try to explain. “The gift is the goodies.”

“Nope. Cards. Have to,” he says, hopping down from the counter then hip bumping you. “At least for my parents, my sister, and then of course Didi and Tomas too. Maybe a stupid one for Cez to make him laugh.”

He drops a kiss to the tip of your nose, “I’ll handle it. Where did you stash all that extra craft stuff from when you had the A and all her girls over? The fancy scissors and all the paper?”

You have no idea what he’s up to, but you know you’re not going to be able to get him off this train. “Clear bin. Guest room closet, right hand side,” you describe. “Should be the one right on top.”

He scurries off and you just have to roll your eyes, biting back the giggle bubbling up. He’s such a softie. You love it, despite your reticence on his need for cards.

While you finish off the trays of bars, get the spritz cookies in the oven and start the chocolate pretzel drops, he’s stationing himself in the living room cross-legged in front of the coffee table. He’s awfully quiet, minus a hum here and there. You only hear the shuffling of papers and the click swish from scissors. You decide to let him be and have his fun, it gives you the time to finish off more than you were planning for the night.

When you’re done, you come out to a living room that’s just exploding with cut out hearts, but no Shawn. There’s a chain of them hanging from around the television, scattered piles over every table like confetti, a few bigger ones at the center of the coffee table in front of the couch.

“So, I may have been a little sneaky,” he confesses from behind you, arm wrapping around your hips to draw you towards him. “I made a few to use as cards but I wanted to do something a little randomly special for you early, since you’re doing all this baking for everyone when you really don’t have to.”

“You are such a squish Shawn,” you whisper, before leaning your head back on his shoulder. “It’s adorable. I love it. Thank you, sweetie.”

“Love you,” he murmurs into your hair.

There’s a massive vase of white roses and jasmine when you walk into the house the next night after work, sitting smack in the middle of the kitchen island, another cut out heart, this one bubble gum pink with silver writing on it, propped up against it.

So you can take the time to smell the roses, and the jasmine too. Can’t wait to bake with you later. Be home by 7 – xo S

“What is he up to now?” you mutter to yourself, not hearing anything in the condo other than the click of your heels on the kitchen tile floor. You find another bouquet in the living room, a smaller version in your bedroom on your bedside table, a new jasmine candle in your bathroom next to a tiny glass holding a fresh sprig of jasmine along with a tiny white rosebud and even a little spray of them on your desk in the guest room that doubles as your home office. You should be getting everything ready in the kitchen for the big bake, but you sit on the end of the bed needing a minute. You pick up the phone.

“What’s wrong?” Didi responds quickly. “You never call unless something’s wrong. Wait, did he propose finally? Is there a ring? You’re not pregnant, are you? Shit girl I told you...”

“Damnit Dee. No, breathe,” you try breaking through on your best friend’s babble. “There is definitely not a baby. Shit’s sake. Not doing things reverse order. Plus, there’s new album and tour and life. So no, not that. And. When there’s a ring, it’ll be a FaceTime, not a phone call. He just. Last night it was cut out hearts everywhere. Today, I come home. The condo’s filled with white roses and jasmine. Everywhere.”

It’s quiet for a moment. “You cry yet?” she asks softly.

“No,” you sniff. “Close though. I think I only mentioned this once. Of course, he remembers and then goes and does something like this.”

“He’s your person, girly,” Didi replies. “And a mushy lovey fucker for you at that.”

Your best friend is right. He is. “Thanks D, I needed this. I gotta go though I’m sorry. I’m attempting to teach him brownie baking tonight. I still need to change and get everything ready before he’s back at 7. I’ll text you.”

Quickly you throw yourself together as best as you could, changing and pulling everything you need to together along with moving the flowers in the kitchen to the living room. You’re rinsing off the strawberries when you hear his keys hit the lock.

“In the kitchen,” you call out when the door shuts.

“Good day?” he asks, head leaning in to place a kiss against your shoulder, his lips cold against your skin exposed by your tank top.

“Better when I got home,” you reply, leaning your head against his still pressing against you. “You’re a crazy boy, and I don’t even know how to say thank you for it. They’re beautiful. All of them.”

He kisses your shoulder again, before shifting to trail his lips up your neck, nibbling at your ear before a lingering kiss to your cheek. “Love you is all,” he states casually. “Let me change and then I’ll be back in for my lesson.”

While he’s gone, you decide to get the strawberries out of the way first. Brownies will be the more complicated of the two, so to start easier will be a good idea. He comes back in as you’re breaking up the chocolate bars into a large glass bowl.

“Chocolate covered strawberries first,” you begin. “They’re the less difficult of what’s on the agenda and we should get them dipped and set in the fridge before the oven gets on and warms the kitchen. Normally I’d melt and temper the chocolate over a double boiler, but not fussing with that tonight. It’s breaking it up, adding a little bit of oil and melting it in the microwave. Then we just dip away. I’ll finish on the milk, why don’t you get started on either the dark or the white, then I’ll do the other when I’m done.”

The both of you find a rhythm, breaking and chatting, sneaking in a kiss here or a prolonged touch there while you get the chocolate ready.

“Now, that those are melted. We pat the strawberry dry to make sure the chocolate will stick,” you explain, showing him the first one. “Hold it closer to the end of the stem and swirl, leave a little bit showing and let it drip the extra chocolate off, then place it down on the wax paper. Once they’re all dipped, we can drizzle another color chocolate over it with what’s left.”

“This isn’t so bad,” he declares after a few rows of berries are done. “Though, I think I know a way to make this a little more fun.”

He dips his finger around the edge of the bowl with the dark chocolate, pulling some off the glass. He eyes you carefully, crooking the chocolate covered finger at you.

“Shawn,” you question.

“C’mere,” he requests. You move slowly over, his non chocolate covered hand grabbing a strong hold against the curve of your hip. He takes the chocolate laden finger, tracing your bottom lip first, then the dip between your collarbones, chocolate sticking carefully against your skin.

“Dessert before dinner, yum,” he whispers, a breath from your lips before sinking into them. Licking his way into your mouth, you can’t help but slide your hands into his hair and moan. It was dirty and deep from the start, but when you flick your tongue against his, you feel his grip on your hip tighten even more.

He breaks from you first, trailing his lips down your cheek, across your neck to latch onto your collarbone and the chocolate he left there. You don’t want him to leave a mark, but secretly, you’re hoping he does.

“Baby,” you whine, hands gripping at his hair harder as he bites and sucks along the line of your bone. At this rate you’re going to be so bruised. He nips his way back up your neck before sipping at your lips again, leaving you breathless.

“Mmm, well you’re quite delicious, I think like this baking thing,” he grins like a cat who got the cream.

“It’ll be my turn soon, don’t you worry,” you proclaim, trying to stir the rest of the chocolate back to life. “Let’s finish these off before the chocolate starts gets too firm.”

He slides behind you, leaning in flush against your back, “I could make a really bad joke here, you know.”

You feel him, half hard and snug against your ass.

“Baking, Shawn. We’re baking,” you remind him with a sigh, while arching back to tease him. “You’re the one who asked for a baking date night. There will be more of that after if you’re lucky and you behave.”

He bites at your earlobe, grinding into you once. “Can we keep some chocolate for later then?”

You push back at him, “Says the one who isn’t always keen on chocolate.”

“But it’s chocolate off you, it automatically tastes better and makes me want more of it,” he proclaims with a cheeky smile, sliding over to the sink to wash his hands.

You make quick work of the last of the berries, getting the trays into the fridge so you can finally get going on the brownies.

“Salted caramel cheesecake brownies next,” you say as you pull the bricks of cream cheese from the fridge and the blocks of butter off the back counter. “Two different batters, but they’re both pretty easy. We start with the brownie batter first, then whip the cheesecake batter, swirl the dulce de leche through that, then swirl that into the brownie batter. Drizzle it all with a little more caramel, then sprinkle on some flaky sea salt before popping them into the oven.”

“It’s unfair how you make it sound so simple and easy,” he notes, watching you measure out cocoa powder. “I see that recipe and it’s like 38 steps long.”

“Not that many. Come over here, I promise let me show you, it’s not hard,” you slide your arm through his to pull him closer.

“That’s what she said,” he quips, poking at your side. The two of you plug away step by step, first on the brownie mixture, before starting in on the cheesecake. While you trust Shawn to continue keeping an eye on the whipping cream cheese in the stand mixer, you break out the jar of dulce de leche you’ve had warming slowly in a warm pan of water on the stove.

“Now that it’s done, and once this is a little cooler, we’ll drizzle some of this in there to make a ribbon through it before adding it into the pan with the brownie batter,” you describe, popping the lid carefully off.

You dip your pinkie into the warm sugary syrup, “Mmm liquid gold. This is perfect.”

Shawn snags your hand before you get a chance to wipe it on the towel, popping your pinkie into his mouth.

“Damnit Shawn,” you husk out as he works at your finger with his tongue. While he’s preoccupied, you quickly poke another finger from your left hand into the jar. Payback, you think, is a bitch. You slide your pointer finger down the line of his jaw before taking it down the line of his neck. His eye pop open and grow wide, sliding your finger free.

You don’t give him a chance to say a word, latching onto his jaw. His hands grasp you immediately, one lacing around the back of your head to hold you to him, the other square on your ass. You take your time, just as he did earlier, licking and nibbling your way through the sweet caramel until you hit his skin.

“Sweetheart,” he moans, almost bordering on a growl, when you hit that spot on his neck that drives him crazy. The hand on your ass draws you closer to him, sliding his thigh between your legs. You keep at that spot, you know there’s nothing coming up so if you do mark him up, which you want to do badly, there’s no real repercussions.

“Shit, baby,” he whines, needy and desperate as you keep up your assault on his neck. You make quick work on the rest of the dulce, sliding right back up to exactly where you know you can get him keening. Kitten licks at first, then tiny bites soothed by a bit of sucking. You keep the pattern up for a few passes, his skin warm under your tongue, warm until you know they’ll be a bit of a reminder tomorrow.

“Fuck,” he bites out, drawing you up and away from his neck to bring you up to meet his eyes.

“Something wicked this way comes,” you smirk, licking at your lips.

He dives for your mouth, hot and hard and fast until you’re both out of breath.

“Now, think we can keep our hands to ourselves to get these in the oven?” you pant. “And when your mother asks how we made these together, we do not tell her about the soft-core porn action in the kitchen.”

He kisses you sweetly, softly, “I think it would be a fun story though.”

You roll your eyes, pushing at his chest, “Brownies, swirling, salting and into the oven. C’mon.”

You both manage to keep your hands, and your lips, to yourself for the rest of the process. You cannot help but chuckle, watching him salt the brownies ever so carefully. “It’s like icy snow,” he proclaims, grinning like a little kid.

Once in the oven, you split clean up duty and then start to pack up the berries off the trays.

“I feel bad that I can’t go with you to drop this all off tomorrow, but there’s no way I can duck out early enough,” you lament, shifting the berries about to make sure they’re not going to be smushed in transport.

“The fact you made all this for them, from scratch no less, is more than enough,” he insists. “I normally just send flowers. Which I’m still doing for both of them. This is just over the top extra awesome.”

You can’t help but smile, “They’re my family now too. Well, close enough you know? I love them…”

He wraps you in a hug, “I love that you consider them yours, cause they are. Absolutely, they’re your family. Now, let’s finish this and go cuddle on the couch until the brownies are done.”

Before leaving for the office, with Shawn still cozy in bed asleep since you’re up a good deal earlier than normal today, you slip out the red box you’ve had hidden in the back of the pantry out onto the kitchen counter. Inside, a few smaller red containers, filled with his treat surprises for the day.

You steal one of the blank hearts from the dining room table, a white one, for a note.

For my darling, the first of a few surprises for you today. Despite your recent affection for chocolate, here’s a little something to start your day. Through the day you’ll find little things here and there, just small little sweets that I know you adore, maybe as much as me. Because my heart, you have mine and I want to spoil you a little today. Love you valentine xo <3

You prop the note against one of the larger containers, this a perfect square. The first time you ever made him your lemon lime scones, it was one of first nights you stayed over. He waxed poetic about them for days. You knew they had to be a part of his treat trail today. This time though in a mini version. The second box, a smaller thinner one, you slide into his guitar case, filled with rolls of homemade strawberry fruit leathers. A third box, shortbread thumbprints with sour cherry jam, you place in his studio by his journal. The fourth, in a tin on top of the corner chair in the living room where he leaves one of his guitars out always, most difficult of the treats you made for him - tequila laced gummy bears. The final, and a last minute addition made last night when he was half dozy on the couch and thought you were boxing the brownies, a few chocolate covered caramels that you leave by his keys at the front table as a nod to last night’s funtivities.

You grab the bag filled with the baked treats for your office and head out the door. When you finally arrive at your office, a few minutes late because of your hiding duties at home and setting up your treats for the team in the kitchen, you’re greeted by a bouquet of blush peonies and antique roses.

“Came in just a few minutes ago,” Rosalie, the office receptionist tinkers gleefully, peeking her head into your office. “Do we get to see that boy of yours today? That would be a lovely Valentine’s Day treat.”

Rosalie, who is old enough to be your grandmother but has the energy level of a teenager, absolutely adores Shawn. They’re thick as thieves, getting along together immediately. She mothers the heck out of him when he comes to see you, helps him sneak things into your office, the two of them gang up on you to make sure you’re fed and hydrated when you’re pulling late hours, and is an absolute godsend when you work remote if you’re out on the road with him.

“Not sure,” you smile, smelling one of the blooms. “I know he’s heading out to Pickering at some point to see his family. Not sure what he’s got up his sleeve or has plans on for later. I’m being surprised. Best not poke at him and ruin whatever he’s got going.”

“Just let him know his smiling face is missed around here ok?” she nods, heading back towards her desk.

You snap a quick photo of the flowers and fire off a text – Happy Valentine’s Day indeed. They’re so pretty, thank you! <3 ilu :) xo

You’re knee deep in trying to clean out your inbox when your phone chimes. A selfie, his bed head in full force and he’s smiling around one of the scones in his mouth. Omg you made me the Sprite scones! AND THEY ARE TINY BABY SIZED ONES I CAN FIT IN MY MOUTH ALL AT ONCE! Followed by alternating string of lemon, soda cup, green and yellow heart emojis.

He finds the thumbprints next, a photo of a cookie next to him giving you a thumbs up, more emojis again this time alternating the cherries, red lips and red heart. Where did you find the sour cherry jam? I haven’t been able to find it anywhere. OR DID YOU MAKE THIS TOO?!

Immediately after was a boomerang, the tin of strawberry fruit rolls, rocking and rolling back and forth. Followed by strawberry emojis between kissy face smileys. These taste exactly like you do after we go strawberry picking in the spring and you sneak berries along the way when you think no one is looking. But I always am.

It takes a little longer for the next find. You’re in the middle of a conference call when your phone starts buzzing. A gif of a worm with a sombrero on, tipping back on a bottle of tequila. How the hell did you make me seriously boozy af gummy bears? They’re as big as my thumb! I can’t have these before heading out to the ‘rents. I’m drunk already from just smelling them.

You have to mute your line and laugh heartily. This right here made it all worth it. His reactions are priceless. You’re so glad the little surprises are making him this silly happy.

The next one, about half an hour later, is a voice memo.

“You sneaky, naughty little minx,” he husks out, voice deep. “Chocolate caramels. You knew exactly what I’d think of, didn’t you? I’m in the car trying to get out and through downtown, but now all I can think about since finding them are your breathy little moans, your hands in my hair and your mouth at my throat. Fuck baby, you definitely left the best for last. I snuck them in the car to have one on the ride, but there’s no way I can even try one now.” He pauses for a beat; a hard sigh escapes his lips. “Just you wait until later. Now, I need to get out of this tangle you’ve got me in before I get home to my parents. I’ll be back by the time you get home from work. I love you sweetheart.”

Thank god you didn’t put that on speakerphone. He sounded like pure wicked sin, plain and simple. He’s got you in knots now too. You just need to get through the rest of the day in one piece. Thankfully, your boss kicks the entire office out early, partially because of her own plans, and partially because of the long weekend stateside. You’ll take it. Hopefully you can beat Shawn home to be able to maybe shower and change before he gets back.

A cute video comes through as you walk out of the office, from his sister. “First off, I’m mad at Shawn for not bringing you with, but then he said you had work. So, I let it slide. A little at least. Then he let us open the goodies. You made all our favorites! You’re the best. Please come visit, or let’s plan another girls’ night and we’ll kick him out of the condo! Wait wait, hold on. Someone else wants to say thanks!” She pans her phone to the kitchen and flips the camera around. “Sweetie, thank you so much for all the treats. You will need to send me the recipe for the brownies, they’re delicious. I still don’t believe Shawn helped you with all this, if that’s the case, congratulations for getting him in the kitchen willingly. And without disaster, I hope at the very least. I’m hiding some so maybe there’s still some left when Manny makes it home. Let’s figure out dinner all of us together next week. Love you!”

Warmth spreads through you as you navigate your way back home after that one. You’re floating at this point. However, you did not luck out in beating him back as you walk through the door. There’s a litany of white pillar candles of all different heights and thicknesses everywhere in the living room, flickering as if they’re just lit. There he is, ensconced in the corner of the couch, guitar slung across his lap. He smiles, patting the open cushion next to him.

“I will spare you from the ultimate perfect yet cheesy Canadian Valentine’s Day, singing some Celine Dion love song to you,” he jokes, pressing a lengthy kiss to your temple. “But I did dig through someone’s playlists to find something. Mind you, this is only part of your gift, which will never rank up against all that you did for me today. That was, just, ridiculous and perfect and sweet. So damn thoughtful, babe. I loved it.”

He leans over to quickly press a kiss at the corner of your mouth before diving into the song.

“The dawn is breaking, a light shining through. You're barely waking and I'm tangled up in you,” he sings. “I’m open, you're closed. Where I follow, you'll go. I worry I won't see your face light up again.”

Your breath sticks in your throat. Your brain scrambles slightly, eyes clouding up. You miss him sing the chorus the first go, the blood rushing through your ears.

“I'm quiet you know. You make a first impression. I've found I'm scared to know I'm always on your mind. Even the best fall down sometimes, even the stars refuse to shine. Out of the back you fall in time. I somehow find you and I collide,” he continues. “Even the best fall down sometimes. Even the wrong words seem to rhyme. Out of the doubt that fills my mind, I somehow find you and I collide.”

You sniff as he finishes, shifting his guitar out of his hands to move behind you before throwing yourself into his lap, arms tight around his neck. “So, you’re going to need to record that for me, so I have that to sing me to sleep when you’re out on tour. Honey, that was just…”

You trail off, leaning your forehead against his, trying to catch your breath and your words all at once. His hands a steady hold on your waist, fingers trailing up and down slightly.

“Just when I think you’ve permeated every part of my heart already, you go and do something like that,” you profess honestly. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he whispers against your lips. “So much.” He draws you closer, arms tightening around you. His heartbeat a tether to yours, a steady rhythm in time with each other’s beats. 

TAG LIST: @whenidance, @parkerdavis, @sinplisticshawn, @hollandraul, @fallinallincurls, @itrocksmysocks, @rainbowshawn, @lasingphomustra, @illumecherry​

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes oneshot #shawn mendes story #shawn mendes fluff #shawn mendes blurb

[i-will-be-forever-yours]

Don’t Leave Us

A/N: Another Shawn x reader fic...please give me feedback about it! if you like it...give me your ideas too! I have limited ideas guys! Thanks for reading and I hope you all like it

Warnings: angst, pre-term labor (not detailed) fluff at the end

Summary: Shawn is going on tour, leaving his pregnant wife, and her neediness causes a fight. What happens when he leaves without a goodbye, and ignores her?

Word Count: Like 2.2k ish

posted 12-21-19

my masterlist

“Hey love, what’s that you’ve got there?” Shawn asks y/n, his thirty-two-week pregnant wife. He peeks over her shoulder to see her thumbing through their wedding album, and it warms his heart while bringing a smile to his face. She is sitting criss-cross in the middle of their bed, facing their floor to ceiling windows that open to the beautiful view of the Toronto skyline.

She looks over her shoulder to see the man she fell in love with, smiling like a child at Christmas. “I was just looking at this for old times sake,” she chuckles. “We’ll have to show this little one when they are older,” she says while rubbing random patterns on her midsection.

He sits behind her, causing the mattress to dip a little more with the added weight and hums into her neck, rubbing his nose in the spot he knew got to her. She giggles at the gesture and playfully shoves him away.

“Shaaaawn!!! Stop that, it tickles!” she laughs. However, he soon pushes her down on the mattress and moves the album out of her hands, only to start tickling her sides viciously. He was still very gentle, aware of the precious being within her, but makes a fierce assault nonetheless. When he could tell she was getting tired, he stills his assault to her sides and flops down on his side while facing her. He reaches his hand and ever so gently caresses the swell of her midsection.

She positions herself onto her side to face him and caresses his cheek. They were there for a couple of minutes before Shawn hears a small sniffle. He immediately looks down and sees tears forming at the edges of y/n’s eyes. Quickly, he brings the hand that was on her bump up to her face, to wipe the tears away.

“What’s wrong, love? Are you hurt...is it the baby?” he questions in a frantic voice, while hurriedly sitting up.

She chuckles before saying in a broken whisper, “no...it’s just that I’m gonna miss you. We’re going to miss you.”

He looks her in the eyes while saying, “I know y/n, and I’m gonna miss you both as well, but it’s only for a couple of weeks. I’ll be back before he decides to join us.”

Smiling, y/n just nods in response before falling asleep. Shawn kisses her on the temple before carefully getting out of bed and wrapping the covers around her. He then heads back into their home office/studio to finish up his last minute things before he has to leave.

It is nearing twelve when he hears the padding of feet. Looking up he sees his wife’s head pop in the cracked door. “What are you doing up honey?” she asks after yawning. He barely shrugs his shoulders before looking back at his laptop to finish up his tour plans.

She feels a little hurt at his action but merely shrugs it off before stating, “well, I’m going to the kitchen to get some strawberries and peanut butter.” Padding off into the kitchen she rummages around before coming up empty. She is able to find the strawberries fairly easily, but there seems to be no more peanut butter.

Finally, she decides to ask Shawn if he knows where any might be. Making her way into the office, she quietly knocks before entering. “Hey, hun...do you know where the peanut butter is?”

She is met with a huff and him pushing his hands against the desk, sending his chair into the wall while he stands. His hands meet his hair, while they start to aggressively run through them. He leans forward, while his hands grip tightly to the desk before he replies “y/n I don’t have time to find the fucking peanut butter. Can’t you just use the Nutella or somethin’?”

In a shocked state, she replies, “We were just, you know, kinda craving some peanut butter.”

“Arghh, will you please stop blaming everything on the fucking baby! The baby is making my back hurt, the baby is craving this, or the baby is doing that! Just stop, you are the problem, not some stupid baby!” he yells in an exasperated voice. As soon as the words come out, he can see the hurt on her face and realization kicks in. He knows what he said and quickly goes to comfort her but she is backing up from him, refusing to let him touch her.

“Baby, I didn’t mean that, ‘m just stressin over leaving…” he tries to explain, but she just shakes her head dejectedly.

With a sad smile, she just turns and lets the tears fall. In a small broken voice, she barely gets out “I think I’m just gonna go to bed now, and if you really feel that way you can go stay with Connor tonight. I know your bag is packed, so you can just go, we’ll be fine. Bye Shawn, I’ll talk to you later.”

He is just left standing there, not knowing if he should go, or leave and let her cool. He decides with the second option and leaves for Connor’s house. The next day he doesn’t even text her to let her know he left. Even after arriving in L.A he refuses to text his wife, not wanting to be rejected once again.

Back home y/n is broken. She thought for sure that Shawn would come home to make up with her before he left. That was not the case, and he just left, without a call or text. She knew from posts online that he made it, but her stubbornness refused to reach out to him. All she had wanted to say to him was ‘Don’t leave us’. It had been three days without contact, and after being overwhelmed with stress, y/n forgot to eat and take care of herself. She was consumed with worry for her relationship, and Shawn. The stress had caused the being inside her stress as well. So much stress that she went into labor, but she was still only thirty-three weeks along. To say she was panicking would be an understatement. Never had she imagined this would happen. She was not prepared for this, she thought she had more time. The nursery wasn’t even finished.

She immediately called Shawn when she felt the spasms in her midsection after calling the emergency services for help. However, her calls when straight to voicemail. Hysterically crying she calls Connor and when she hears his voice she cannot help but let out a relieved sigh. “Connor? Can you tell Shawn that I’m on my way to the hospital and to call me.”

There is a pause on the other end before he asks the inevitable, “why are you going to the hospital y/n?”

“Just tell Shawn for me?” she asks, and Connor can hear the sound of a door opening and the faint sounds of Y/n talking to the paramedics. There’s sounds of movement on the other end before she picks the phone up again and utters a incoherent goodbye. The call is ended and Connor is left standing there in shock and worry for a moment. 

Since he met Y/n, he has had a soft spot for her. He could tell how happy she made Shawn and he’d be damned if anything happened to you. He also knew about her condition and that it was relatively early in the pregnancy and that worried him even more. It left his rushing until he was standing before Shawn’s door knocking wildly.

Shawn is lying on his bed when he sees his wife’s face fills his phone screen. He smiles at the picture but denies the call, not wanting to fix the issues over the phone, but waiting to do it in person. The picture was one when she had just woken up and had a soft, sleepy smile adorning her face. He is broken from his daze when he hears banging on his door and quickly jumps off the bed and strides to the door, only to see the red face of his friend Connor staring at him. “Buddy, I don’t know what the hell is going on between you and y/n but you need to get home to her. She really needs you right now Shawn, and I already texted Andrew and he’s going to send out a notice that you can’t perform the next shows.”

“I cannot go home yet, I still have to perform for a couple of weeks before I go on maternity leave.” he chuckles with a confused stare.

“No! You don’t understand! I spoke to Andrew and you are heading home in…” he looks at his watch, “in...less than two hours!”

“And why the hell would I do that Connor? You have no business coming here and telling me how I should fix my life. I can do that on my own, and I don’t need you in my business,” he replies, getting more annoyed and confused by the second.

“It’s because your wife called me when I’m guessing you didn’t answer and told me she was on her way to the hospital. And then I heard the emergency people talking to her and then she ended the fucking call!” he said without taking breaths.

Shawn just stared for a moment before running back into his room and throwing his suitcase on the bed and shoving everything he could grab into it. “Did she say why she was going to the hospital?” he yelled over his shoulder.

“No, ‘m sorry but when I asked she just told me to let you know.”

Nodding to himself, Shawn packed everything and ran to the lobby. Knowing everything would be taken care of he let his mind wander to why Y/n would be going to the hospital. 

Shawn was a nervous wreck the entire flight, and various ideas flooded his head at the thought of y/n being taken to the hospital. Once he arrived he was like a bat out of hell and rushed through the airport with his security and into his awaiting uber. Finally arriving at the hospital, he ran to the room that he had been told she were in. However, what he saw made him want to cry.

There y/n was, with tubes up her nose and various ones sticking in her arms. What scared him most was that she was still, and there was no longer a swell to her midsection. He moved like a sloth, inching slowly to the side of the bed. Slowly he pulled up and chair and grabbed y/n’s hand in a vice grip, now and then kissing her hand and whispering for her to wake up.

It felt like hours, but in reality, it was only minutes when he saw the flutter of her eyes. She was staring at him, and that’s when he saw it. He saw that she had not been taking care of herself in what looked like days. “Oh baby, what happened?” he asked while leaning up and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She let out a sob before she moved her hand to his soft curls, running her hands through them to soothe herself. She then moved her hands to her midsection, only to realize the swell that had been there was now gone. Her eyes went wide before a sob was released. “Shawn, the baby! What happened to my baby?”

Shawn could see the panic in her eyes and quickly called for a doctor before she slipped into hysterics. The doctor and nurse came running in and were pleased to see that she was awake, but alarmed when they saw Shawn struggling to hold down her trembling body from getting up. 

“Oh, it’s good to see you awake Mrs. Mendes,” the doctor said. While motioning for the nurse to start the check up.

“Where’s my baby, I need to know where he is.” y/n cried to the doctor while fearing the worst news. She was no longer trying to get up while the nurse went through the list, but her heart still pounded in her chest.

“Well you see, since you were only thirty-three weeks into the pregnancy when you went into labor, there were some...complications. You unfortunatly had passed out on the way here, and when they brought you in, you were barely holding on to consciousness, so we had to do an emergency c-section. You didn’t have the strength to go though a natural labor ma’am.”

“That didn’t answer my damn question! Where. Is. My. Baby!” y/n yelled through gritted teeth, while Shawn sat at the edge of the bed clutching her hand in his trying to soothe her, but in reality he was terrified himself. He feared for his baby boy and also for Y/n and what would happen to his marriage if they had lost their baby boy.

“Yes, as I was saying, there were complications. There was some unexpected bleeding, and we had to fix that, but it’s okay now. But your baby...well all I can say that he is a fighter. He is very, very tiny being born so early, but he will make it. Right now he is in the nique and will have to stay there for a bit, but you can visit him and he will be good to go home very soon. You will also have to stay for a couple of days to make sure you recover properly as well.” the doctor smiles gently at the shaken couple.

Relieved sighs left their mouths as they both embraced each other and cried tears of joy. The doctor quietly stood as they embraced, and was about to leave when Shawn looked up and asked, “What caused her to go into preterm labor?”

“Well, it could be several things, but it seems that high blood pressure and added stress was a major factor. It also seems that Mrs. Mendes was a little malnourished and dehydrated, but that can all be fixed with a couple of days of rest and proper food intake.”

Shawn nodded and the doctor took his cue to leave. It was quiet for a while before Shawn broke the peacefulness by caressing y/n’s face and brushing away the tears with the pad of his thumb. “I’m sorry for neglecting your needs y/n. It’s my fault you went into labor, and we could’ve lost him because I failed to be the father and husband I’m supposed to be.”

“You are not the cause of this, and you are the best husband I could’ve ever wanted. I wouldn’t want to have a baby with anyone else. And he is okay, we didn’t lose him okay? I love you, Shawn.”

He smiled at her, and let the tears flow, before colliding his lips with hers. It was not the hungry kiss, nor was it a simple peck on the lips. It was a kiss that was like their first. It was meaningful.

Later that day they both saw their baby. y/n was pushed in a wheelchair because she was still weak after surgery. They saw their little boy through the glass, and their hearts felt complete. Never had they felt so much love for such a tiny being. They loved him with all they had, and they were a family. They were gonna be just fine.

_______________________________________________________________________

guyyyys......sooooo what did you think? if you liked hit please like it and repost!! give me your beautiful ideas...I think I'll add that requests are open! thank you so much for your time reading this

#shawn x reader #pregnant reader #angst to fluff #kinda bad writing #shawn mendes imagine

[fantastic-fantasy-fanfics]

GROWN UP CHRISTMAS LIST

link to the sing is HERE

A/N: Last one before Christmas everyone!  Also, I totally forgot Peter Parker is Jewish/Jewish coded and it was too last minute to change so I tried my best to make it work, I’m so sorry >~< please tell me if anything is inaccurate or insensitive and I’ll fix it ASAP

College!Peter Parker x reader

Word count: 1994

Summary: The holiday season is supposed to be joyful and warm!  But Peter can’t feel happy knowing others are suffering.

Warnings: Peter being a bit of a jerk, sadness, mentions of homelessness and illness, a bit of depression/ sadness?

Do you remember me

I sat upon your knee

I wrote to you with childhood fantasies

Well I'm all grown up now

And still need help somehow

I'm not a child but my heart still can dream

  December was a pretty busy season for you and your fiance.  You and Peter had three holidays to plan for that month, sometimes two of them would overlap.  You would both have to go Christmas shopping and prepare for a week of Hanukkah, and of course New Years after that.  It was hectic, but always loads of fun!  This year, you decided to stay with Aunt May over the holidays and celebrate with her and Ned; get the whole gang together!

You rummaged through Aunt May’s decorations, some green and red, others silver and blue, looking for the old holiday pictures of Peter.  It was mandatory you put at least one old picture of Peter up, just to embarrass him.  “Oh my gosh, look at this!” You laughed, calling over Ned and May so they could see.  They looked up from their Christmas-light-untangling to see what you were laughing about.

It was the photo that had been taken a few years ago when you took Peter to see Santa at the mall as a joke.  He was wearing a kippah, an “ugly Hanukkah sweater, and his tallit.  The mall Santa got a kick out of it and both he and Peter looked so happy in the picture.

“I totally forgot about that one!” May cackled, her body moving joyfully as she laughed, “put it on the mantle! That’s too good for people not to see!”.

“Speaking of which, where is Peter?” Ned asked, adjusting his festive Santa hat, “he should have been here by now, it’s been hours,”

“Well he’s got a big grocery list to shop for- two holidays and normal shopping,” you said, putting the picture on the mantle, between the Menorah and Christmas tree, “he was also going to visit MJ,”

  Peter barged into the door, carrying about seven thousand grocery bags, all packed full.  “Little help please?” he demanded, a six pound bag of potatoes balancing on his head.

You and Ned rushed to help him, gathering some of the bags and setting them down on the kitchen floor and counters.  “Are you okay?!” Ned gasped, hoping Peter didn’t hurt himself.

“Yeah, I’m fine!” he snapped, groaning as he rubbed the red marks on his wrists from there the bags were cutting off his circulation.  He pushed past you and stormed to his room, slamming the door.

“... Geez…” Ned hissed, turning back to the groceries to help put them away, “what’s up with him?”.

You narrowed your eyes at Peter’s bedroom door, a little miffed at how poorly he had treated his friend.  “I don’t know… maybe it’s just the holiday shopping- it’s… it’s pretty stressful…”.

 So here's my lifelong wish

My grown-up Christmas list

Not for myself but for a world in need

This is my grown-up Christmas list

  You groaned as you struggled to wrap Peter’s gift- the tape would not cooperate and your wrapping paper kept ripping.  How was it you were being outsmarted by a PS4 that wasn’t even out of its box?  “How do people do this so easily?!” you groaned.

Ned laughed, helping you with the tape, “practice,” he said, handing you a little strip and folding the paper over so it would cover the whole box.

You looked past Ned to see his perfect pile of perfectly wrapped presents.  “Show off…” you muttered, cutting some blue ribbon and tying it into a mediocre-looking bow.

  With soft footsteps, Peter wandered into the kitchen to get himself some eggnog.  That was his favorite part of celebrating both Holidays- he got the best food from both of them.

“Go back to your room! No peeking!” you cried out, shoving his David’s star-shaped stocking under the couch, “we’re wrapping your gifts!”.

He paused mid-sip to cringe.  “Why did you get me gifts?” Peter scoffed, “could’ve spent that money on charity…”.  That last part was said under his breath, but you heard it clear as a bell.

“Hey, you should be grateful!” you spat back, “if you didn’t want anything, you should’ve told me that before!”.  If you were completely honest, Peter had been acting like this since Thanksgiving; bitchy.  You were not going to tolerate it.

He just rolled his eyes and walked back to his room to be alone.

“Don’t worry, (Y/N), I’m sure he’ll apologize once he’s out of this funk,” Ned said, putting a hand on your shoulder.  You wished you could believe that...

 As children, we believe

The grandest sight to see

Was something lovely wrapped beneath the tree

But Heaven only knows

That packages and bows

Can never heal a hurting human soul

  “Turn off the Christmas lights! The Menorah looks so much prettier with them off,” May said, motioning her hand for Ned to switch off the electric lights.

Ned nodded, rushing to turn off all the lights and closing the curtains.  You’re not sure why he decided to do that, it was already dark outside… even though it was only, like, two pm.

May put in the fifth candle in its place, before starting to recite the blessing.  “Baruch atah…. Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam… asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tsivanu l’hadlik ner shel Hanukkah…” she recited perfectly, barely even looking at the cheat sheet she printed out.

The cheat sheet was more for you as you tried your very best to speak good Hebrew… you were not very good, definitely butchering the pronunciation.  You looked over at Peter for some guidance, but he wasn’t even trying.

His lips barely moved as he mumbled the blessing, switching his weight from one foot to the other.  His arms were crossed and in his face, he looked… sad.  Overall he just looked uncomfortable.  Peter loved this part of the night!  It was weird enough that he turned down the opportunity to light the candles, but wasn't even participating.  Was he okay?

  May lit the helper candle from the center before taking it from its stand and lighting the other five.  The flame reflected off her glasses as she smiled, so excited to share her family tradition with others.  “Peter, why don- hey… are you okay?” she asked, cupping his squishy face in her hands, “what’s wrong, peanut?”.

Pete looked at her with sad puppy eyes.  He swallowed his feelings, pushing away from her to go back to his room.  “Nothing…” he mumbled, “if you need anything, I’ll be at my desk,”.

 What is this illusion called the innocence of youth

Maybe only in our blind belief can we ever find the truth

  It was the middle of the night, not a creature was stirring, except for you.  It was cold, it had started to snow, and you only had one blanket, so you were going to the to find another one.  You quietly padded to the living room, only to be startled by the shadowy figure on the couch.

“Holy shit!” you gasped, turning on a lamp, “oh.. Peter… it’s just you…”.

He didn’t even move, he just kept holding the picture he had taken off the mantle, staring at the wall.

  “What are you doing up, darling?” you asked, going to sit down beside him.  He shifted away from you, but it was clear he needed affection, so you gently put a hand on his shoulder.  He let you.  “Peter, you’ve been acting weird, please tell me what’s wrong?” you begged, rubbing his back gently, “I’m worried about you,”.

Peter let out a long, tired sigh, his shoulders sagging.  “What’s the point?” he sniffed, trying not to cry.  Oh, you hated seeing him cry, he always looked so scared and helpless when he cried.  “Why should I enjoy my time during the holidays when there are millions of people suffering?” he sobbed, leaning into your side for comfort, “I tried to visit MJ the other day, but she couldn’t talk because her Aunt is sick, I went shopping and I saw so many homeless people on the street… now that it’s snowing people are freezing!”.

  You heard what he was saying, you really did.  It was hard to enjoy life when you see the world suffer.  But you didn’t understand why this was bothering him now?  He was Spider-Man!  He saved lives, helped people… he was one of the most charitable people you’ve ever known!  “Peter… darling… it’s okay,” you assured him, cupping his face, “you do so much for the world, you can alleviate some of the pain people feel… we can help, we can do something,”.

Tears fell down his cheeks as he looked you in the eyes.  “I know, I know, but…” he sniffed, pulling away from your touch, staring down at the silly Santa picture in his hands.  What happened to him?  He used to be so happy when he was younger… now… he just felt hopeless…  “I can’t stop bad things from happening… an entire galaxy and multiverse of heroes can’t stop bad things… what can I, one man, do?” he ranted, growling in frustration as he stood up to toss the picture back where it belonged.  He sighed again, the wave of anger passing.  “I can’t do anything…” he whispered, slinking back to his room.

 No more lives torn apart

That wars would never start

And time would heal all hearts

And everyone would have a friend

And right would always win

And love would never end

  Christmas Eve, less than twenty-four hours from the most wonderful day of the year, and Peter couldn’t be more depressed.  He drugged up the stairs with his tired feet, exhausted from work.  Damn, why wouldn't maintenance fix that stupid elevator already?  He peeled the red beanie off his head, his curly hair fluffing up from the static electricity as he reached the sixth floor.

“What the hell?” Peter called, seeing the long lines of people in the hall.  All of his neighbor's doors were open, hundreds of strangers were walking from apartment to apartment with plates of food and big glasses of hot cider.  Entire families were sitting on the floor, opening shiny new gifts and little stockings with their kids.

Peter fluidly moved around the crowds of people to get into his apartment, looking for you.  There were still tons of people in his home, lines of people going to the kitchen and back out to the hallway.

“Peter!” you called excitedly, waving your hand above your head from the kitchen, “over here!”. 

He quickly ran over to you, not expecting you to toss an apron onto his head.  “What is going on here?  Who are all these people?” he asked, tying the smock around his waist.

“They're friends,” you smiled, serving latkes to the people coming through the line, “here, take a ladle and serve the beef,”.  He followed orders, still really confused.  “I decided to contact Pepper and your neighbors, do some good this season,” you grinned, yelling over the crowds, “I told them what you said the other day and they wanted to help, so we organized a food and toy drive through Stark industries,”.

A wide smile split Peter’s chapped lips.  “You’re the best, you know that?  You really are,” he shouted, eagerly serving the line.

“Pepper even opened the old Stark tower as public housing!” Ned said, bringing over another pot of potatoes to May so she could continue cooking, “thousands of people will be sleeping and showering there!”

  Peter looked around the room, seeing all the smiling faces coming and going, really experiencing the holidays, possibly for the first time in years. He was so proud of his family, so thankful for them.  This… this is what he truly wanted for Christmas and it was another Hanukkah miracle!

 This is my grown-up Christmas list

This is my only lifelong wish

This is my grown-up Christmas list

____________________

TAGLIST

#peter x reader #peter parker x reader #spinder-man #tom holland #peter parker #fantastic-fantasy-fanfics #arys christmas writing spree #aryschristmaswritingspree

[vaguelygeiszlerian]

1 to 50

ok i just saw this existed, i live on tumblr mobile where i ignore the activity tab and scroll endlessly, bear w me

Animated character that was your gay awakening? uhhhhhhh,,,....,,,.. if i remembered anything abt my childhood i would tell u, im gonna say rukia from bleach because i want gorgeous short people to step on me

Grilled cheese or PB&J? peanut butter Always... tho if it was a fancy grilled cheese (there is a special preparation).... i would be torn

What show/YouTube video(s) do you put on in the background when you when you don’t have anything to watch but you want something on? it really depends! i bounce around, i watch a lot of baumgartner restorations, i watch a LOT of nyx fears video essays on horror movies i would never watch, i watch longplays of, like, nier automata bc im still delighted by cryaotic?

Your go-to bar order, if you drink? i dont really get to order a lot of drinks at bars, itll depend, if im with friends ill order as many things off the cocktail menu as my money allows, if im with my parents ill order long island iced teas or whiskey and lemonade

What’s your favorite pair of shoes that you own? i literally own like 3 pairs of shoes, one of which being the only pair i can actually safely wear haha.... but my favorite pair is the black red and gold converse that dont fit anymore but still remind me of high school

Top three cuisines? mexican, italian, whomever the fuck invented kasoundi

What was your first word as a child (that wasn’t a variation of “Mom” or “Dad”)? yeah as said above i have no clue about anything about my childhood so idk i think mum said once that my first proper word was just ‘no’ which sounds abt right

What’s a job that you’ve had that people might be surprised to find out you’ve had? idk if my last job counts? i mean i used to do all round garden labor stuff until my pain got worse and i literally couldnt anymore so i got relegated to desk work

Look up. What’s directly across from you? oh a container of pesto i didnt like the flavour of and just... forgot to throw out.... i will do that tomorrow

Do you own any signed books/memorabilia in general? i have a rwby poster signed by ray and jack? its p cool

Preferred way to spend a rainy day? preferred right now? wrapped in a metric fuckton of blankets w my partner

What do you get on your bagels? What WOULD you get if you had access to anything you wanted? i..... dont like bagels

Brunch or midnight snacks? i live a weirdly scheduled life, midnight snacks and brunch are interchangeable to me now, so both

Favorite mug you own i..... dont really have one? all of my actual mugs that are mine have my deadname on them haha

What coffee drink would you describe yourself as? overbrewed black coffee that someone left to go cold before dumping six packs of sugar in

Pick a song lyric to describe your current mood (and drop the name and artist!) ‘ And I don't want your pity I just want somebody near me ‘ bc we all love a bit of mitski when we are feeling the self isolation creeping in

Fruity or herbal teas? fruity teas only! or rather i drink fruit tisanes! but if you mean actual tea then herbal, i only drink peppermint tea

What’s that one TV show that you’re a little bit embarrassed to watch but you still like nonetheless? fruits basket! everyone watch the reboot

That book you were forced to read for class but actually ended up enjoying? all the books i read for class sucked but medea wasnt so bad

Do you match your socks? only when theyre very fun patterned socks, and even then sometimes i will match them to the wrong pair but the same pattern, aka my double watermelon combo (i have a pair of green socks w watermelons and a pair of black socks w watermelons so)

Have you ever been horseback riding? no and i never will because i am fucking terrified of horses

What was your “phase” when you were younger? (i.e., Mythology Nerd, Horse Girl, Space Geek, etc) uh.... uh i mean im not sure if it counts as a phase but i was stupid into vampires (to the point of me and my friends constructing the intricate theory that our teacher was a vampire and we had to kill her by the time we graduated (she was not and we did not and i hate all of those people now) i was just the weird conspiracy kid i guess, we used to spend every lunch staring across the oval at a house we were SURE an alien lived in (it was just a plastic bag being rustled by a fan)

Have you ever been to jail? bkdnbrb god no

What’s your opinion on Lazy Susan’s (the spinning tray in the middle of tables)? im a lazy susan

Puzzles? i cant solve a rubiks cube but give me a 2000 piece jigsaw and ill sit there for 6 hours trying to solve it

You can only have one juice for the rest of your life, what is it? oh this is tough..... orange juice, the fancy kind but with no bits in it, i used to like the bits but these days i just want a clean juice experience

What section do you immediately head for when you walk into a bookstore? ,,,,,,the ya fiction section, i never buy anything from there but i like to see if series i read as a teenager ever got new instalments after i stopped liking them

What’s one thing you’re trying to learn/relearn in your downtime right now? how to sleep like a normal person

Who’s your go-to musical artist when you’re feeling upbeat? uh, it depends! lizzo or my playlist of musicals! (which is literally just starkid/tcb stuff)

Where could someone find you in a museum? i could literally be anywhere, probably in front of some old piece though, just staring for an hour bc im struck by the majesty of it (and my legs probably locked up so i couldnt move anyway)

What’s that one outfit in your closet you never get the chance to wear but want to? so i have a nice white button up and some really nice jeans i just got, and my suspenders, and my cool blue heels that i know i cant wear bc my legs cant handle walking in heels anymore, but it would look cool am i right

Rainbows, stars, or sunset colored clouds? i look up at my roof which is almost entirely covered in glow in the dark stars and then stare into the camera (i wish every day that my roof was like the roof of the healthy harold van, i still have fucking dreams of that beautiful ceiling)

If you could own any non-traditional pet (dogs, cats, fish, rodents, etc), what would it be? non traditional? id want a lizard that could curl round my shoulders like a leathery scarf

Do you have more art on your walls or more photographs? i dont have any photos on my wall so art by default

You have to get one meme tattooed on your body, what meme is it and where does it go? i just want the pensive emoji tattooed in the small of my back so if i wear a crop top everyone has to suffer with me

Pick a superhero sidekick to hang out with fuck superheroes they suck, can i hang out with jason todd red hood style

Lakes, rivers, or oceans? oceans, i want to go to the beach so fucking bad

Favorite mid-2000s song i dont really have a Big Favorite but like..... i constantly thank god for esteban

How do you dress when you’re home alone? ive been in the same sweatpants and old paint shirt i got from my painting and decorating course for three days

Where do you sit in the living room (we all have a preferred spot, and you know it)? armchair closest to the kitchen, perfect to make a quick escape if dad comes in

Knives or swords? knives, i dont have the upper body strength for swords

A song you didn’t think you’d enjoy but ended up loving? oh uh run away with me by crj, *bwoooooooo buhnuhnuuuuuu buhnuhnuuuuuhhh buhnuhnuuuuhhhhh*

Pick an old-school Disney Channel Original Movie HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL BUT SPECIFICALLY ONLY CERTAIN PARTS FROM EACH OF THEM BC COLLECTIVELY THEY SUCK BUT PARTS OF THEM ARE PERFECT

Are you a “Quote that relates to the photos” caption-er, an “explanation of where I took the photos” caption-er, or a no caption kinda person when you post pictures online? no caption i dont want people to really acknowledge that i post things

Name a classic Vine https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=anQds9PQ7CA

What’s the freezer food that you stock up on when you go to the grocery store? hash browns hash browns hash browns ONLY

How do you top your ice cream? god its been so long since ive been able to eat ice cream.... with the reeses peanut butter ice cream shell topping

Do you like Jello? jelly is the pinnacle of our society and i wish i were eating it right now

What’s something that you don’t have a picture of that you wish you did? i wish i had a picture of myself and my partner so i could set it as my phone lock screen (that or i wish i had a picture of me and a friend i really dearly miss bc i have pics of her in my phone but not of us together and i want some but i cant bring myself to say so)

How are you at climbing trees? theres a tree in my front yard i used to be able to hang off but nowadays i think id hurt myself just trying to lift my nasty meat sack off the ground trying

#long post #christ that took like 3 hours #i dont know things about myself #thanks for asking though #Anonymous

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine one-shot - “Not in Service” (Rated PG)

After years of pining over the most popular boy in McKinley - Kurt Hummel, nerd boy Blaine Anderson manages to get Kurt's cell phone number ... the day before Kurt loses his phone and decides to buy a new one. Blaine decides to use this as an opportunity to confess every feeling he's ever had for Kurt, how much he admires him, how much he's wanted to ask him out, for once and for all in the safest way possible ...

... because there's no chance anyone is ever going to see those messages ... right? (3654 words)

Notes: Okay, so I had been writing this alongside another one-shot I wrote for K*urtbastian (Dead Air), but I liked the other one better. But seeing as I had put so much work into this one, I've decided to post it. If you've read the other, you'll see that this one is entirely different. Let me know which one you like better <3

Warning for mention of bullying. Head Cheerio Kurt, nerd Blaine.

Read on AO3.

“Oh, give me a break!” Kurt exclaims out of nowhere, cutting short the conversation he’d been leading about the upcoming Regionals, and McKinley High’s chances of grabbing the gold.

Which is of course, obviously.

He starts rifling through his book bag like his life depends on it, then searching the pockets of his letterman jacket – first patting them down, then shoving his hands deep in as if expecting them to open up, revealing storage areas previously unknown.

“What’s wrong now?” Mercedes groans, looking up from her lunch - tater tots and celery sticks, her own personal compromise. She’s trying to slim down, but she refuses to spend the rest of her life eating like a rabbit to get there. Though, at present, the number of tater tots on her plate are dwindling while the celery sticks seem to be multiplying.

“My stupid phone!” Kurt huffs, searching his bag a second time, removing its contents piece by piece to be sure he’s covered his bases. “I’ve lost it … again! What does this make?”

The third time this week, Blaine thinks.

“I think this makes the third time this week,” Mercedes offers.

Blaine, pretending to appear deeply enthralled by his Calculus textbook, bites his lower lip and smiles, choosing to overlook how stalker-ish it is that he knows that.

“Well, you know what this means …” Kurt tosses down his bag in frustration, then re-thinks that and rescues it from the filthy ground.

“That you’re not responsible enough to own a phone?” Santana supplies. Kurt and Mercedes (and from his far corner of the cafeteria – Blaine) glare.

“Thank you, Satan,” Kurt snaps.

“Why don’t you trade up to an iPhone?” Mercedes stabs a celery stick with her fork, then changes her mind and spears another tot. “You’ve only wanted one forever.”

“Because losing a $500 phone would be less devastating than losing that crappy $100 one?” Santana says. She puts her hands up in defense as another round of glares heads her way. “Hey! I’m just sayin’.”

“I did want one until I found out that I won’t be able to keep my old number for some stupid reason,” Kurt explains, choosing to ignore negative comments from the peanut gallery. “That’s going to be a hassle.”

“But it’s worth it,” Mercedes sings, flashing her own iPhone with its shiny gold cover, knowing how much Kurt’s been coveting it.

“I don’t think I have it in my budget to buy a new phone,” Kurt argues, gathering up his things and getting ready to let Mercedes persuade him to buy one anyway.

“Nonsense. They’re on sale. And you know how much you love shopping for stuff on sale.”

“True, true.”

“Plus, it’ll give us an excuse to skip next period.”

“Cedes!” Kurt hisses, winding his arm inside hers as they hurry out of the cafeteria, huddled close together as if that will make what they’re doing less conspicuous. “You’re so bad!”

“Yes, but you love me anyway.”

“I do.”

Blaine peeks over the edge of his book and watches the friends leave. They get swallowed by the mob of students loitering outside the cafeteria doors, and then poof. They’re gone. Blaine sighs. Welp, there goes his master plan. That would be just his luck, Kurt losing his phone the day after Blaine managed to get his number. Kurt didn’t give it to him. Blaine paid Noah Puckerman, the boy with the stickiest fingers in McKinley, $20 to swipe the number for him. To be fair, Blaine doesn’t know if what he has is Kurt’s real number, or if he’d been swindled out of twenty bucks.

But he’d been optimistic.

Blaine didn’t have a plan past getting the number. In fact, he had no idea what he was going to do with Kurt’s number (provided it was his). But now, he doesn’t even have a chance.

Not like he had any before. What did Blaine think – Head Cheerio and most popular boy in school Kurt Hummel was going to date nerd boy Blaine Anderson simply because he managed to get Kurt’s number? Kurt probably wouldn’t give Blaine the time of day once he found out because how creepy is that? Paying some lowlife to get a hold of your phone number? And Kurt would be right. Kurt’s number was unlisted in the student directory for a reason.

And that reason probably looked a lot like Blaine.

Blaine takes his phone out of his pocket and pulls up Kurt’s number. Just seeing it there, with Kurt’s name at the top, makes his heart flutter. He imagines what it would be like if he had permission to have it. If Kurt had given it to him for real and he hadn’t spent his allowance on it. If the two of them were friends …

… or boyfriends.

But with Kurt’s phone gone, Blaine has to start over from scratch. Maybe this is a lesson well learned. Maybe he should just grow a pair, go up to Kurt, and say hi, tell him how handsome he is, how talented, how long he’s admired him from afar ...

Yeah, right. Blaine might also sprout a pair of wings and start circling Kurt’s house at night like a giant bat.

That conversation would earn Blaine a permanent spot in the dumpster out behind the cafeteria – the one the lunch ladies toss the expired coleslaw and uneaten seafood salad in – after the football team finds out.

According to Brett Bukowski, that smell never comes out.

And it wouldn’t matter one lick to Kurt because Kurt has no clue who Blaine is anyway. Not that Kurt abides by bullying. He absolutely doesn’t. In fact, it’s been Kurt’s personal mission to abolish bullying ay McKinley High School once and for all. But Blaine would have to be on Kurt’s radar in order for him to care.

And Blaine isn’t.

Blaine has been sitting behind Kurt in nearly every one of his classes for the past three years. They even went to elementary school together. It was only for a few months when they were eight years old. They sat next to each other in class, and at the same table at lunch. Kurt even helped Blaine straighten his bowtie once. But at some point in the middle of the year, Kurt’s mother passed away, and his father sent him to a private school. Kurt looked different back then, but Blaine recognized him right away, the first moment he saw him.

Kurt doesn’t seem to remember.

Kurt has said hi and bye in passing, but only ever speaks to Blaine to ask him to pass notes to Mercedes. He doesn’t know why he thought getting Kurt’s number would change anything, but at the time it seemed like an inspired idea.

A stroke of genius.

With the depth of his own pathos sinking inside his stomach, he gives composing a text to Kurt a try, just to see what it feels like.

To: Kurt

Hey, Kurt! How have you been? I just wanted to tell you your hair looks really nice today. See you in class J

Blaine smiles. It’s such a simple message, the kind two friends would definitely send to one another. But he’d never have the courage. Because they’re not friends, and probably never will be.

Blaine’s smile fades as he exits out of his messaging app and puts his phone in his book bag. He packs his belongings and makes his way to the library before the end-of-lunch bell rings. He doesn’t enjoy picking his way through the crowd that floods the hallways after lunch. Too often he gets bumped or locker checked, and not even by people picking on him. Sometimes just by accident.

Because he’s small, and insignificant, and easy to overlook.

It doesn’t have to be this way, though. By rights, he’s done with high school. He finished the last of his required courses the end of junior year, and is actually a sophomore at Lima Community College. Being a year ahead in his classes meant two things for Blaine – either graduating a semester early and taking advantage of his early acceptance to Harvard, or filling that time with the extracurricular, throw-away classes he didn’t get the opportunity to take.

He opted for the latter.

Ironically, he didn’t want to grow up just yet.

Most of his high school career has been abysmal, that’s true. He’d been tossed in dumpsters more times than he wanted to remember, stuffed in one particular locker so many times the door had been removed by the janitor permanently. Blaine only had a few months to fix that, to do something, anything, that would erase the pain and misery of those first three years.

Maybe that’s why getting Kurt’s number was so important to him.

He cringes. Just thinking that, he feels like the lazily written protagonist in a late 80s rom-com, the kind you look back on 30 years later and realize how fundamentally flawed it truly was.

How much you should have been rooting for anyone but the “hero”.

He gets to the library five minutes before the bell. He sets his things down at the tutoring desk (tucked in a far, secluded corner) and takes out his phone, figuring he’ll scroll through his Instagram feed before the first student shows up.

But the notification that pops up before Instagram opens makes his heart stop.

Message sent.

“What?” Blaine mutters, re-opening his messaging app and checking his sent message log. His stopped heart dislodges from its place inside his ribcage and drops to his knees as he sees the first message on the screen – his message to Kurt. “No … no!” Blaine checks Google to see if there’s any way to stop the message from being sent, desperate to get it back, but it’s too late. The message is gone, on its way to who knows where. If that wasn’t Kurt’s number, well, no harm no foul. But if it was …

… that phone’s lost anyway, isn’t it? Kurt will have a new phone by the end of the school day and, from the sounds of it, a new phone number. So, in theory, Blaine should have nothing to worry about.

But, unfortunately, that’s not how Blaine’s brain works.

Just to be on the safe side (and keep himself out of the dumpster) he decides to compose another message to counteract the first one. But what should it say? Sorry, wrong number? How likely is that when he opened the text Hey, Kurt? Should he try to convince Kurt that he knows another Kurt and that that message was meant for him? What are the odds? Besides, that wouldn’t explain how Blaine got Kurt’s number in the first place. Kurt is a smart boy. He’d never buy that excuse. No sane person would! He takes a deep breath and starts typing, hoping he can come up with something on the fly that will sound halfway reasonable.

To: Kurt

I’m sorry! I’m so so sorry that I sent you that text! Please ignore it! I promise, I won’t do it again!

Blaine sends the message before he really gets the chance to read it. Then, realizing that Kurt probably has no idea who sent him either message, he quickly follows up with:

To: Kurt

This is Blaine, by the way. Blaine Anderson.

After he sends that message, his poor, overworked heart withers and dies. He’s such an idiot! How can a boy with a 5.0 GPA and early acceptance into one of the most prestigious universities in America be such a phenomenal imbecile? He never identified himself in the first message, nor the second one. What are the odds anyone in Kurt’s friend circle has Blaine’s number? Blaine rarely gives it out. Kurt would have never known who sent the first message to begin with, and Blaine would have gotten away with it.

Unless Noah told. That’s a distinct possibility. He probably would. But shit!

Blaine’s skin prickles with cold despite the fact that he’s sitting beside a heating vent going full blast; his head swims with the reality of what his life might end up looking like for the next week or two.

Strangely enough, when he pictures it, he only sees darkness.

Blaine’s head drops to the desk with a hard thunk. What’s left for him now? Does he pick up his bag, walk out of school, and never look back? Hitchhike to Harvard and camp out on the main lawn until the start of summer school?

No.

He’s been carrying this secret with him, deep inside, for so long. He has to let it go. Even if it’s to empty cyberspace, he has to give it up.

He’s dug himself in deep this time. He might as well fill in the hole.

He lifts his head, and composes another message.

To: Kurt

You don’t know me … at least, I don’t think you do. You’ve only spoken to me a handful of times, but otherwise, you don’t seem to know I exist.

Blaine chuckles. That’s the understatement of the century. And it’s not because Kurt is one of those popular kids who has his head shoved so far up his own ass that he doesn’t associate with people outside of his social circle.

Quite on the contrary.

It’s simply that Kurt is completely and utterly out of Blaine’s league.

To: Kurt

But you and I have history, so to speak.

To: Kurt

Well, to be honest, it’s more like an anecdote.

To: Kurt

I sit behind you in a few classes and I’ve always wanted to say hi to you, but …

To: Kurt

I’m just too afraid.

To: Kurt

I’m afraid of being laughed at. But also … I get picked on a lot, and I’m afraid of becoming more of a target than I already am.

Blaine’s hands shake as he writes that. Even if Kurt never reads this, and odds are he won’t, the fear is still too real.

To Kurt:

But I look up to you so much.

To: Kurt

You’re smart and popular, and you have so many friends.

To: Kurt

You sing in Glee Club and you’re captain of the Cheerios.

To: Kurt

You’re doing everything I would have done if I’d had more courage.

To: Kurt

Speaking of courage …

Blaine hesitates, a small voice in his head screaming, “Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Turn back now before it’s too late!” But another voice reminds him that Kurt is never going to see these messages.

So what would it hurt to go for broke?

To: Kurt

I’ve been trying to find the courage to ask you out forever.

To: Kurt

Nothing major. Not like prom. I wouldn’t want your reputation to tank because of me. Just coffee.

To: Kurt

I know that you’ll think I like you because you’re Head Cheerio, because you’re popular, but that’s not it. I swear.

To: Kurt

There are hundreds of reasons to like you that have nothing to do with you being popular.

Blaine bites his lower lip, knowing he’s going to step over some lines, drudge up some past that maybe he shouldn’t, but he can’t make himself stop typing.

To: Kurt

When Coach Sylvester wanted you to lose weight after you joined the Cheerios, I saw how hard that was on you. But then you told her that if she didn’t want you on the squad plus or minus a few pounds, that she could go to hell. And she made you captain.

To: Kurt

You ran for student body president on a platform to end bullying, because you overcame bullying yourself, and even a death threat to get where you are.

To: Kurt

But when that other Cheerio won (I think because she promised to go topless one day a month), you were so gracious in defeat. And then you still went on to get the superintendent to ban dodgeball in all public schools, for which I, personally, thank you.

To: Kurt

You were so strong after your dad got sick.

To: Kurt

I heard you spent every night with him at the hospital, and then came to school every morning. I don’t think I could have done that.

To: Kurt

You brought that boy Sam some clothes when his parents lost their home last year.

To: Kurt

And I’ve seen you stand up for the Glee Club against the football players, even against Coach Sylvester.

To: Kurt

You’ve been out and proud in school for years now, and have paved a way for LGBT kids in our school to feel safer and more accepted, which is difficult when you consider the mental Neanderthals we’re surrounded by every day.

To: Kurt

No matter what life threw at you, you never gave up.

To: Kurt

You’re a good person.

Blaine looks at his phone after that last message. He could end it there, but that’s not the end. He takes in a breath and holds it. He has nothing to lose, he reminds himself.

To: Kurt

So, if I don’t sound like a total loser, and you think that maybe the two of us could be, you know, friends …

To: Kurt

I’m in the library, at the tutoring desk. Maybe you could stop by, and we could talk.

That first little voice rings in his head, “Mayday! Mayday!” and Blaine steps his remarks back a bit.

To: Kurt

Or not. I know you’re a busy guy. I’m sorry for bothering you.

To: Kurt

P. S. Just so you know, I’m not a stalker, so please don’t call the police on me.

“Ugh!” Blaine moans, dropping his head back onto the desk. “Why? Why did you text that? You pathetic loser!”

He turns off his phone and sets it aside.

And … that’s it.

That’s all he had in him to say.

He did it, though. He overcame his fear and told Kurt how he felt … in the safest, most non-consequence facing way possible.

He should feel relieved.

But he doesn’t.

He sent those messages, expressed all of those feelings, but they just disappeared into the ether, never to be retrieved (once Blaine clears his message history), their intended recipient totally unaware of their existence. What good would it have done if Kurt had read them anyway? What would that change except to make Blaine seem like more of a loser than he already feels?

He thought he’d feel lighter after admitting all of that, like he’d accomplished something. But he doesn’t.

He feels vacant.

Empty.

Vaguely incomplete.

He knocks his head on the desk a few times, chanting, “You. Are. Such. An. Idiot. You. Are. Such. An …”

“Hey. Are you busy?”

Blaine stops chanting and sighs. “Do I look busy?” He doesn’t care that he sounds snippy. Only five or so people come to see him on the regular anyhow, and most of them have witnessed him in the midst of an existential crisis before.

“Well, you look like you might be having some sort of episode. If that’s the case, I can come back.” A giggle follows that remark that sends a chill down Blaine’s spine.

That’s no regular.

That’s Kurt.

Blaine looks up, a nervous smile plastered to his face as he tries to remain calm. This is a coincidence. That’s all. Nothing but a weird, wacky, one-in-a-million, kick-you-in-the-crotch coincidence. Blaine is here to tutor. Lots of kids, from the cheerleading squad to the football players, come to see him. Even the ones who have tossed him into dumpsters stroll in as if there’s no bad blood between them to ask Blaine for help bringing up their grades. So this isn’t that out of the ordinary.

Except that Kurt has a 4.8 GPA. He’s never needed tutoring, so why would he be here?

It can’t have anything to do with those messages. No way. That phone is gone, those messages went nowhere.

So … why today of all days? Why on the one day Blaine bore his heart to him – or to his lost phone – through dozens of inane text messages, would Kurt show up for tutoring?

Blaine can’t begin to guess. But once this does turn out to be one big, crazy coincidence, he’s going to buy a ton of lottery tickets because fate is obviously working overtime.

“Uh, no. No, I’m not. I … is there something I can help you with?” Blaine asks.

“I … I wanted to show you something.” Kurt reaches into his book bag, pulls out his phone, and shows it to Blaine. Blaine exhales, relieved. That’s all. Kurt got his new phone and he’s showing it off, probably to everyone he sees. He happened to be in the library, noticed Blaine sitting at the tutoring desk, and decided to brag.

Completely reasonable.

But when Blaine takes a second look, he sees it’s not a new phone. It’s Kurt’s old phone. There’s a message displayed on the screen. It only takes Blaine three seconds and the words please don’t call the police for him to know that it’s his message.

Not the first message Blaine sent, but the last.

“Your name is Blaine Anderson,” Kurt says, letting out a breath as if he’d been holding it for an hour now. “You sit behind me in science, math, and economics. Last year, you sat behind me in history, math, and AP European Literature.” Kurt takes a step towards the empty chair in front of Blaine’s desk. “We met for the first time in elementary school. You wore a bowtie to school every day. I used to wear suits, and my hair …” Kurt runs a self-conscious hand through his bangs “… was less highlighted then.”

“I … I remember,” Blaine says, swallowing heavy.

“So do I.” Kurt takes a seat. And with a small, bashful smile, he takes Blaine’s hand. “Can we talk?”

#klaine #klaine fanfiction #klaine fic #Frankie writes

[sevenfists]

Glasses Geno is Sid's sexuality now too...🤓❤️l

Geno was predictably enthused about the glasses, because he was enthused about everything. There was only one pair, and so after Sid was done filming his part, he had to go down the hall to find Geno, who was having his hair artfully arranged by the makeup lady. He already looked stupid but undeniably good in his grandpa sweater, and it got worse when he slid the glasses onto his face.

“How I look?” he asked, grinning at Sid. “Good, right?”

Jesus. “You look like a nerd,” Sid said, which was true.

“Like sexy nerd,” Geno said, still grinning.

“You’re a sexy librarian,” Rusty said, halfway into his Santa costume. “You work at the reference desk, and you’ve got the whole Dewey decimal system memorized.”

“That’s, uh, that’s a pretty specific fantasy there, Rusty,” Sid said.

“Rusty likes nerds!” Geno crowed, and then yelped as the makeup lady got too aggressive with the comb. He had a tender scalp and was always a baby about it.

Sid was technically done for the day, but he hung out to watch Geno film his bit, goofing around with the bar of soap and giving the camera guys a hard time. He had—okay, maybe sort of a crush on Geno, and also a lifelong appreciation for glasses, and the two were colliding now in a pretty unfortunate way.

It wasn’t, like. A fetish. He didn’t watch glasses porn or anything like that. He just liked how glasses changed a person’s face. Geno in glasses looked like someone who had a bunch of cats and houseplants, who would be interested in the podcasts Sid listened to instead of making fun of him for being boring. Like maybe he would want to spend the night and let Sid make him breakfast in the morning.

He was so screwed. He had known Geno forever, but they’d never been single at the same time before. He kept waiting for his crush to go away, but instead it was just getting worse, and after three months he was starting to feel like he needed to maybe say something to Geno, so he could get shot down and move on with his life.

“Okay, let’s do one last take from a different angle,” the director said.

“My jaw hurts!” Geno complained, laughing. “This soap’s too big, give me smaller.”

“Open wide, G,” Sid said, trying not think about other circumstances under which Geno might complain about an aching jaw.

“You think you do better? Okay, come here,” Geno said to him, holding out the soap.

“Sid’s already done his filming,” the director said.

“One take,” Sid said. “Guess I’m better at acting than you are, eh?”

Geno stared at him, eyes and mouth wide with outrage. “You—Sid!”

Nobody else was looking at him. Sid succumbed to impulse and stuck out his tongue.

Geno grinned and shook his head, and unhinged his jaw once more for the soap.

+ + +

Jen emailed them some of the raw footage a week later, when they were on the plane heading out to Vegas. Sid watched it on his phone as soon as he got the notification. Geno was really cute on a day-to-day basis, and in a playful mood, and wearing those glasses, he was custom-designed to push Sid’s buttons.

He really needed to get over this.

“You watching the Christmas video?” Tanger asked him from across the aisle. “I look great, don’t you think?”

“Hideous,” Sid said, and barely managed to dodge the pack of peanuts Tanger threw at him.

He wasn’t at all ready to play Flower, but he knew the other guys were taking their cues from him to some extent, and he had to keep it together. He managed pretty well until two-touch right before the game, when it hit him all at once. He excused himself and went to find a dark corner where he could focus on his breathing for a few minutes and get his emotions under control.

He was a little surprised when Geno came to find him. Geno was usually pretty oblivious to people’s meltdowns and didn’t offer much in the way of support. Sid didn’t have a problem with that; Geno’s job, as far as he was concerned, was keeping his own colossal emotions in check. But Geno was here now, hovering at a safe distance, frowning, his sleeves pulled down to cover his hands.

“You leave game,” Geno said.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Sid said. “Just, uh. Needed to take a breather.”

Geno drifted closer. “You upset about Flower?”

Sid exhaled shakily. “I’m fine. Just another game, eh?”

“I’m upset, too,” Geno said. He tugged on the brim of Sid’s cap and then slung an arm around Sid’s shoulders. “It’s okay to be sad. We play hard, do our best. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Sid said. Geno was so warm. Sid leaned against him, just a little.

“Come back to game,” Geno said. “Horny is cheat, we need captain for yell at him.”

Geno didn’t take his arm away as they walked back toward the two-touch commotion. Sid enjoyed it a lot, too much. His crush wasn’t easing up. He needed to say something. He knew Geno well enough that he was pretty sure Geno would let him down easy and without freaking out, but things would probably be awkward for a while. But Sid refused to pine away foolishly for months. He could handle rejection.

He would tell Geno before Christmas: get it over with, and then go home for a few days to eat his mom’s cookies and feel sorry for himself. And then he could put it behind him at last.

+ + +

Sid had decided to throw a casual holiday party for the team and his local friends. It had seemed like a great idea when he sent the invitations around before American Thanksgiving, but the day before the party, bleary after a late-night flight home from Colorado, he was tempted to text everyone and cancel.

He didn’t, and he regretted it immensely when Geno showed up for the party half an hour late and wearing glasses.

“Wow,” Hags said when Geno came into the den with a plate of food in one hand and a glass of punch in the other. “What’s going on here?”

“It’s not my fault, okay,” Geno said. “I get new contact lenses, they’re not right, I don’t know.”

“So you decided to go all Revenge of the Nerds on us?” Phil asked.

“You make fun? Fuck you, Phil!” Geno said. “It’s hurt my eyes, okay—”

Sid stopped paying attention. The glasses didn’t look much like the ones Geno had worn for the holiday video. The frames were smaller, black and square. But the effect was the same and just as devastating. Geno was wearing an ugly Christmas tree sweater that probably wasn’t ironic in the least. Sid wanted to heavily spike his punch and try to lure him beneath the mistletoe.

He wouldn’t. But he really wanted to.

He was a terrible host that evening. Geno’s sweater was probably really soft. He had taken off his shoes when he came into the house, and his socks had reindeer faces on them, Geno’s long toes stretching out the red noses. Sid kept the punch bowl filled and set out more food when the trays got depleted, but otherwise he was a distracted mess. He kept going into the laundry room to give himself a few minutes to calm down. His guests were going to think he’d picked up a stomach bug.

Geno was in the kitchen the third time Sid emerged from the laundry room. He flashed Geno a tight smile that probably looked more terrified than happy and sidled on through to the living room. But Geno followed him, and sat down on the sofa beside him, and stretched out his arm along the back of the couch, behind Sid’s shoulders.

“Okay, Sid?” he murmured, and knocked their knees together. “You quiet tonight.”

Sid forced a smile. “Fine.” Geno’s glasses really complemented the shape of his face. He looked like a good person to curl up with in front of a fireplace to drink some hot chocolate and maybe exchange a few chocolatey kisses.

He was tormenting himself. He needed to stop.

He sat stiffly beside Geno for a few minutes, holding himself carefully still so that his thigh or shoulder wouldn’t accidentally brush Geno’s. Geno was sitting really close. He didn’t move his arm away. Sid drained his glass of punch and said, “Refill,” and made his escape.

He drank enough to get giggly, which was always embarrassing, but at least it helped the night go by faster. People started to trickle out at a reasonable hour, because they had a game the next day, and Sid started cleaning up in the kitchen to hustle the stragglers along.

“You need help?” Geno asked, and Sid turned to see him in the doorway, the sleeves of his sweater pushed up to his elbows, a stack of dirty plates in his hands like he was Sid’s hot and thoroughly domesticated boyfriend and wanted nothing more than to help Sid clean up after their joint holiday party.

“I, uh,” Sid said. He was too drunk for this. “I’ve got it. I’m fine. Thanks. You don’t need to help.”

“Hmm,” Geno said. He came into the kitchen and started scraping the plates into the trash. “You sure you okay?”

“Yeah,” Sid said, and then, “No.” He only had three days left before his self-imposed deadline. He might as well get it over with. “Geno, uh. I have something I need to tell you.”

Geno set down the plate he was holding and turned to face Sid, slouching against the counter. His legs were so long. He raised his eyebrows. “Okay?”

Sid’s stomach felt tight. His heart was pounding, and he felt it mostly in his belly, the artery there throbbing heavily. This was going to be so fucking embarrassing. He was grateful for the punch. “I, uh. I’m interested in you. Romantically. And I just need to tell you so I can get over it.”

“What?” Geno said. He straightened up. His face looked—

Sid ducked his head. He couldn’t bear to watch Geno’s expression. “It’s only been a few months, I haven’t been—I didn’t want it go on too long. I won’t be weird about it. But I thought I should tell you, in case I’m a little weird about it.”

“It’s glasses?” Geno asked.

Sid risked a quick glance at him. He didn’t look mad. Maybe he was smiling a little, but that wasn’t possible. “What?”

“You like glasses,” Geno said. “That’s why.”

“No,” Sid said. “I mean—I like the glasses.” His face was so hot. He was thirty, for Christ’s sake. This shouldn’t be so difficult. “But it’s not just the glasses.”

They weren’t standing too far apart. Sid’s kitchen wasn’t that big. Geno took a few steps and then he was right there. Sid felt like he was underwater, everything slowed down and refracted as Geno reached toward him and put one big hand on Sid’s shoulder. His thumb brushed the side of Sid’s neck.

“I see you look at me,” Geno said. “When we make Christmas movie. And maybe I wonder a little.”

Sid squinted at him. “Did you wear glasses tonight just to fuck with me?”

“Maybe,” Geno said. He smiled. His thumb moved again, and this time Sid couldn’t tell himself the touch was accidental. He raised his other hand and cupped Sid’s jaw. “Sid,” he said, hushed.

Sid didn’t know if there were still other people in his house. He didn’t fucking care, not when Geno was looking at him like that. He tilted his face up and hoped his expression conveyed exactly how desperate he was for Geno to kiss him. Geno was too tall for him to take matters into his own hands.

Geno breathed something that might have been Russian and bent his head, angling down toward Sid in the perfect position for kissing. But a kiss didn’t come. Geno hovered there, breathing against Sid’s lips, his long fingers so careful on Sid’s face.

Sid was shaking a little. He lifted his chin that last little bit and pressed their mouths together.

“Sid,” Geno murmured, and Sid hooked one arm around Geno’s neck to hold him in place so they could kiss for real, slow and soft. Geno’s lips were full and a little rough and nothing had ever felt this good, nothing.

When they broke apart at last, Sid turned his face against Geno’s neck and clung to him. Reckless joy welled up inside his heart. “I never thought, uh.”

Geno held him tight and close and pressed kisses against his hair. “I never think. Oh, Sid.”

“Let’s go on a date,” Sid said. “After Christmas. I’ll take you out.”

“Okay,” Geno said. He drew back and touched Sid’s cheek. His expression was as open and awed as Sid had ever seen it. Christmas had come early, and maybe every day would feel like Christmas for the rest of Sid’s life.

It was too soon to say any of that. He pressed a kiss to Geno’s jaw. “I won’t even make you wear the glasses,” he said.

#replies #shenanigans #ficlet #Anonymous #sidgeno #sevenfists replies for blacklisting purposes #don't look at me

[poipoi1912]

Barisi Episode Tag, 19x05

(10.9K. Inspired by Sonny's nauseated face when he carried Emma Lawrence, by his indifference when he got dumped by Miss Raw Foods, and by my desire to see Rafael's reaction to both of those things. Angsty, introspective and romantic. Please enjoy.)

~~~

Dormant

(or, The Deleted Scenes We Didn't See)

~~~

“You hear about Carisi?”

Rafael has not heard anything about Carisi lately, and despite what Rollins might think, he’d prefer to keep it that way.

“What about him?”

Or not.

Rollins steps closer, like she doesn’t want anybody else at the precinct to overhear, which suggests the information is personal, and now Rafael is even less inclined to find out wh-

“You catch the front page of The Ledger this morning? Carisi’s the source.”

Rafael blinks.

“I can only assume it was inadvertent?”

Rollins makes an expression Rafael can’t deciph-

“You could say that. He’s been datin’ the reporter who wrote the story.”

Oh.

That explains it.

Some of it, anyway.

Rafael nods.

“I see. I suppose we can always trust Carisi to do something stupid and make our lives that much harder.”

Rollins gives Rafael a look, except this one is a lot easier to read.

She’s not buying what Rafael is selling, and it’s just as well. Rafael has left the insults behind, for years now, and this is not the time to revert back to that behavior.

Easy as it would be. Good as it might feel.

Rafael just hopes Rollins can’t read his own expression, he hopes she can’t see the jealousy there, because Rafael just got official confirmation that Carisi is in a relationship, and he thinks he’s allowed to be petty for the next several minut-

“Come on, Barba. He’s real broken up about it. He didn’t mean to tell her. He was just excited we found Emma Lawrence.”

Right.

“Except you didn’t. Find her.”

That was the wrong thing to say, and Rollins looks haunted, just like that, and Rafael sometimes forgets she has a kid of her own now, and these cases must hit her even hard-

“No. We didn’t.”

Rafael almost apologizes for being cruel.

He doesn’t.

He knows Rollins would never let him hear the end of it. Rafael Barba, apologizing. She’d want to get it on camera.

Rafael doesn’t apologize, because whatever he might tell Rollins, whatever blame he might mistakenly place on her, Rafael knows she’s way ahead of him.  

Cops have a way of blaming themselves.

Prosecutors, they always have someone else to blame. They are lawyers, after all. Prosecutors blame the judge, or the jury, or the cops, like Rafael just did, and he really wants to apologize, still, and he d-

“That reporter, she’s the one who’s got Carisi eatin’ raw food all the time. You ever notice that, Barba?”

Rafael would thank Rollins for the change of subject, but that pettiness is rising inside him again, and h-

“Nah, of course you haven’t noticed. Why would you?”

Rafael’s nostrils flare.

Rollins looks suspiciously nonchalant, in a way she never is, because she’s always sharp and focused and she never speaks unless she has something very specific to say, and Rafael realizes she’s punishing him for what he said before.

While he may very well deserve that, Rafael doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t want to hear what else Rollins might have to s-

“Anyway, Carisi’s always eating peanuts for lunch, and ordering salads, and bringin’ in stray fruit from home. He’s been gettin’ on Fin’s last nerve.”

Wait a minute.

“I saw Carisi eating an entire pizza for lunch, right there on his desk, just the other week. I distinctly remember it, because I saw him use an affidavit as a napkin.”

Rollins snorts.

“Yeah, well, he says he’s been tryin’, but sometimes it’s hard to resist.”

Rafael knows the feeling.

He’s experiencing it right now.

It’s hard to resist.

“How long has that been going on, Rollins?”

Rollins narrows her eyes.

Of course she does.

She’s a detective. And a good one, too. Rafael knew her obliviousness was too much to hope for, but he had no choice. She’s the only one who would know, because she and Carisi are friends, and Rafael has no other way of finding out if this is serious of if it’s n-

“What? The raw diet?”

Rafael does not appreciate being called out like that.

Rollins is reading him like a book.

Fine.

The least she could do is pretend she didn’t already know. Rollins could at least act surprised, instead of gleeful, because she’s got Rafael begging her for scraps of information on Carisi’s personal life. If not out of friendship, then out of professional courtesy.

“Yes, Rollins. The raw diet. How long?”

Rafael truly hopes what he sees in her face is not pity.

“Hard to tell, counselor. We only found out by accident, me and Fin. Carisi never talks about her.”

He doesn’t?

Carisi, the same Carisi who gives everyone semi-regular updates on his second oldest sister’s hunt for a husband, the same Carisi who mass texts pictures of his niece dressed as an elf to the entire precinct every Christmas, the same Carisi who blathers on about the Mustang he used to save up for, and the girl he had a crush on in elementary school, and that one time he stole candy from a store when he was eight, that Carisi, doesn’t talk about the woman he’s in lov…

Rafael stops himself right there.

Pettiness is bad enough, nosiness is even worse, and the last thing he needs is to jump straight into misery.  He always does th-

“Best guess, though? Six or seven months. Come to think of it, isn’t that around the time you and him started yellin’ at each other?”

Rafael does not yell.

He does, however, know this is not the hill he wants to die on. Not right now. He doesn’t need to give Rollins more ammo by being defensive, and pedantic, and pointing out that Carisi started yelling at him almost a year ago.

Rafael just rolls his eyes and hopes it’s convincing.

“Will that be all, Rollins? Or do you have more irrelevant gossip to share?”

Rollins silently calls bullshit on ‘irrelevant,’ with a raise of her left eyebrow that’s so subtle Rafael is instantly envious of it, and then she steps even closer.

Which is a little disconcert-

“Just for the record, Barba, Carisi didn’t look happy this morning. He confronted her, soon as the paper hit the stands. She denied using him as a source, but he said he didn’t buy it. I mean, it is a hard sell. That early in the investigation, there was only so many people who knew, and I sure as hell didn’t tell her. So… It’s not lookin’ so hot. Between ‘em. If it’s any consolation.”

It is, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Why would that be a consolation, Rollins?”

Rollins bites her top lip, clearly trying not to laugh, and Rafael wants to kick himself.

“Why would I need consolation?”

Rollins laughs.

She literally laughs in Rafael’s face, and it’s a quiet laugh, it’s at a low, work-appropriate volume, but she’s standing so close she might as well be cackling. Rafael almost reprimands her for her imaginary lack of decorum, but he says nothing, because she’s right.

Of course he needs consolation.

He’s needed consolation for a long time.

Six or seven months.

Longer.

Almost a year ago.

More than a year ago.

Rollins is still laughing when Rafael turns around and walks out of the precinct, as fast as he can. It’s all he can do to retain the last shreds of dignity he mistakenly believes he still possesses.

~~~

The allocution goes as well as could be expected.

Bill Lawrence details his actions, and he expresses his anguish, even if his lack of remorse leaves something to be desired, and the Lawrence family is spared a lengthy trial, and Rafael is spared the hassle of having to devise a closing argument strong enough to convict a father who faked his own daughter’s abduction to protect his son.

The real killer.

For ten years, Bill Lawrence kept up the lie.

Rafael does not blame Karen Lawrence for storming out of the courtroom. Most days, he wishes he could do the same. At least today justice was served. At least today Rafael is not packing up his briefcase in silent fury, the faster to get out of there, because a slick defense attorney managed to sufficiently vilify a victim, or because a naïve jury fell for the charms of a predator.

Today, Rafael gathers his things leisurely, and walks out of the courtroom in slow, easy steps.

Heavy, but easy.

Rafael’s steps are always heavy.

Carisi rushed out the door.

Light on his feet.

Carisi followed Karen Lawrence outside, and Rafael can only hope he had the good sense to leave that poor woman alone, becaus-

Of course not.

Carisi, to no one’s surprise, is standing in the hallway, talking to Mrs. Lawrence.

No.

Listening.

Carisi is listening to Mrs. Lawrence, and part of Rafael feels bad for him, part of Rafael wants to step in and shield Carisi from her anger, but another part of Rafael wants to let this play out. Maybe that’s what she needs. Maybe this grief-stricken mother who just lost her entire family will get some closure if she gets to yell at the cop who dared to give her false hope.

Rafael thinks that’s a terrible thing to think.

None of this is Carisi’s fault.

Almost none of this.

They’re all to blame.

Rafael, too. He’s not blameless.

He never is.

Rafael exhales.

Rafael exhales, and then he takes a few steps in Carisi’s direction. He can’t hear what Karen Lawrence is saying, but he can see the nauseated expression on Carisi’s face.

It’s breathtaking.

The way Carisi’s pain is carved on his face.

Lines and lines of pain, cutting deep.

Rafael wonders when Carisi will finally learn to cover it up.

Never, probably.

Right now, Carisi looks like he’s about two seconds away from throwing up all over his shoes.

Rafael knows he should be looking at Mrs. Lawrence, he should be focusing on her pain, powerful and fierce and raw, but that’s not easy when Carisi looks so lost.

Carisi looks even worse than he did yesterday, and that’s when he had just recovered the real Emma’s remains.

Rafael wants to touch him.

Rafael has no right.

Still.

Rafael wants to touch him.

Rafael touched Carisi, yesterday.

Yesterday, Carisi returned to the precinct after having carried a dead child in his arms, and Rafael saw him, shoulders tense, and lips downturned, and eyes empty, and Rafael touched him.

Rafael put a hand on Carisi’s shoulder.

It was only a few seconds, and Rafael felt it was what Carisi needed, so he…

No.

It was what Rafael needed.

It’s hard, watching Carisi in pain. It’s hard not to want to comfort him, even if Rafael doesn’t really know how.

Rafael touched Carisi once before.

Twice.

In comfort.

They had just lost Dodds, and Rafael feels guilty even thinking that, because ‘they’ didn’t lose Dodds, Rafael didn’t, but Carisi did, and Carisi took it hard, and Rafael touched him.

At the precinct, after they caught Heredio. A small pat on the arm.

At the bar, after the funeral. A lingering touch on the wrist.

Rafael thinks this is his own fault.

He started it.

Rafael doesn’t touch people.

A touch is an invitation, and Rafael doesn’t let anyone in.

Doesn’t want anyone in.

Rafael touches Carisi.

Rafael touched Carisi, once before, twice, and Carisi tried to make his way inside.

Yesterday, Rafael touched Carisi, Rafael squeezed Carisi’s shoulder, pointy and bony and warm, and Carisi didn’t look up, but his body sagged in a good way, and Rafael can’t believe that distinction was so glaringly clear.

Rafael can’t believe he can tell when Carisi breathes out in pain, or in relief.

He had never seen Carisi so devastated.

Right now, Carisi looks even worse.

Shattered.

Carisi looks shattered, as Mrs. Lawrence finally leaves.

Rafael doesn’t know if he should stay.

If he should approach Carisi.

Rafael almost wants to pretend he didn’t see.

He wants to give Carisi a private moment to properly wallow in self-loathing, like any public servant deserves.

They’ve all earned it.

Except Carisi spots him.

Carisi locks eyes with him, and Rafael sees the pleading, and the pain, and the nausea, and sometimes it’s hard to resist.

The more Rafael approaches, the more awkward Carisi looks.

Rafael is not cut out for this.

Rafael doesn’t know how to ask if Carisi is okay, how to ask if he can help.

So he doesn’t.

“What did she say, Carisi?”

Carisi looks down, and it makes the dark circles under his eyes all the more pronounced. His face is all shadow, and he looks half dead, and Raf-

“Sorry I didn’t drop off my case notes yesterday.”

Of course.

Carisi wants to change the subject.

Rafael doesn’t know if he should let Carisi get away with that or if he sh-

“I told Carmen I would. That’s why I… Maybe she told you. I was gonna do it, but I didn’t get around to it. I’m sorry.”

Carisi looks off, looks lost, looks apologetic to the point of apoplexy, and it’s hard not to want to comfort him.

Rafael is not cruel, so he decides to let Carisi off the hook.

For now.

“No need to apologize, detective. You had a long day.”

Carisi lets out a quiet exhale which could almost be mistaken for a laugh, at least if they weren’t talking about Carisi digging up the corpse of a dead six-year-old.

“Yeah. I’ll say. Anyway, I know you probably didn’t… I know you didn’t need the notes for today, ‘cause this was an allocution,  and Bill Lawrence gave you everything you needed, so… But still, that’s not an excuse, because I told you I’d drop them off, or… I told Carmen I would, and I didn’t, and maybe she was… Maybe she stayed late, waitin’ for me, or maybe… Maybe you were waitin’ for these notes so you could put them away and officially close the file, and… I didn’t mean to… I didn’t forget, I just d-”

“What did Karen Lawrence say to you, Carisi?”

Short of slapping Carisi in the face, this is the only thing Rafael can think of to stop Carisi from spiraling.

The pain Karen Lawrence inflicted.

Rafael isn’t even sorry.

The rambling, and the stumbling over words, and the self-flagellation, it all needs to stop, even if it’s over a forgotten notebook, because it’s not over a notebook, because it’s a slippery slope, and Carisi needs to stop before he starts blaming himself for other, more unforgivable offenses.

Carisi breathes out, and it sounds shakier than it should, shallower than it should, and Rafael can’t believe he can make that distinction either, and if he didn’t know any better he’d swear Carisi was on the verge of tears.

It occurs to Rafael that maybe he doesn’t know bett-

“The truth. She said she wishes I’d never found Emma. The real one. Before all this, she said she had hope. She could pretend Emma was still out there. Alive. And now all she has is an old blanket and a dug up grave. Because of me.”

She’s right.

That’s Rafael’s first shameful thought.

Karen Lawrence is right, but Carisi was right, too. In a way. Or he was wrong for the right reasons. Carisi genuinely believed they had found Emma, and he didn’t want to deprive the Lawrences of their own child for a moment longer. Not after ten years.

They should have done a DNA test, they should have monitored ‘Emma’ more closely before sending her ‘home,’ they should have kept this out of the press, they should have done a lot of things, but they didn’t, and Carisi isn’t the only one who failed to do right by this famil-

“We should have pushed for the girl’s DNA. I should have pushed. I should have figured out the dad’s reactions were off. And Glenn? It was obvious. I should’ve seen it sooner.”

Blame.

For other, more unforgivable offenses.

“And I should have gotten you a warrant for the girl’s DNA.  But I didn’t. There’s plenty of blame to go around, Carisi. You don’t get to bogart it.”

Carisi actually cracks a smile, and Rafael feels absurdly happy he was able to chase away the nausea, and the pain, Rafael was able to put an actual smile back on Carisi’s face, where it belongs, because Carisi should always be smil-

“That wasn’t your fault, Barba.”

Wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it Rafael’s job to make sur-

“It was my fault. If I hadn’t opened my big mouth, The Ledger wouldn’t have printed the story. Not on the front page, at least. We wouldn’t have had this media circus to deal with, and the D.A. wouldn’t have been breathin’ down your neck, and you’d have been free to work the case like you wanted.”

That’s a naïve assumption. Perhaps the media attention would have been less extreme, but a missing child is a missing child, even if it’s a cold case, and the D.A. would have still wanted to be informed of any develop-

“But, see, I couldn’t help myself. I just had to spill the beans. I just had to tell my friend, and she just had to report it. ‘Cause it was her duty to the truth, and to the readers of The Ledger. That’s what she said.”

Rafael bites the inside of his cheek.

“Your friend?”

His inflection is unmistakable.

And, even if it weren’t, Carisi is not an idiot. Much as Rafael likes to pretend otherwise.

Except Carisi looks surprised.

Carisi looks surprised, because Rafael slipped.

Rafael is not supposed to know that.

Carisi looks surprised, and then confused, and then guilty, for some godforsaken reason which feels like a punch to the gut, and Rafael has to try to maintain his composure.

After a good second or three, Carisi’s expression settles to what looks like defeat.

“Yeah, she’s… I know, I know. Which makes it even worse, huh?”

Rafael is struck by Carisi’s inability to use the term ‘girlfriend’ to refer to his actual girlfriend.

“What does?”

Carisi frowns.

“What makes it even worse, Carisi?”

Carisi stares.

“That I’m… That she’s… She was… Never mind, Barba. Never mind. I gotta go. I’ll drop off my notes later, so you can file them away. Alright? I… I gotta go.”

Carisi practically bolts, long legs taking long strides, and Rafael couldn’t catch up even if he wanted to.

Rafael slowly makes his way to the exit.

His steps are heavy.

~~~

It’s ten o’clock when Carisi shows up at Rafael’s office.

Rafael is not ashamed to admit that’s the only reason he is still there. He sent Carmen away hours ago, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

At the courthouse, Carisi said ‘later,’ and Rafael didn’t want to have to find a neatly filled notebook outside his doorstep in the morning.

Rafael wanted to see Carisi.

Tonight.

Tonight, Carisi looks a little better, a little less overwhelmed, but still not back to his old s-

“Still here, counselor? I was gonna drop these off on Carmen’s desk but then I saw the light.”

Yeah.

“You can leave them with me, Carisi.”

That’s what Rafael says.

He doesn’t ask.

It’s a stupid question, anyway. It’s obvious Carisi is not ‘okay.’

It’s also obvious that Carisi is trying.

Carisi even attempts a smile as he hands Rafael the notebook.

Rafael sets it aside without even looking at it.

He doesn’t smile back.

Rafael is not cut out for this.

Rafael doesn’t know how to ask if Carisi needs anything, how to ask Carisi to stay.

So he doesn-

“Feel like havin’ a drink?”

Rafael has never said no to that question, but there’s a first for everything. He doesn’t know if he can trust himself to take Carisi to some bar and drink until they’re both just drunk enough to mayb-

Oh.

Carisi walks up to the main cabinet and pulls out the whiskey.

That, Rafael can do.

A drink with a colleague, in a professional setting, at the end of a long day.

Rafael can only assume this is about what happened at the courthouse. Carisi probably feels weird about the way he scampered off earlier, and this is his way of apologizing.

Carisi wants to make amends, and he’s dipping into Rafael’s stash to do it, because he didn’t have the courtesy or the foresight to bring his own liquor.

That’s alright.

Rafael gets up and his knees creak.

It’s late.

He’s old.

Rafael hopes Carisi didn’t hear.

Carisi reaches for the glasses, and then he opens the thin drawer at the bottom of the cabinet to get the coasters.

He knows where everything is.

This is Rafael’s office, but Carisi is making himself at home. He’s already plopped the whole bottle on the coffee table, without even asking.

That’s why Rafael is on his feet.

They’ll be sitting on the leather couch tonight.

Inches from each other.

That’s not optimal, not for Rafael, not for tonight, but that’s what Carisi needs, so that’s what Rafael will do.

Rafael tells himself it’s not about proximity.

It’s about Carisi trying to be practical. The couch will be more comfortable. The coffee table will offer easier access to their drinks. Less of a chance to spill on one of the documents Rafael kept scattered on his desk to pretend he was still working, while he hopelessly waited for Carisi to show up.

Carisi removes his coat, and his jacket, Carisi unbuttons his vest, and rolls up his sleeves, Carisi takes a seat, and exhales, and then he pours out two glasses of whiskey.

The good stuff.

That would make a passable joke, actually. A good opener, to break the ice, because Carisi seems reluctant to speak, even if the imitation of a smile on his face is relatively promising.

Rafael could maybe say, ‘You couldn’t have picked something less expensive, detective? This requires a palate far more refined than y-

“Pretty stupid, huh? Dating a reporter?”

Rafael reaches for his glass and tries not to squeeze it hard enough to crack.

This is not about Carisi apologizing for this morning.

This is about Carisi answering Rafael’s question.

‘Dating.’

Not ‘friend.’

This is the first time Carisi has ever used language explicit enough to suggest that he is, in fact, dating someone, and Rafael regrets ever asking.

He doesn’t even feel like drinking anymore, but he takes a sip, because he’s been grabbing at his glass for an uncomfortably long time and it would look strange if he didn’t.

“Are you here for romantic advice, Carisi? Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Carisi looks startled.

His eyes are wide. His smile is gone. He clearly wasn’t expecting Rafael to be so direct, and now he’s speechless.

Rafael lets him squirm.

For a while.

Rafael is very petty.

“In case you didn’t know, detective, I haven’t had a successful relationship since the Reagan administration. Perhaps you’d have better luck asking someone else for help.”

Carisi relaxes instantly. His smile is back, and this time it almost looks real.

Jokes seem to help. Jokes seem to chase away Carisi’s pain, whether it’s case-related or personal, and Rafael feels a strange obligation to keep them comin-

“Yeah? Like who? Liv? Fin? Amanda? Come on, counselor. We’re all trainwrecks. I mean, I wanna say it’s the job, but maybe…”

Rafael smirks.

“But maybe it’s just your winning personalities.”

Carisi laughs, Carisi actually laughs, and the lines on his face should be deepening, crow’s feet and smile lines, and those fine lines on his forehead Rafael only sees when they’re too close, Carisi’s face should be looking like etched glass, but all Rafael can see is dimples and soft skin and eyes with some life in them, at last.

Rafael keeps the jokes coming.

“Not to mention my personality, of course. The biggest trainwreck of them all.”

Carisi keeps laughing.

“I’m pretty sure I got you beat, counselor. Front page of The Ledger says so. I got quoted as an ‘anonymous source’ and I didn’t even know it. I had to find out over my morning coffee. I mean, she swears I wasn’t the source, but who else could it have been?

“A uni? Who, what, happened to feed her the exact same information I gave her? Or, what, somebody called the paper with an anonymous tip, and she just happened to get the byline? And she forgot to give me a heads up, even though she knew I was workin’ the case? Please.”

‘She.’

That’s all Rafael got from Carisi’s little rant.

Rafael doesn’t even know the woman’s name.

Carisi won’t say it.

Maybe Rafael should dig out his copy of The Ledger and check the byline. Maybe that’s the only way to get an ID on her.

Maybe Rafael could even read the article. He only glanced at the headline, but that was before he knew Carisi was romantically attached to the writer.

Maybe she’s good. Maybe she writes with flair. Maybe that’s what Carisi sees in her.

Maybe Rafael should stop.

Go back to the jokes.

“Of course you’ve got me beat, Carisi. You’re the definition of a trainwreck. Everyone knows that. I was trying to be nice.”

Carisi grins.

With good reason.

Rafael has never in his life actively tried to be nice.

It’s always an accident.

Except when Carisi is involv-

“How come? You feelin’ sorry for me, Barba?”

It would be easy to misconstrue that question as hostile, but Rafael is currently staring at Carisi’s smiling face, and he knows that’s not true.

Carisi is teasing.

“Hardly. I just don’t want to hit you while you’re down. That’s boring. I like a challenge. Not that you’ve ever been much of a challenge.”

Carisi smiles again, like he’s happy to see Rafael teasing back. Carisi slides a little lower, sinks a little deeper into the couch, all comfortable and loose, and Rafael can’t stop thinking about all the times they did this before.

Why they did this before.

What they almost did, before.

That can’t happen again.

Not now.

“Why are you here, Carisi?”

Carisi tenses up, sits up, the leather dipping slightly, and Rafael has been very careful so far, Rafael has kept his hands to himself, and his knees at an appropriate distance, which is very hard to do because Carisi always sits spread eagle, for some reason, but the more Carisi moves the more the cushions dip, and any minute now, Rafael thinks he might roll right onto Carisi’s lap, and that won’t b-

“For the free scotch? And the conversation, I guess? I didn’t know where else to go. Amanda won’t stop making fun of me. She keeps saying she’s proud of me for finally gettin’ my cherry popped. Hilarious, right? ‘Cause this is the first time I ever got in trouble with Liv. And Fin, he’s got his grandson until later. Ken and Alejandro are doing date night. And… And I can’t face Liv right now.”

Oh.

Okay.

Carisi just needs to vent.

Good.

Rafael tops up their glasses with more of that ‘free’ scotch which cost him an arm and a leg.

Carisi needs to vent to a colleague, and Rafael is his fourth choice.

That’s good.

Rafael is surprised he’s even on the list.

Rafael is glad he’s on the list.

Rafael can do this.

He already took care of the scotch, so all that’s left is the conversation.

“You told Liv?”

Carisi sits back with a sigh, like he’s relieved Rafael stopped pressing for answers and simply decided to lend an ear. The cushions dip again, and Rafael suddenly finds himself an inch clos-

“Yeah. I had to tell her. That was on me, Barba. It was my mistake, and it affected our case. That article, it interfered with your job, and Liv’s job, and she needed to know.”

Rafael briefly wonders if that’s why Carisi is confiding in him, right now. If Carisi simply feels responsible for making Rafael’s job harder than it already is, if this conversation really is just an informal apology and there’s nothing more to it.

And then Rafael remembers that Carisi did not, in fact, confide in him, not voluntarily, at least. Not at first. Rafael had to ask, point blank, and that was after he got second-hand intel from Rollins. Without her, he’d probably still be in the dark.

Liv must have gotten the full story. Carisi must have told her everything, otherwise there wouldn’t be a point to the confession. Rafael doubts Carisi hemmed and hawed and fed Liv some nonsense about telling a ‘friend,’ like he did this morning at the courthouse.

Rafael doesn’t know what that means.

If it means anything.

“Telling Liv was the right thing to do, Carisi. Don’t worry about it. She won’t think less of you. She’s seen a lot worse. I’m sure Rollins has told you about some of the stunts she and Amaro have pulled over the years. What you did is small-time. Take it from me.

“If I know Liv, and I do, right now she’s not even thinking about you. She’s just glad she knows what happened. That means she won’t have to worry about launching an internal investigation to find a leak in the department.”

Carisi’s smile is back, and it’s wide, and he looks relieved, again, like Rafael is telling him exactly what he wants to hear, which is weird, because Rafael never does that, certainly not on purpose, Rafael never cares about what people want to hear, except when Carisi is involv-

“Exactly. That’s what I thought. I couldn’t have her worrying about that, on top of everything else. I came clean, and now Liv knows there’s no leak. There’s just me and my big mouth.”

Rafael can’t argue with that, but he still wants to try, because this pep talk won’t take if Carisi keeps blaming himself.

This conversation, it’s a pep talk now, apparently.

Because that’s what Carisi needs.

Rafael doesn’t care about what people need.

Except when Carisi is involved.

Rafael is about to say something inane, something like, ‘You should cut yourself some slack, Carisi,’ because that sounds like what a nicer person might say in a situation like this, but the smile on Carisi’s face stops him.

Carisi is still smiling.

Even now.

Carisi looks cheerful, almost. Almost like he no longer needs the pep talk.

There’s no bitterness in his voice when he says, ‘me and my big mouth.’ No overwhelming sadness in his eyes. That self-flagellating look from this morning, it’s gone. All that’s left is a hint of self-deprecation, but that’s just Carisi on any given day.

Maybe talking to Liv did the trick. Maybe it cleared Carisi’s conscience.

That’s what Rafael tells himself, because the alternative is that Carisi is cheerful because of him, because they’re currently sharing a drink, and talking, and smiling, like they used to, and yes, Rafael is smiling too, which is wholly uncharacteristic of him, but he can’t help the way his face reacts when Carisi looks at him lik-

“I just wanted to tell somebody the good news, you know? Share my happiness. I thought we’d found Emma Lawrence, after all these years, and I got excited, and I got carried away. And I told her. And…”

Carisi stops talking abruptly. It’s almost like he needs help to finish his thought. Or like he doesn’t want to finish it. Like he regrets ever starting.

He’s not smiling anymore.

Neither is Rafael.

Rafael can’t smile. He’s too busy trying to push through the stinging pain he feels in his chest when he hears about Carisi sharing his happiness with someone else.

“And…”

Carisi starts and stops again.

Rafael takes pity on him.

“And, if you had found Emma, Carisi, this would have been the feel-good story of the year. You’d be getting a commendation from the Chief, and your girlfriend would be getting a promotion.”

For some reason, Carisi waits until Rafael makes eye contact before he speaks again.

It takes a minute.

Rafael is not proud to admit he had to avert his eyes before he was able to even utter the word ‘girlfr-

“My ex-girlfriend. We broke up. Or… I got dumped. I think. I don’t know. I didn’t ask for clarification. Either way, we’re done.”

Oh.

Rafael barely manages to contain his surprise.

Or maybe he doesn’t manage it at all, if Carisi’s curious expression is anything to go by.

Fine.

Rafael is surprised. Who wouldn’t be?

There’s so much to be surprised by. It’s not just the ‘ex’ part. It’s the way Carisi mentioned it so casually. It’s the fact Carisi sounds so unaffected, so cheerful, still, so relieved, still, like he didn’t just break up with the person he had been dating for the past six or seven m-

“What, Rollins didn’t tell you that?”

Rafael stares at the bottom of his rapidly emptying glass, the better to avoid Carisi’s smug expression.

As a matter of fact, no, Rollins did not share that particular piece of information, but she’s always been a reliable source, so Rafael is willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

She probably didn’t get a chance to tell him. The breakup has to be recent, and Rollins wasn’t in court, so Rafael hasn’t seen her all day. She probably wanted to relay that little tidbit in person. Rollins would never pass up an opportunity to laugh in Rafael’s fac-

“No point in denying it, counselor. You knew about my friend before I talked to Liv. Amanda’s the only one who could’ve told you.”

Rafael is not going to ‘deny’ it. That would be ridiculous. They’re not children. Rafael is going to tell the truth.

Now.

Now that he knows Carisi practically caught him red-handed.

Rafael was totally going to deny it. Blame it on Liv, just like Carisi said.

Now, he’ll have to settle for the truth.

Or a version of it.

“You’re not the only one with a big mouth, Carisi. Rollins loves to gossip. Whatever information she chooses to share with me does not necessarily reflect my interests.”

The annoying smirk on Carisi’s face tells Rafael what he already knew.

He’s not fooling anyone.

That annoying smirk, it’s not annoying.

It’s Carisi’s flirty smirk. It’s Carisi’s ‘oh, Rafael,’ smirk, it’s the smirk Carisi has been flashing at him non-stop lately, after months and months of blank stares and curt half-smiles, it’s the same smirk that had Rafael hoping Carisi was available again, until Rollins had to rain on his parade.

Carisi is available.

Now.

Too available.

This conversation they’re having, it’s too cheerful.

Just this morning, Carisi was so upset he literally ran away just to avoid talking to Rafael.

Tonight, their knees are drifting closer and closer together as they drink.

It’s too soon.

Too soon for Carisi to be doing that well, after what he’s been through.

Rafael thinks maybe Carisi’s nonchalance is an act. Maybe Carisi is hurting, deep down. Maybe he’s hurting enough to want to make a mistake.

Maybe Rafael is Carisi’s mistake of choice.

Maybe that’s why he’s here.

Rafael would be lying if he said he didn’t understand.

He’s felt that same urge, before. That same irrational desire to forget why he shouldn’t, and just run to Carisi after an unpleasant experience.

Like that could help, somehow.

It took all of Rafael’s strength not to approach Carisi after his suspension. His life was already a mess, his political career over before it began, and Rafael tried to tell himself one more mistake wouldn’t make a difference.

It would.

Carisi will not be his mistake.

When this happens, if this happens, it won’t be a mistake.

Rafael rearranges his legs in a way that puts sufficient distance between his knee and Carisi’s thigh.

Carisi’s eyes follow the movement, drawn to parts of Rafael’s anatomy he would truly prefer to keep out of this equation, and Rafael needs to say something fast.

“Wait, is that why you’re here, Carisi? You’re newly heartbroken, so you need a shoulder to cry on? And, obviously, you chose mine, because I’m known for my soft and cuddly disposition?”

Carisi chuckles, and he spreads his legs even more, as if on purpose, and Rafael will not be a mistake but he will let his knee drift just an inch to the right, until they’re almost touching again.

He could swear Carisi’s smile gets brighter when the distance between their bodies gets smaller, and in Rafael’s mind that’s reason enough to giv-

“Sorry, counselor, lil’ Jesse beat you to it. And she’s a lot cuddlier than you, I’ll tell you that. Rollins had me over last night. She said, and I quote, ‘Jesse’s the perfect shoulder to cry on, Carisi, and I speak from experience.’”

Last night.

Just like Rafael suspected, the breakup was recent.

Too recen-

“Not that there was any cryin’ involved. Mostly we just cooked pasta and watched cartoons.”

Rafael smiles at the image.

He’s happy Carisi has a friend in Rollins. In Jesse, too.

Rafael is considerably less happy to see Carisi downplaying the importance of his relationship, yet again. Carisi keeps acting like he’s completely over a break-up which happened all of five minutes ago.

This isn’t like him.

Rationalizing a past relationship to the point of rendering it meaningless retroactively? That’s strictly Barba territory.

Carisi is sweeter than that.

Carisi is emotional, if not sentimental, and he gets overly attached to… to people, to friends, to colleagues, even, let alone romantic partners, not that Rafael would know anything about that, Carisi is caring, and considerate, and this indifference is not like him.

It’s possible this breakup is hitting Carisi harder than he realizes.

Maybe Rafael can help.

Right after he takes a big gulp of whiskey.

“Don’t mistake this for actual concern, Carisi, but are you sure this breakup was a good idea? Maybe you’re being too hasty. I… I don’t know this woman, but clearly you saw something in her. You, uh… You chose to be with her, which…”

Carisi looks guilty again, for falling in love, like that makes sense, and Rafael has to blink away his anger.

“Which is a very strong indictment of her character, obviously, because you’re you, but still. Running with this story couldn’t have been an easy decision. She must have felt conflicted, but journalism is a competitive field, and I’m sure she has her ambitions. As she should. When this big story fell into her lap, she seized the opportunity. Many would do the same. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t care about you. Maybe she regrets what she did.”

Carisi is looking at Rafael with what could only be described as bewilderment in his eyes. An appropriate reaction, considering Rafael just unleashed a load of schmaltzy bullshit on him without any provocation.

Meanwhile, Rafael is mentally putting together his petition for sainthood. These last few sentences alone would surely qualify him for canonization. All he’s missing a miracle, and he thinks he’ll have it by the end of the night, when he goes home alone without exploiting Carisi’s fragile emotional state.

Rafael Barba performing an act of altruism. If that isn’t a miracle, Rafael doesn’t know wh-

“Sure. Nothing says ‘I care’ like dumping your boyfriend by way of a forty-second phone call. But, hey, at least she didn’t do it by text. And there’s nothing for her to regret. She didn’t do anything. That’s her official position. She swore up and down I wasn’t the source. She kept lying, even after we broke up.”

Rafael tries to find some resentment in Carisi’s words, but he fails. All he finds is an almost breezy resignation.

“What if she’s not lying?”

Carisi appears skeptical.

And confused.

Which makes two of them.

Never mind Carisi, Rafael himself can’t figure out why he’s doing this.

Refusing to take advantage of Carisi is one thing, but actively pushing him back into the arms of an ex? Even altruism has its limits. After that, it’s plain martyrdom, and Rafael is not usually a martyr, except when Carisi is involv-

“Nah. She’s lying. I know it. And if she’s not, that’s even worse, ‘cause I still don’t believe her. That’s the one thing we both agreed on. I can’t trust her, and that’s no way to feel about your partner.”

Rafael supposes that’s true.

Also, he tried, he really tried, and he sincerely hopes the Pope will appreciate his noble efforts to help Carisi patch things up with his hitherto nameless romantic rival.

“Alright. You know better than me, Carisi. And that’s the first and last time I ever say that. I guess I’m just surprised you’re not all torn up over this. You did get dumped. And, no offense, but I always took you for a crier.”

Carisi cracks up.

“You sound just like Rollins.”

Rafael is deeply offended by that notion. Mostly because it’s accurat-

“I’m fine. This was a long time coming. The writing’s been on the wall for months now. This whole thing, with the article, and the lying, it wasn’t even the main reason. It just put things into perspective. You know me, counselor. I always wanna see the best in people. If I can’t see the best in my partner, if I won’t, it means something’s wrong.”

That’s something Rafael hadn’t considered.

The Carisi he knows is always willing to believe.

To trust.

Carisi sees the best in everyone. He should be able to see it in the woman he loves.

Perhaps Carisi’s indifference is not an act. It’s possible he’s already come to terms with this breakup, because he had started processing it before it even occurred. Rafael has been there, once or twice. It is hard to muster much of a reaction when a relationship is over before it officially ends. Perh-

“And that’s not all. When we found Emma, when I… When I found the real Emma, I mean, I didn’t go to her.”

‘Her.’

Rafael hates how curious he is about an insignificant detail like this woman’s nam-

“I didn’t even wanna see her. Sharing good news is one thing. Being happy and wantin’ to tell everybody. That’s one thing. But when I was… After Emma, when I was… you know. You saw me. After that, I didn’t wanna see her.”

Rafael doesn’t know what to say to that.

How to express sympathy without sounding insincere.

All he can think to say is, ‘I’m glad you didn’t go to ‘her’ for comfort, even though that’s what you needed.’

Rafael does not make for a good martyr.

Or maybe he does.

“Of course you didn’t want to see her, Carisi. You had been fighting. You can’t decide anything based on th-”

“I’m not just talking about this case, Barba. Or this week. This wasn’t even the first time I’ve had to avoid her after… After a bad day. I’ve been havin’ a lot of those, lately, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Rafael has noticed.

Emma Lawrence was just the latest in a string of traumatic incidents Carisi has had to endure in the past few months alone.

Just the other week, Carisi witnessed death first-hand. Literally. Carisi felt the hand of a rapist slip through his grasp over a rooftop railing, and according to Liv he was devastated, because that’s what Carisi does.

Carisi reacts emotionally even when that emotion isn’t warranted, he sees the best in people, even when they don’t deserve it, Carisi cares, because that’s who Carisi is.

That’s why Rafael is having trouble buying this casual act, mere hours after Carisi had his heart brok-

“Not one time did I go to her. In all those months. Not when I had a problem. Not when I needed somebody to be there for me. That’s what my sisters were for. Or my mom. Or you. I’d get mad, and I’d blow up at you. It was never your fault, but I’d yell at you anyway, to make myself feel better, ‘cause I couldn’t yell at anybody else. ‘Cause I knew you wouldn’t hold it against me.”

Rafael wonders if it’s weird to feel good about that.

About the fact Carisi trusted him enough to yell. About the fact Carisi knew that an argument or two wouldn’t change the w-

“Or I’d vent to Rollins over home-cooked pasta, or I’d tag along with Fin and some of his old buddies on these wild pub crawls, and try not to get alcohol poisoning while they laughed at me. I never went to her. She was just for the good days. The fun stuff. The real stuff, I kept it to myself.”

Rafael can’t help a smile.

“A pub crawl with Detective Tutuola sounds pretty fun to me, Carisi.”

Carisi smiles back.

“Yeah. Yellin’ at you wasn’t fun, though. But you still let me do it.”

Rafael keeps smilin-

“Cause that’s what you’re supposed to do. When you care about somebody. You’re supposed to be there for them. Good days and bad.”

Rafael’s smile is a little tighter, now, a little forced, but it’s still there.

Of course he cares about Carisi.

Of course Carisi knows that.

Of course Carisi knows that Rafael let him yell, because that’s what Carisi needed, somebody to yell at, and Rafael wanted to give that to him, for lack of anything else to give, and maybe the Pope should take note because Rafael totally deserves to be sainted.

Especially considering what he’s about to say next.

“That’s not entirely fair, Carisi. This job, the nature of this job, it does take a toll. Most people’s ‘real stuff’ is dealing with an overly strict boss, or an entitled client, or a totaled car, or a bad haircut. Your real stuff is finding dead children. On a bad day. It’s harder to want to share that. It’s natural to want to protect your loved ones from th-”

“I didn’t love her.”

Carisi says that immediately.

Deliberately.

Like he really wants Rafael to know that, for some reason Rafael does not care to recognize.

Like he’s surprised Rafael would even think that.

What else was Rafael supposed to think?

That’s what Carisi does.

He loves people.

That’s how Rafael sees him.

Like love.

Rafael is not cut out for this.

Rafael doesn’t know how to ask if Carisi means that, how to ask what it all means.

So he doesn’t.

Carisi says, ‘I didn’t love her,’ and Rafael hears the rest, Rafael sees the rest on Carisi’s face, Rafael sees, ‘Like I loved you,’ and that past tense hurts, even when it’s imaginary, even when it’s a vision projected onto Carisi’s eyes, and Rafael doesn’t ask, because hearing the word ‘loved’ out loud is not an experience he wants to suffer tonight.

Or ever.

Rafael doesn’t ask.

Rafael keeps staring at Carisi’s face, and he sees ‘loved,’ and he sees an expression that’s softer than usual, and more open, and Rafael wants to close it, Rafael wishes he could push a button and make Carisi stop, becaus-

“When I saw the front page of The Ledger, my first thought was Liv. I thought, good job, Sonny. Way to open your big, fat mouth and let down your Lieutenant. That was it. That’s why I got mad. It didn’t feel like some huge betrayal. That didn’t even register. I was mad at myself for compromising an investigation. How’s that for love?”

Rafael tries to breathe.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Carisi nods.

“Yeah.”

For the first time tonight, they lift their glasses simultaneously, and the silence between them is extended.

They drink.

Seconds pass, and neither of them tries to sp-

“It wasn’t some great love story, Barba. Just so you know. It was just… Normal. I was just trying to do what people do. My sisters kept pestering me to put myself out there, kept sayin’ I wasn’t living my life to the fullest, so I tried.

“And, let me tell ya, it was harder than I thought. I mean, the beginning, that was easy. It was fun. You see a nice-lookin’ girl, you turn on the charm, a little smile here, a little compliment there. The physical attraction alone takes care of it, you know?”

Rafael wonders if it would be weird to start chugging whiskey straight from the bottle.

Probably, but he’s still tempted to d-

“After a while, though? It became too much effort. I was tryin’ to be a good boyfriend, and take her to Broadway shows, and eat the raw sprouts she called food, I was tryin’ to book weekend getaways last minute, callin’ every bed and breakfast in the Tri-State Area whenever our schedules would randomly sync up, I was… I was trying. Like people do.”

Rafael does not want to hear any more of this. He went from not even knowing this woman’s name, which he still doesn’t, by the way, to knowing her dietary preferences and her travel itinerar-

“That was the problem. It wasn’t real. Wasn’t from the heart. I had to fake it. I had to try. And I never have to try. I like taking care of people. But I kept tryin’ anyway. ‘Cause that’s what you’re supposed to do. When you care about somebody. You’re supposed to be there for them.

“I didn’t love her, but I liked her well enough, and we got along okay, or at least I thought we did, before she sold me out for a story, so I figured I owed it to her to try. That’s where I got it wrong. You’re not supposed to be there. You’re supposed to want to be there.”

Rafael is missing the point.

He has to be.

There has to be a point to this.

To Carisi’s whining.

This can’t just be about Carisi wanting to vent about his love life. It can’t be about him needing to take a load off and finding a friendly ear in Rafael Barba, also known as The World's Unfriendliest Ear.

It can’t be.

What is Carisi even trying to say? That he was going through the motions? Is there a bigger cliché? Why is Carisi telling h-

“That’s why I’m not all torn up. ‘Cause it wasn’t real. I mean, you weren’t too far off. I am kind of a crier. But look at me. I just got dumped, and I don’t even care. I should care more. Right? Isn’t that how it goes, counselor? You lose somebody, and it hurts?”

Oh.

This is the point Carisi was trying to make.

Rafael wishes he could go back to missing it.

Rafael keeps his mouth firmly shut, because he doesn’t know what he’ll say if he opens it.

He doesn’t know what the question means.

He doesn’t even know if Carisi knows what it means.

Rafael lost Carisi, and it hurt like a sonofabitch.

He wonders if Carisi knows that.

If that’s what Carisi is asking.

If it hurt for Carisi, too.

Rafael had his reasons.

That’s what he told himself.

Rafael does not date cops, and he certainly doesn’t date SVU detectives.

That’s what he tried to tell himself, more than a year ago.

Carisi squeezed his hand.

More than a year ago, Carisi squeezed his hand, on this same leather couch, Carisi squeezed his hand and held it, and Carisi’s fingers were cold, from the glass, because they were drinking whiskey on the rocks that night, more than a year ago Carisi leaned in, eyes open and lips ready, and Rafael was surprised by how unsurprising it was.

Rafael pulled away.

More than a year ago, Rafael pulled away, Rafael got up and didn’t look back, Rafael got up and retreated behind his desk, like a coward, like nothing happened, like Carisi wasn’t left waiting on the couch with a parted mouth and an empty hand, more than a year ago Rafael watched as Carisi grabbed his coat and left without saying a word.

Rafael had his reasons.

That’s what he tells himself, still.

Rafael didn’t want another strike against him.

Another nail in the coffin that was his political career. He still had aspirations, back then. He still had dreams.

It’s funny now.

It wasn’t before.

Before Rafael got found out. Before he got suspended. Before he was told he’d be on perpetual probation, because he couldn’t be trusted with the witnesses.

For the six months between that almost kiss and his suspension, Rafael was happy with his decision.

No.

Not ‘happy.’

Never happy.

For those six months, Rafael felt he had done the right thing. Rafael felt he was too old and too cynical and too reasonable to even consider putting lust over his career, he felt he had worked too hard to let love get in the way, and…

Lust.

Love.

Whatever.

Rafael had worked too hard, and he had dreams, and he wasn’t about to give them up. Not for Carisi.

That’s what he told himself.

That’s the lie he told himself.

One of the lies.

Carisi would be better off without him.

That was another one.

Another lie.

Rafael would make for a great martyr, actually.

It didn’t even matter, in the end.

Rafael should have seen it coming. The D.A. was already unhappy with him, after the Terrence Reynolds case, and the ensuing death threats, and the bad publicity, not to mention the Gary Munson case, which had every other union rep calling for his head.

Rafael did not see it coming.

Even though he had managed to make an enemy out of most of the major political organizations whose endorsement he would have to seek, should he ever choose to run for election, Rafael refused to give up hope.

Rafael kept hoping, and trying to stay on his best behavior, and the last thing he needed was for his career to take another hit because of a dalliance with one of his detectives.

‘Dalliance.’

Love.

Whatever.

For six months, it was okay. Even as Carisi yelled at him. Even as Carisi kept a professional but unfamiliar distance. Even as Rafael had to relearn how to exist without Carisi’s smiles, and Carisi’s compliments, and Carisi’s jokes, and Carisi’s pastries, and Carisi.

It was okay.

And then Rafael got found out.

Suspended.

Then, David Willard dug into his past, and hacked his bank account, and found the one secret which could cost Rafael his job.

It didn’t.

Rafael kept his job but lost his hope.

Even worse, Rafael’s decision became indefensible.

Unsustainable.

After his suspension, it took all of Rafael’s strength not to approach Carisi. Not to apologize. Not to grab Carisi by the vest and kiss him and hope all hope wasn’t lost.

Rafael did no such thing.

Rafael did nothing at all, and he spent the next six months regretting it.

Rafael no longer regrets it.

If anything, he’s retroactively grateful. He knows now that Carisi would have rejected him.

Not out of spite.

Six months ago, Carisi wasn’t available. Carisi was in a relationship. Carisi had moved on, and it was still new but he was happy, and Rafael is grateful he never got to hear about any of this when Carisi and his unnamed reporter were still in the honeymoon phase.

It’s hard enough hearing about it now that it’s over.

The very thought of seeing Carisi all giddy over someone else is bringing back that stinging pain in Rafael’s chest.

Rafael is grateful he did not make that mistake.

Rafael is grateful he couldn’t find a better, a less cheap way to say, ‘My career is dead now, so I have no reason not to fuck you.’

‘Fuck.’

Love.

Whatever.

No.

Love.

It was love.

Six months ago, Rafael’s career effectively died, so he no longer had a reason not to love Carisi, and that was a new experience, because Rafael had spent the past few years of his life desperately looking for a reason, desperately inventing reasons that weren’t even real, because Carisi was so easy to love, Carisi is so easy to love, even for someone like Rafael who doesn’t know how.

Still.

Rafael did not make that mistake.

It wouldn’t have been fair to Carisi.

Six months ago, the stakes were too low.

More than a year ago, when Carisi leaned in, when it really mattered, when Rafael still had something to lose, he pulled away like a coward.

It didn’t feel fair to take that back, the moment Rafael had nothing left to lose.

Literally.

Rafael had lost Carisi already, more than a year ago, Rafael had kissed Carisi goodbye but without the kiss, Rafael had ditched Carisi like a coward, and six months ago he lost all his excuses for doing it.

And it hurt.

Tonight, Carisi is looking at Rafael like he knows that.

Like maybe it hurt for him, too.

Carisi looks lost, again, overwhelmed, again, and Rafael has never regretted not kissing him more th-

“She said I was an angel.”

What?

Who s-

“Mrs. Lawrence. When we found Em… When we thought we found Emma, and me and Rollins went over to their house, to give ‘em the good news. You should’ve seen the look on her face, Barba. I can’t even describe it. She said she looked at me, and she saw an angel. The angel that found her baby girl.”

Oh.

It appears the sadness in Carisi’s eyes is unrelated to his romantic entanglements, past or future or pretend.

While Rafael was busy reminiscing, Carisi found an opportunity to start spiraling again.

Rafael blames himself and the fact he spent the past five minutes staring a hole into the far wall, too afraid to make eye contact as Carisi waited for an answer.

Carisi should not be left alone with his thoughts.

Not tonight.

Rafael knew the cheerfulness was too good to be true. Carisi is not okay. Maybe the breakup didn’t affect him, but the case did, and that’s even worse.

Karen Lawrence called him an angel.

Rafael thinks, of course she did.

Carisi is an angel.

He guides, and he protects, he brings relief, he punishes the wicked.

He punishes himself, when he is found wanting.

Rafael thinks, being an angel isn’t all it’s cracked out to b-

“I used to dream about it. About a moment like that. I was a rookie back then, when Emma Lawrence disappeared, and I used to daydream about finding her. I used to think, what if I got to save her? What if I got to bring her home? Get her back to her parents? How would that feel like?

“I, uh… My pops was in the hospital, when the story broke. He had a heart attack. It was touch-and-go for a while, so we spent that entire month in the ICU. I watched a ton of TV that September. I needed a distraction, you know? I couldn’t help my dad. I couldn’t go to work. I couldn’t do anything. All I could do was wait. So I followed the case, and I… That’s why I was so happy, when we found this girl. ‘Cause I thought I’d finally get to bring Emma home.”

Of course.

Of course this case affected Carisi. Of course Carisi has a personal reason to still be emotionally connected to a cold case from ten years ago that he didn’t even work. That’s what Carisi does. That’s who Caris-

“In the end, all I got to do was deliver Emma’s corpse to her mother in a rotted blanket. Talk about a dream come true.”

The naked emotion on Carisi’s face is making Rafael uncomfortable.

Rafael Barba was not put on this earth to provide comfort, even if Carisi has always seemed to disagree.

Rafael is not cut out for this.

For any of this.

For Carisi.

Rafael doesn’t know how to say the right thing, if that’s what Carisi wants, how to give emotional support, if that’s what Carisi needs.

Rafael looks at Carisi, and he tries anyway.

“You did bring her home, Carisi. Not in the way you wanted, but you did bring her home. That’s all you could have done. Emma Lawrence died ten years ago. That is all you could have done.”

Carisi blinks.

Stunned.

Like he never thought of that. Like he still naively believed that he could somehow save Emma, even now.

Rafael thinks, angels aren’t real.

“I know her mother said… I know you were upset by what her mother said at the courthouse, but that was out of your control. For some people, knowing is worse. For others, there’s nothing worse than not knowing. I’ve seen parents tearfully thanking patrol cops for finding bone fragments of their long lost children. For bringing them home. Any part of them. That’s what you did, Carisi. You brought Emma home.”

Carisi smiles.

Peaceful.

Like that worked.

Rafael would be surprised, but he’s not.

This has happened before.

Carisi seems to have a way of ripping the comfort out of him, as if by force. Rafael has it in him, dormant, that comfort, and that compassion, and that love, dormant, but he doesn’t know how to wake it, he doesn’t know how to give it, and sometimes Rafael thinks all this unused love will fester in him, if that’s even possible.

Love, festering.

Until Carisi just reaches inside and takes it.

Somehow.

Rafael is not cut out for this, but Carisi is.

Carisi slides closer and takes hold of Rafael’s hand.

His fingers are warmer than Rafael remembers.

Their hands rest on the leather, connected.

It’s not a romantic overture.

Not like last time.

It’s not suggestive.

Carisi isn’t asking for anything more than this.

Carisi is just reaching inside.

A touch is an invitation, and Carisi is inviting himself to Rafael.

Rafael thinks, that’s the only way anyone will ever get in.

Rafael is not cut out for Carisi.

That’s what he always thought, even if Carisi has always seemed to disagree.

Rafael always thought Carisi should be with someone who gave comfort freely, and love, freely, because that’s what Carisi needs, and Rafael doesn’t know how to give it, except Carisi has shitty taste, even now, because he keeps seeking comfort from Rafael, regardless.

Love, regardless.

Then again, Carisi has always had shitty taste.

He’s always had feelings for Rafael.

Feelings Rafael pretended to ignore, for years.

Conveniently.

Rafael also ignored his own feelings, of course, but that was far less convenient.

It was unbearable, at times.

It was never okay.

Rafael did it anyway.

Rafael kept doing it, until the death threats escalated, and Dodds died, and Carisi needed him, and Rafael lost his resolve, and he touched Carisi, once, twice, and it was his own fault, for trying to give comfort in his own clumsy way, and Rafael started it, and Carisi held his hand, that night, just like tonight, just like right now, and Rafael could no longer ignore it.

Rafael can’t ignore it.

The gratitude he sees right now, on Carisi’s face, just because he managed to cobble together a half-decent and fully maudlin attempt at conveying sympathy via platitudes, Rafael can’t ignore the way it sh-

“You, puttin’ your hand on my shoulder, for two seconds, at the station? When I still had dirt in my shoes from Emma’s grave? That’s why I didn’t go to her, Barba. I didn’t love her.”

Rafael’s hand twitches, but Carisi doesn’t let go.

That’s why Carisi didn’t go to ‘her.’ He didn’t need to. Rafael’s clumsy touch was enough.

Carisi says, ‘I didn’t love her,’ and Rafael hears the rest, Rafael sees the rest on Carisi’s face, Rafael sees, ‘Like I love you,’ in the present tense, right here, right now, and Rafael doesn’t ask, but he hopes he can hear the word ‘love’ out loud, someday, from Carisi’s lips.

Rafael keeps staring at Carisi’s face, and he sees ‘love,’ and finally he knows why Carisi came here tonight. Why Carisi keeps talking about Emma Lawrence, and her mother, and her blanket, and that shallow grave.

Comfort.

Love.

Whichever.

Both.

That’s what Carisi needs.

From him.

That’s what Carisi needs from him.

That’s all there is to it.

That’s what you’re supposed to do. When you care about somebody. You’re supposed to be there for them.

You’re supposed to want to be there.

Good days and bad.

Today was a bad day.

Tomorrow will be better.

Carisi is smiling, peaceful, and Rafael thinks maybe some days can be both.

Rafael breathes out.

For the first time tonight, the couch stops feeling small, it stops feeling like a trap, like quicksand, for the first time tonight Rafael stops worrying he’s going to sink into it, and into Carisi, and never get out.

Rafael wants to sink.

Rafael would be happy to sink into Carisi and stay there forever.

Rafael regrets ever pretending otherwise.

Carisi is touching him, and Rafael doesn’t even know who is comforting whom and for what.

It doesn’t matter.

Carisi squeezes his hand.

They don’t move.

This time, they don’t move.

Carisi doesn’t lean in.

Rafael doesn’t pull away.

Not like last time.

Not like next time.

Next time Rafael will not make the same mistake.

Next time Rafael will meet Carisi halfway.

They don’t kiss.

This time, they don’t kiss.

Just like last time.

Next time will be different.

#barisi #sonny carisi #rafael barba #svu #law and order svu #episode tag #FINALLY #i give you #a canon compliant fic #which explains rafael and sonny's state of mind #in this episode #as well as the past few years #i also give you #a weirdly romantic fic #which addresses miss raw foods #in a respectful yet barisi way #lol #basically #this is my headcanon in the form of a story #i hope it matches yours #either way #i love you all #sorry to keep you waiting #and please enjoy

[undeniablyquinn]

Wanna Be Startin' Somethin' || Quinntana

LOCATION → Quinn and Santana’s dorm

TIMEFRAME → Friday, November 3

TRIGGERS → none

WHAT  → They make out and fall asleep in each other’s arms. 

NOTES  →  This is before all the shit that happened. We’re slow af, okay. And our babies are idiots.  

Santana

Santana kicked the door closed behind her with a disgusted sigh, although it was her own fault that she'd just spent the first half of her Saturday night in the computer lab doing homework. She was the one who'd decided that she wanted to forgo her plans to go out tonight to see if she could bait Quinn into another...whatever happened between them the other night. But still. "Did you know," She tossed her bag at the foot of the bed and turned to Quinn with a hand on her hip. "that there are people who spend Saturday night at the library? I didn't even know the library was open on Saturday."

Quinn

"I'm surprised it didn't take you longer to found it out," Quinn says, chuckling softly as she turns around to look at Santana, revealing her laptop and the pile of books in front of her. She hesitates for a moment - it's easier to be flirty when there's a screen protecting you, as it turns out, but then gives Santana a tentative, cautious look, "Didn't you have plans for tonight, anyway? What were you doing in the library?"

Santana

"Working on a project for my marketing class." She raises an eyebrow at the strange way Quinn is looking at her. "If you'll remember, I'm poor and you bit my head off the last time I used your laptop. Even though I managed to un-delete your paper." There's a bit of an awkward pause before she sits on the edge of Quinn's bed, closer to the desk she's sitting at. "Well, I was going to go out, but going out alone is kind of sad, and going out for the reasons I was going out is even more sad. I'd probably end up going home with the first serial killer to compliment my ass." She leaned back on her hands. "What are you doing tonight? Long night with your fancy lawyer words?"

Quinn

"That paper was important and you almost gave me a heart attack . Thanks again, by the way,” Quinn says, laughing anyway. After a second, her expression sobers, and she runs her nails against the desk before her for a moment just to have something to do.  The slightly awkward silence makes her feel uncomfortable but she manages to keep a blank expression. It changes abruptly when Santana makes her laugh and Quinn turns her body toward her so she can fully look at her roommate, "I can't focus so I was actually trying to decide if I want to go out and run or stay and watch a movie. Both are good options when I need to fall asleep but can't. AND, just so you know, If you ever bring home a serial killer, my ghost will find you wherever you end up at and will kill you again," she says, and does add her best Scary Quinn look to make it clear she's not kidding.

Santana

A slow grin spread across Santana's face. A movie. Perfect. "I would never bring anyone back here, councilor." She teased. "You'd yell at them through the door that they'd better not throw my dress on the floor after they take it off." Making herself comfortable on her roommate's bed, she slipped her shoes off and threw them over in the general direction of her bed, checking to see if Quinn's head would explode. "You're not going for a run, it's freezing, and running at night is a good way to get yourself killed. So, what're we watching, and where's the popcorn?"

Quinn

Quinn thinks she would want to yell at them just for taking Santana's dress off, but she doesn't say anything and a second later she's too distracted watching her bed being invaded that she even forgets it.  "I've told you to stay out of my personal space which very much includes my bed. I'm glad to see that you're willing to listen to reason," she says, dryly, and then grabs her laptop. "I'm feeling nice, so you can choose something from my list." She tries to sound annoyed, but looks mostly amused when she takes a microwave popcorn out of her food stash and goes out to make it.

Santana

"If I behaved all the time, you would get bored, and you know it." She leans over to look at the stack of dvds underneath the--well, it's honestly Quinn's desk. She never uses it.  "Plus, I'm hoping if I annoy you enough, you'll make good on that offer to gag me." Her voice is barely above a whisper, and she's mostly saying it to herself, but if Quinn heard it before she slipped out, fine. After picking out the most boring looking thing she could find, she changed into some shorts quickly, puts the dvd in Quinn's laptop, and hopped back onto her spot at the end of the bed.

Quinn

They have watched movies together before so Quinn doesn't know why it feels different this time but it does, and she doesn't come back to their dorm as soon as the microwave is done with its job just to take her time to process this. She barely hides a smile when she comes back and sees Santana sitting in her bed with an expectant look.  "I didn't know you loved popcorn that much," she teases then, because this is her favorite thing to do with Santana so far - the key word here being so far, she guesses. Her dress is pretty comfortable, but it is far from something a person should wear to lay down in bed, and so she hands Santana the popcorn and disappear into the bathroom for a minute before joining her in bed. "What did you choose?"

Santana

"I don't really like popcorn. It gets stuck in your teeth, and your hands get all greasy." She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "Besides, it's got the same consistency of flavored packing peanuts. The only decent popcorn is at the movies, and you've gained 12 pounds after eating the stick and a half of butter they put on it." Her eyes followed Quinn carefully around the room until she disappeared and she tapped her foot anxiously. She wasn't really sure how she was going to go about making a move, but she knew she was going to have to be the one to do it. She went ahead and pressed the play button while Quinn was in the bathroom and pulled the lightweight blanket on the edge of the bed over her legs. "Uh, Sense and Sensibility." She read the cover of the dvd. "Is that Kate Winslet? What the fuck is with that wig? Who did this to her?"

Quinn

Quinn sort of snorts and giggles at the same time. "I don't know, I think this hair style is pretty. " Santana looks like she's going to protest, but Quinn shushes her before she says anything and they watch the movie in silence for a long moment. When she leans over to put the popcorn bowl back down - she had grabbed it but quickly gave up on having any of it after Santana's comment, her arm brushes against San's, and she chuckles, shyly.

Santana

Her goal had been to pick out something boring, so neither of them would be into it, and this movie was starting out to be just as dull as the cover had appeared. Santana was about to comment on how stupidly dramatic it already was when she felt Quinn's arm brush against hers. Their skin had barely touched, but you'd think she'd been touched by a live wire with the way her whole arm was tingling. She took a deep breath and held it, waiting until whatever that was calmed down before she leaned closer to whisper, as though the weren't the only people in the room. "Have you ever noticed that these movies are always set in England?" She turned her head to look at Quinn fully. "It's like, it's not even a big country, why did they have so much fucking drama?"

Quinn

Quinn sees Santana leaning closer from the corner of her eye, and for a second she's sure her roommate is going to kiss her. When it doesn't happen, Quinn can't honestly say whether she's disappointed or relieved. "Shh, don't make me laugh right now," she says then, in a strangled voice that is barely holding back on her laughter. "One of my favorite characters is suffering right in front of me, laughing would be mean." She pauses the movie as she says that, bumping Santana gently in the side after it. "Why do I let you do stuff with me? God."

Santana

Santana playfully gasped when she was nudged, acting like it was much harder than it was, that she needed to hold on to Quinn's leg to keep from falling over. As she returned upright, she didn't remove her leg from the blonde's knee, giving her an impish grin. "I think it's because you secretly like me."

Quinn

"Like is pushing it. More like, tolerate," she says, as dryly as she can, her eyes narrowing playfully. She glances over where Santana is touching her and when she looks back at the brunette,  her eyes flit to her mouth for a second.  "I like your face though. It's kind of pretty. Sometimes. Well, maybe a lot of the time."

Santana

Santana didn't miss the quick glance to her lips, taking it as encouragement. "Just kind of pretty?" She asked, narrowing her own eyes in response. "Well, if that's all I'm getting, I'll just take my fine ass out. And when I'm abducted and murdered, I want you to remember that it was because you just thought I was kind of pretty."

Quinn-

"Make a move? Is it all you're getting?" Quinn shakes her head, slightly annoyed, and of course the Fabray eyebrow makes an appearance. "You sound like one of those football players. If you were aiming for giant without a brain, congratulations. " A lot of her time is spent bitch glaring at stupid boys like that around Campus, but she's obviously not going to take it out on Santana right now. One of her hands reaches out then and she leans closer to whisper, "Now, channel the polite girl I was messaging two days ago or I will take your dramatic fine backside off my bed myself. "

Santana

The comparison of herself to a bunch of meat heads struck a nerve, and she cleared her throat while removing her hand from Quinn's knee. "Funny." She muttered, leaning forward to start the movie again, and grabbed the bowl of popcorn while she was at it. "Your wish is my command, Princess. I'll be nice, keep my hands to myself, and watch this lame-ass movie."

Quinn

Quinn looks over sharply at that, opens her mouth to respond but no words come out. Maybe it's better that way, if they can't even manage to have a first kiss without fighting, this is clearly never working. This reasoning could satisfy her if it wasn't for the urge to have Santana touching her somewhere, anywhere right now.  It's overwhelming, as is the silence between them, so Quinn blows a frustrated breath and shuts the laptop, leveling Santana with a look that would make most sane people stop whatever they were doing to upset her. "Princess? You call every girl that, don't you?"

Santana

"Your insistence that I'm a womanizer is getting a little old, Quinn." Santana kept her eyes straight forward as she spoke. "I've had exactly two girlfriends in my whole life and the last girl I slept with was over a month ago and I'm pretty sure I freaked her out because I got jealous when she got herself into a relationship like immediately after, because it was 'just a hookup' for her, so..." She quickly glanced at Quinn out of the corner of her eye, but she wasn't going to give her the satisfaction. "And besides, the only girl I've called Princess lately was Rachel." And with this, she turned to look at her, a snarky grin on her face. "Also known as the object of your affection. Maybe you'd take getting flirted with better if I was her."

Quinn

She shakes her head, annoyed, frustrated, exhausted, and then just kisses Santana because this girl needs to shut up, she just really needs to shut up. Quinn immediately regrets it, but she can't just stop now and risk Santana thinking she's not a good kisser. Not because she's afraid Santana won't want to kiss her again, but she can just imagine all the teasing this is going to cause. It's far from a gentle and easy kiss - and she bites down on Santana's lips hard enough for it to almost hurt - but after a few moments it sort of grows deep and longing anyway.  She pulls away when her knee nudges against Santana's thigh though because they should breathe. Breathing is important.

Santana

Santana half expects Quinn to slap her, and honestly at this point, that's kind of what she wants, because why is this girl so hot and cold? But then her lips are on hers and Santana's still got her eyes open for a good two to three seconds before her brain catches up to what was going on and she has the wherewithal to even kiss her back, right about the same time as Quinn bites her and a low groan forms in the back of her throat. She pushes her fingers up into Quinn's hair to cup the back of her neck as she deepens the kiss, trying in vain to get any closer to her than she can right now, because this isn't enough. All too suddenly, Quinn's pulling away, and she tries her best to stop her, leaning forward to follow her face, but it doesn't work. Dazed and out of breath, she raised an eyebrow at Quinn, her slightly reddened, swollen lips causing Santana some serious discomfort low in her stomach. "So that happened." She whispered, her voice coming out oddly hoarse. "And for the record, that's what I meant when I told you I wanted you to shut me up."

Quinn

There's a feeling in the pit of her stomach that Quinn isn't exactly sure how to interpret. It can be fear - she may be the one who kissed Santana, but that doesn't mean her concerns about it are gone - or it can be the fact that she hasn't been touched in nine months and has clearly missed it.  Either way, it isn't often that she meets someone she wants to be intimate with and it's hard to resist, however little she can offer in return. At this thought she looks up to Santana, her eyes just searching her face for any signs that there are expectations to be met, she ends up laughing because Santana looks... cute. And she has never thought it about her before. Has anyone, really? "Yeah, shut up," she mumbles then, and lays down on the pillows behind them, pulling Santana over her after a second. This isn't a invite for more, really, she's just trying to be in a comfortable position, but if more happens, Quinn won't really mind.

Santana

Santana's eyes follow Quinn as she lays down, a bemused smile on her face. She didn't know what was funny. Maybe it was the bizarre flip flop of emotions, which honestly summed up their entire relationship. They both ran very hot and cold, and much as she liked to  tease Quinn for being bipolar, she had a pretty short fuse herself, and her moods varied sometimes daily. Which is why it was almost a relief that the cold didn't seem to have lasted very long, for this time anyway. She allowed herself to be pulled down, and she propped herself up on one arm. "You can't say shut up and expect me not to tell you to make me after that." The urge to keep touching Quinn won out and she ran her free hand up the other girl's arm until their fingers slipped between each other. "And I don't mean that to sound like a brainless neanderthal, either. I may not be polite, but I'm still lightyears ahead of those knuckle draggers." She proved her point by lifting Quinn's hand to her lips and pressing gentle kisses on the knuckles. "And I don't appreciate my honor being called into question."

Quinn

Her teeth closes around a perfectly pink lip, but then Santana keeps talking and she grins. "You're right, they don't have a chance of getting better. Now you..." And Quinn's look is somewhat filthy, even though she's clearly teasing, when she pulls Santana closer and bits down hard on her lip. "You can be easily fixed with some discipline."

Santana

Her stare is fixated on Quinn's lip between her teeth, but when she looks up, as she's being pulled forward, the expression on Quinn's face caught her breath slightly. Thankfully, it didn't seem like the one kiss was where this was going to end, and she happily moved closer, gripping the blonde's hip hard as she spoke. "You wanna punish me?" She let out a short chuckle as her lips explored Quinn's neck, collarbone, shoulder, wherever she could reach. "I should warn you, I fight back." She punctuates her point with a light bite.

Quinn

There's a small hitch in Quinn's breathing when she feels Santana's lips on her and she grabs her hair; kissing every bit of skin her lips can reach as well.  The feeling of Santana's teeth around her skin sends an unexpected run of pleasure up her spine and the smallest of moans slips from her lips without warning. "I should have known you would make things difficult," she mumbles, trying hard to sound like she's capable of forming sentences right now. "I suppose I should warn you that well behaved girls get a lot more out of me than the ones who won't collaborate." But even as she says it, Quinn gives her another slow and deep kiss.

Santana

"God." Santana sighed, the vibrations from Quinn's moan against her lips sent electricity pulsing through every part of her. She didn't bother responding, wasn't even sure she actually heard what was said, she just wanted to get closer. She needed more. Rolling atop Quinn, she positioned her knee between her legs, unable to stop the very embarrassing moan that followed from the contact with Quinn's thigh, which was thankfully muffled between their mouths. It had been a long time that she'd felt this much from just kissing a girl and she was feeling a little light headed. She lifted her head slightly to both breathe and take another look at Quinn's swollen lips, which she ran her thumb over lightly. "You're so beautiful." She whispered, extending the pass of her thumb to grace the hollow of Quinn's cheek and down her jawline. She bit her own lip shyly, and ducked her head back to Quinn's neck before adding. "I had no idea I wanted this as badly as I do."

Quinn

Nothing unravels Quinn more quickly than being called beautiful when it sounds genuine like that. It sends her head spinning, this level of honest and trust that they have between them right now, and all she can do is lock her eyes with Santana, swallowing hard. When she feels the brunette on her neck again, she actually shivers. Part of Quinn craves the look in Santana's eyes that she just saw, she wants more of that, but the rest of her just craves this closeness they have.  It's new. It's thrilling, and terrifying. "Oh, San" she moans quietly then, because she feels Santana's thigh tentatively rolling backwards. It's almost like she's asking for permission.

Santana

Feeling Quinn tremble beneath her, Santana curses under her breath. Why haven’t they been doing this the whole time they’ve lived together? Why were so many nights and weekends wasted lounging around reading gossip magazines, watching Netflix, and throwing around teasing insults when they could have been spent like this? She doesn’t even hesitate at Quinn’s request, rolling her hips against her thigh. It wasn’t nearly enough, and in fact it just made the dull ache between her legs grow to an almost unbearable throb, but she wasn’t about to start dry humping Quinn’s leg. “Tell me what you want.” She whispered, a tremble noticeable in her voice. “I don’t want to— but God, I want you so much.”

Quinn

There's a "you, squirming beneath me while I touch you everywhere but where you need me the most" in the tip of her tongue, but when Quinn opens her mouth all she does is suck on Santana's earlobe before pulling away enough to look her in the eyes. She feels like she isn't capable of thinking clearly right now but she tries to very hard. "I want you to kiss me all night," she pauses, and she's sure Santana knows there's a but coming. Quinn studies her face searching for any sign that she isn't liking the direction this is going, and then continues, "But I think we should keep things... Easy tonight." It isn't clear to Quinn when she started worrying about hurting Santana's feelings, but she knows that she does when she wraps one arm around the brunette's body to hold her in place and says, "Nothing personal, I'm just tired. And I'm sure it isn't necessary to explain why I want to be in my best shape for this."

Santana

Santana bit the inside of her lip, averting her eyes momentarily while she adjusted her leg placement. "I know you were probably raised to always make a good first impression, but since when do you need to be in top shape to make out?" She asked, raising her eyebrow jokingly. The arm around her back prevented her from rolling off completely, but she shimmied down to rest her chin on Quinn's chest. "You're right. We don't need to hurry. We live together. It's not like we don't have time."

#psl

[tigerleolam]

Artist interview: From metal guitarist to electronic producer - the mind behind Backslash

I find myself inside a humble student accommodation flat in Leeds. The room is small, but perhaps that is just because it is packed to the brim with guitars, pedals, and baseball caps. At the desk in the corner is Marc Alexandru Tint, aka Backslash. He is hard at work producing a grime track for a collaboration with Romanian rapper Cojo (Andrei Cojocaru). This is a far cry from his musical past; Marc made a name for himself in his home country, Romania, playing guitar to crowds of thousands in the rock and metal band Transsylvania Phoenix, one of the most well known bands in the country. However, he has since left the band and moved to the UK and is now studying for a music production degree at Leeds College of Music.

- What made you take this decision?

Marc: I want to learn more about how to produce. Pursuing production is something I haven’t done before, which is why I came here to study it - there’s no options for that back home.

- Has your home had much influence on your music?

M: Pff, wow, that’s a funny question because the music scene is quite dead! At least the music scene that I’m into. I mean, when I was with Phoenix, it helped a lot in the rock area, but I’m not doing so much rock and metal stuff nowadays. I now do more sort of alternative hip-hop and electronic stuff.

- Did something trigger this change, or was it gradual?

M: Yeah it did happen over time, like over three years. I’m still experimenting with new kinda genres all the time.

- Let’s talk about Backslash! Do you now consider yourself more of a producer or a guitarist?

M: Argh man... both! But the thing is, I wanna be considered more of like, a composer. I write stuff on guitar for my guitar videos and I write my own solos, and with my music production I’m not producing someone else’s music, I’m writing for myself.

- About your music videos, you film and edit them yourself, where did you learn this skill?

M: I’m lucky to have my dad’s camera, so I thought I’d try to use it to film myself instead of paying somebody else to do it. So I just looked everything up on Youtube - only the basics though, I’m not like, a camera pro. I’ve edited videos since ten years ago, I started a looong time ago!

- What kinds of videos?

M: The stupid kind, haha. I used to make funny videos with my friends back home as we were kids, I think I was in seventh grade when I started doing my first videos.

- Do you remember what it was?

M: Yeah, it was a rock battle. Me and my best friend decided- we just picked our favourite songs and had a guitar battle for several rounds.

- Who won?

M: Oh yeah, that’s the thing, because no one wins! Haha, the video ends with such a cliché message along the lines of like, in music, no one wins or loses.

- So far you’ve mostly released guitar remixes and covers, will Backslash continue with this route or begin releasing originals?

M: Transfer to originals, definitely. It’s taken a lot more, but it’s worth it. I think my first video is probably gonna be the grime track that I’m doing with Cojo.

- Any guitar playing on it?

M: There is! But no one knows, haha, because it’s just one chord in the chorus. I recorded it from my amp and I edited it so that it sounds like a synth.

- Any intentions of returning to the stage under Backslash?

M: Yeah hopefully. But I need to write more original songs first. When i was playing with Phoenix i was playing their music, so I want to write my own stuff and play that. Backslash is more like a stage name than a band name, so I’m probably gonna join a band that’s not actually called Backslash. The same way that Synyster Gates is called Synyster Gates but he’s a part of Avenged Sevenfold. I’m moving down to London right after graduation, and I’m gonna try find people there to play sort of an alternative, Twenty One Pilots combined with Linkin Park kinda band.

- Do you ever identify as Backslash in other parts of your life outside of music?

M: I mean sometimes I identify as a peanut butter... but otherwise no! Haha

- So you’ve mentioned before about wanting to move to California, do you still want to?

M: It depends on how well I’m doing with the band in London. If I can get something done there, then fair enough. But if not, then I’m probably gonna move. It’s the place with the best music scene in the world.

- If you could collaborate with anyone in the world, who’d you choose?

M: Twenty One Pilots, for sure. They don’t even have a guitar player!

- Rapid fire question time! Favourite sport?

M: Parkour

- Favourite game?

M: GTA - oh no no! Prince of Persia!

- Horror or comedy?

M: Comedy.

Watch Backslash on youtube: www.youtube.com/channel/UCaFrs-tfbFFbAXbznizLAug

Instagram: @backslashofficialmusic

Facebook: www.facebook.com/marcalexandrutint.backslash/

[bullymagnet]

DAY SEVEN: Hallways

WELL... i’m a little late on this one. but whatever! 

FINAL DAY! EXCEPT NOT REALLY! a story about a world where soulmates are connected through their dreams by hallways. soulmates can pass through these hallways, but to their mates, they’ll always appear invisible in this dreaming world unless they’ve met once in the waking world. max and johnny are in this one.

               This idiot’s found a hallway into your dreams again.

               That’s the only commentary your mind makes as a mid-sized sedan goes floating lazily past your head, slow enough for you to pick out the graffiti written on its side: “EAT QUARTERS DAILY.”

               … You’re sure that said something meaningful at one point, like “EAT A BUTT,” or “xxx-xxxx CALL ME,” but you’ve “known” them for years and your… friend doesn’t seem to get that writing in dreams changes like the wind and you’ve almost never been able to read one of their messages as they intended.

               Over what sounds like an intercom across the city streets you’ve found yourself in, a bootleg MIDI rendition of Rick Astley’s Never Gonna Give You Up begins to play.

               … Then again. That’s probably not very important to them.

               “Son of a mother,” you whisper, rubbing your temples in attempt not to completely lose it. “You have rick rolled me for the last time.”

               Kicking and punching your way through a spontaneously manifested pile of packing-peanut filled boxes blocking the sidewalk, you take a moment to give a scoff of fatigued laughter about your situation.

               Hallways into each other’s dreams, they all say.

              If you have a soulmate, then you’ll have these hallways. The appear through doors, windows, mirrors, swimming pools, Looney Tunes-esque holes- just about any classical or non-classical means of going through could potentially lead to a hallway into the sleeping mind of your soulmate.

               Even though there’s a hallway in every dream you have, they can be hard to find, so it’s pretty rare that you bother seeking them out and slipping in to visit your soulmate. Not nearly as often as they come through your side.

               You’ve never seen or heard them- that’s just how the connection works. If you meet them in the real world at least once, you’ll be able to. But if that doesn’t happen, the only dream traces of your soulmate when they come through the hallway are the colored footprints they leave…

               And the stupid things they do.  

               You bust through into an unpopulated storefront after being up to your ankles in ball-pit balls outside. It’s dim inside and mostly empty, but this is the place you’ve decided houses the controls for the intercom system. You briskly walk across the music-room-esque carpet and hop the counter to the computer, shutting off the grating music echoing through the streets as quickly as possible.

               Now… Well, they can’t hear your voice, so yelling over the intercom would do nothing. Sighing, you just type out a message for them on the keyboard. It follows:

               HEY IDIOT. WHY DON’T YOU MAKE LIKE A TREE AND FIND THE NEAREST DOOR, GET YOUR BUTT BACK THROUGH THAT HALLWAY AND GET OUT OF MY DREAMS. I’M IN A NEW TOWN, TOMORROW IS MY FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL, AND I HAVE A LOT ON MY PLATE AS IT IS. HUGS AND KISSES, YOUR SOULMATE. PS STOP RICK ROLLING ME AND FIND A NEW MEME.

               You press enter, and you can hear the echoing voice of Microsoft Sam reading your message back to you out in the streets.

              You cross your arms and lean back. But the moment you relax, you hear a door swing open behind you. You turn to face it, and see a quick-fading trail of red footprints come through. The prankster themself.

               They stop for a moment, probably disoriented by the storefront you made up about three seconds ago, and probably by you. They take a step toward you, pause, and then a CD case materializes in front of where you imagine their face would be. It clatters to the floor, and they dash, leaving a hand print on the front desk as they book it toward the front doors.

               The doors swing open, and then close, and about five seconds later, a massive pile of snow comes down from the heavens, effectively snowing you in.

               God you hate them.

              You begrudgingly note, with a strange feeling in your heart, that you know you won’t, eventually, because that’s… also how this works. But for now. Yes.

               You turn around, shaking your head, and go to check out the CD case they left for you. You can’t make it out in the dark, so you scoop it up and squint down on it.

              On it is a terribly drawn spiky-haired smiling character that you sometimes see them draw, and an incomprehensible jumble of words that now says, “∞ SONGS?!???? ASTLEY.? beeb”  and must have at one point said something along the lines of, “RICK ASTLEY’S GREATEST HIT, BUT A LOT” because all else that’s on the CD case is a photo of Astley himself, winking sagely up at you.

               You wearily look up, studying the wall.

               You Cannot Imagine What Is On This CD.

               Your next morning is terrible.

               Apart from landing on a jerk’s face on your way to your first day of school, you woke up super late, you fell down the stairs a little, and you’re pretty sure all you managed to grab for breakfast was a can of soup and a bag of Pomegranate Thangs.

               But hey let’s get back to that landing on a jerk’s face thing right that part sounds interesting.

               The aforementioned jerk stands in front of you on the cracked sidewalk, miraculously alive and with a face covered in what you would assume was a tire track if you didn’t know it was the distinct imprint of your very own scooter, having indented his face not a minute ago. … Listen, you were texting while scooting, there’s a lot of ledges in this town… it’s actually a lot easier to accomplish than you’d think. Don’t beat yourself up over it. Well, you’re not, you feel pretty alright, but—

               “Okay kid,” the strange boy begins. “Listen up.” And you mutter under your breath that your name isn’t kid, it’s Max, but he doesn’t seem like the listening type.

              “You just landed on a very important face. Johnny’s face,” he goes on, and your brain takes special note of his name like it’s marking it off a grocery list. “My face.”

               He just keeps right on talking after that, but you kind of zone out to take him in. You’re probably not missing much. You’re pretty sure he fits right into the Bully character archetype.

               His hair is red. Bright red, and you’d say that it seemed kind of familiar, but you’re not psychic apart from the fact that your subconscious mind is forever linked to another human being’s. Your gay little brain says he’s handsome and you figure that’s true but would be more true if he wasn’t being so immediately intolerable in this moment. But it’s not that he’s drop-dead gorgeous or that he’s the most interesting man in the world, it’s something that you don’t quite knowingly notice but the narrative does. That you’re experiencing a kind of déjà vu that isn’t dizzying or vexing like it typically should be.

               That the moment you saw Johnny, you felt something unlock in your subconscious.

               … You think he just said he’s going to beat you up if you don’t give him 50 cents.

               It’s a strange two days that follows. You don’t get to sleep in the night that connects them.

              This school, this town- it’s like their culture, their social nuance, their infrastructure is just a few pixels askew from the lineart layer of reality. And in your first two round days here, you feel yourself sinking into the swamp of madness that is Mayview.

              Just about everyone you meet fits right into that madness, even the few “friends” that you make. But none of them seem to take quite as much utter glee out of being an agent of chaos as that Johnny.

              He does end up beating you up. Well, after an entire day of running away from him, you rise to his challenge… and then quickly un-rise. He beats you into the ground, essentially. That Bully archetype came with some pretty brute strength.

              He does give you a “life lesson” afterward, though.

              “Why take the maze,” he energetically asks, with shining eyes, as you wonder how many bruises you’ll be left with. “When you can bust on through the walls?”

              And it’s that lesson, his praise of your deciding to roll up your sleeves and accept his challenge to get beat up by him, and the special language of game-breaking logic that he seems to write and live by… that all seem intimately familiar to you. You’re not sure why.

              You think that’s probably because you’re already resigning yourself to a very long and very tiring fight-avoiding school year.

              He also breaks your scooter.

              The bulk of your second day goes off with about the level of interesting content you would expect in and that would likely be discussed at length had this story been a different medium and genre and universe.

              Though extracurriculars don’t hold you up until twilight like they did the first day, and housekeeping doesn’t hold you up indefinitely like the first night, you’re a pretty popular dude, and it’s not until about 3 AM that you manage to get the opportunity to sleep.

              But once you do, you’re out like a light.

               The vineyard you find yourself on is surrounded on all sides by thick, coniferous forest that seems to go on forever, but you can still taste the salt water in the air, and you can hear the waves and the seagulls of a beach that doesn’t seem to exist. You’re quick to realize it’s a dream.

               You get to your feet and brush the sand off your clothes, ducking under a low-hanging grape vine. You can see a beach house up ahead, and without much else to do but wander the acre of grape trellises sticking up out of the sand, you head toward it.

               The front door is unlocked when you reach the porch, so you walk into the house. Inside, the lights are off but it’s illuminated just fine by the daylight streaming in.

               You meander through the nautical-themed building. Nobody’s home. It’s not typical for you to be swarmed with dream characters in lucid dreams anyways. For now, you see what kind of interesting stuff is around here.

               After several rooms of treasure chests and seashell-covered guest beds alike, you walk by a rose-colored open door with a gaping wardrobe in the room inside. The wardrobe wouldn’t be so remarkable, though, without the homage that lies inside its open maw. There’s a hallway in there that breaks the laws of space. Your soulmate’s hallway. And so obvious, too.

               You cautiously walk into the room. Apart from the wardrobe and a screen door leading out onto the beach house’s back deck, it seems to be pretty empty. You approach the hallway wardrobe and peer inside. The wood floor is waxed and the tacky wallpaper is the same the whole way to the end. And there, down about twenty or thirty feet, is the open door of your soulmate’s mind. Green sky and yellow clouds.

               You can’t help but smile a bit and snort. Oh boy. They’ve been through here. Prepare for trouble.

               Turning around, you breathe to nobody in particular, “Guess I have…”

               You trail off. Turns out you failed a perception check and the room isn’t quite as empty as you thought it was. In the other half of the room, standing awkwardly in the middle of the dusty floor holding a boombox, is Johnny.

               “… Guests,” you lamely finish.

              He’s dressed in boxers and a Superman shirt, and he’s staring unblinkingly at you. He drops the boombox in his arms and it fizzles out of existence. He is very still.

              “Oh, great,” you mutter, bemused. Make it double. “Like I needed a Johnny on top of this.”

              He furrows his brows and breathes something, a one word question that you can’t make out from across the room. Wow, you’ve never seen the real him think this hard. The way he looks at you… it’s strange.

               Whatever. Dream characters are always weird. Johnny is extra weird.

               Deciding to clear the area before things kick off, you make a casual beeline for the screen door and the deck beyond it. From the corner of your eye, the dream Johnny tenses up the moment you begin taking steps again.

               “H-Hey. Hey!” You glance back. He steps toward you hesitantly. His eyes are locked on you and the ground behind you like homing missiles or something. “Max… Who’s dreamin’ about you?!”

               “No one’s dreaming about me,” you sigh, almost automatically. “I’m dreaming.”

               And you keep walking.

               And you stop walking.

               That question. That’s a really specific question. You pause in front of the door for a moment, just thinking, before looking over at him. He’s still gaping at you. His eyes are as wide as saucers and intense. You turn to face him fully, and squint.

               There on the floor, where he’d just taken a few steps toward you, are several fading red footprints.

               Nope. No way.

               Your thoughts are racing, but your words come out almost calm, however firm. “Johnny… are you a dream character?”

               His eye twitches. He sort of absentmindedly grabs the sides of his boxers in his fists. “Wh-what’s that mean?”

               You inhale and exhale.

               “Johnny,” you begin again, very slowly and very carefully. You take a few steps toward him. “Where did you come from.”

               Bit by bit, like his body is lagging behind his mind, he raises his arm and gestures over your shoulder with his finger, pointing toward the rose-motif wardrobe and the plain, stretching hallway within.

               And he says, confused and mystified like he’s unraveling a riddle and as his wide eyes seem to take the whole of you in like this, right here, is the first time he’s actually seeing you, “The hallway.”

               The hallway.

               Johnny, the boy you met by nearly concussing with a metal scooter. Johnny, who chased you three blocks down Mayview trying to beat the snot out of you, one as a member of a human totem pole. Who later beat the snot out of you (not as a member of a human totem pole). Who not only gave you change for the money he extorted and advice after he beat the snot out of you, but advice that you employed. Who is vexingly somehow the most irritating being you think you’ve met to date, but whose powers of frustration never stopped you from considering him handsome. Johnny, the energetic boy with the loud gang and the loud red hair and the fictionally golden eyes and the devious smile who may as well be the human equivalent of a far-too-hyper inferno.

              Johnny came through the hallway.

              Johnny’s your soulmate.

              You’ve gotta be kidding you.

#my fics #bullymagnet #SORRY I'M LATE #I BOTH HAD WRITER'S BLOCK AND ALSO FELL ASLEEP AT MY DESK LAST NIGHT #I REALLY WANTED TO BE ON TIME... #anyway this isn't my WITTIEST writing ever #it's sort of a little... ''people sitting in chairs'' if you know what i mean #but hey all these fics have sort of been first drafts without editing #next time i'll be way more prepared! #fics