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“Got our girl scared,” John says, taking note of the flatness of Gale’s tone, the complete and utter lack of emotion or surprise. His body is on autopilot; John recognises the tells. Grinding through the motions to keep going, blank and perfunctory like those last days of the march. “Got me scared, too, babydoll.”
And he is. Primed or not by Gale’s previous bouts of fasting, John’s never seen him push it like this. He's terrified.
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"We gotta do somethin’.”
“I know, I know.” Gale’s trying to draw John’s attention back to him now, before he vaults over his own stall and throttles the guy in broad daylight. “But without proof we gotta think about what. Don’t– don’t go messin’ up your face for nothin’, okay?”
This pulls John’s gaze back to Gale, his eyes going from glaring daggers to soft, crinkled at the edges with a flirty smirk. “You care about my pretty face, Buck?”
Gale bites the inside of his cheek to hide his own smile. “Flatter yourself. Didn’t say nothin’ about pretty.”
--Gale and John fall in love over their respective farmers’ market stalls. When they're sure a strange newcomer has been stealing from the other vendors, including their friends, they embark on a risky mission to set things right.
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Bucky nods toward the empty space. It’s smaller than a coffin. Gale had a growth spurt last year. “You wanted an abduction, kid, not a vacation.”
Gale resents the word kid. Bucky doesn’t look much older than him. His brain keeps picking up on the most insignificant details to stress over. “I did. I do. But-”
Bucky wags his finger. He’s still smiling, and there really isn’t any malice in it as he says, “my rules now, yeah? C’mon, cowboy. Get in the trunk.”
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Gale’s father owes money to some bad people. Gale wants to disappear. Two birds, one stone.
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“Time stamps are right,” Gale says.
“Course they’re right,” says Brady. “It’s the same footage. Untouched. There’s nothing fucking there.”
“But there’s something there,” John says quietly, turning back to the thermal monitor. A shudder rolls down his spine. He spares a glance at Gale. He’s looking right back at him, jaw clenching, brows furrowed. “Alright. It’s fuckin’ weird.”
“Even if there was someone in the room,” Gale says, still looking at John as if he’s nervous to turn back to the screens. It flips something in John’s stomach. Gale doesn’t get nervous. “They’d be colder than the lowest human body temperature.”
John looks back at the thermogram. He swallows hard. “They’d be dead.”
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John and Gale are the hosts of once-popular, now-failing ghost hunting show 100 Haunts. They do not believe in ghosts. All these shows are fake; with scripted, doctored footage. But when they're asked to return to a previous location, their second shoot there captures more and more horrors they can't explain.
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“C’mon, Major. Give me a fight.”
or; buck and bucky try cnc.
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They have to break it again.
John is told this in a hushed frenzy, barely one foot in the stalag and still bleeding sluggishly, and Benny tells him that they have to re-break Buck’s arm.
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“Still no better singer than I am a dancer.”
“I’m tryin’ to teach you,” John says.
All humour dies in Gale’s throat as John begins to move. He changes position, tucking one arm beneath Gale’s neck, and with his other hand he pulls him closer by his waist. With John’s thigh still between his, Gale can feel the contours of his hips against his own. The thin layers of cotton pyjamas separating them are not enough.
“Then just sway a bit. Like this.”
Series
- Part 2 of take in the sweetness
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“Don’t drink, no smokes, never bet. Anythin’ else you’ve not done?” He pauses to take a drag. Gale watches the smoke return from his lungs, spilling out of his mouth like water. “You ever had the taste of a woman?”
Gale’s face goes red. He clears his throat, willing his voice to come out casual. “’Spose you don’t mean kissing.”
John stares. Incredulous. Open-mouthed and wide-eyed, like Gale just told him he’s never experienced Christmas. “Buck.”
Series
- Part 1 of take in the sweetness
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“It looks like the night’s sky, Buck,” John says. “If you keep moving around, it won’t heal any good.”
Gale presses into the bruise, biting off a hiss. He thinks that John should break his remaining ribs, too. Let them all heal warped and wrong; let his body be found with the memory of John written into his bones.
“It’ll be yellow by morning,” he says. “Just leave it be.”
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“I don’t know why you’re being such a pussy,” Kendall says.
Roman snorts. His tongue still feels heavy, like it’s got a coating of tar. “How would you like it? It’s embarrassing, trying to be cool in front of your buddies at your big age. What if my friends pinned you down and fucking- snowballed you?”
“You don’t have any friends, Roman,” Kendall says. “And anyway, I wouldn’t let that happen to me.”
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The lube isn’t where it normally is. It’s normally on the bedside table. There’s been very little reason to put it away. But somebody has- a maid, presumably, or Mencken during one of his rage-tidies (a habit Roman was both amused and confused to discover upon moving in).
So Roman checks the drawer, and next to the slim bottle he finds it: the gun.
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It becomes this heavy thing between them, this reluctant shared secret born from inconvenience. It goes in cycles. Stewy swears he’s done being an emotional rent boy for the Roys. He’s clawed his way back to his comfort zone; nothing that cuts too deep, or feels too close.
Then Roman’s voice comes through the phone, drags him back in. Shaking with nervous laughter, over something that’s never been funny. “I think- fuck, man, I’m sorry. But like, my chest- my chest fuckin’ hurts.” -
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He pauses on a particularly harrowing frame. A tear has completed its path down Roman’s nose, and is suspended milliseconds before it hits his lapel. His arms are in front of his face, like he’s bracing for impact. Jeryd settles himself on his couch, screenshotting the frame for future reference. He usually likes Roman with bite, or at least a little resistance, but he can make do with this. Pain is pain, he surmises. He hits play again, leaning back into the cushions, and taking himself out of his boxers.
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Roman’s split lip collides with the toe of Mencken's shoe. A burst of pain shoots through his entire face, blood pooling from the barely knit scab, and it’s like someone's rammed neurostimulators into his brain. Shock collar on his voodoo doll, shot of adrenaline right into his dick vein, synapses wide open. Okay, Roman thinks. Let’s fucking go.
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“Wait,” he says into the crook of Roman’s neck, and Roman obeys. Mencken slides his hand up to his face, two fingers pressing softly at the opening of Roman’s chewed lips. He exhales, and Mencken slips the fingers into his mouth. “Penance.”
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He touches the part of his knuckles permanently marred by his own incisors; imagines Logan lining his teeth up with the little marks, clamping down, gnawing off parts of Roman bit by bit.
-Roman Roy through teeth.
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Sam watches his Adam’s apple bob, and decides to splay a hand across Rafe’s neck. He leans in and hisses into his ear.
“You’re fucked in the head,” he says again, and presses down on his throat.
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“Do not fuckin’ jizz in my mouth, Brad, I don’t want a fuckin’ gum infection.”
“Should have thought of that before you knocked out a tooth,” Brad says, and he doesn’t know why his voice shakes a little. Ray looks like he’s about to say more, but Brad doesn’t give him the chance.
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“I can’t think about this-” Billy gasps into Harrington’s mouth, desperate.
“Then don’t think,” Harrington breathes. “It’s okay. Don’t think.”
And, yeah. That’s a better option.or: the one where steve might just be billy's lifeboat.
sequel to crash.Series
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Steve doesn't want to start paying attention to Billy Hargrove. It just kind of happens.
or: the one where Billy keeps crashing at Steve's place, exam season is hard, and Robin knows Steve better than he'd like.
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