Anon Author

[claraxbarton]

Hear me out:

Leon Draisaitl and Connor McDavid book a cowboy retreat after yet another playoff defeat and there, they meet... cowboy Matthew Tkachuk. You can guess what happens.

For @hrpffandomeventblog Moodoard April

[chiapielle]

Drabble - Cowboy AU?

A bit random but have been an avid reader of your MattDrai / McMattDrai stories and spotted this when I was scrolling through! I ended up writing a little snippet, hope that's okay! (⸝⸝ᴗ﹏ᴗ⸝⸝)

“I hate him,” Leon says darkly as the group continues to prepare for the long trail ride, grunting when his palomino immediately shakes her head and nearly unseats him when he scrambles to adjust.

“Ohh, I know what that means, you’re saying rude things about me again,” calls out a voice from behind the two of them.

Connor bites down on a laugh when Matthew -call me Matty- sidles in between their horses, hand raised to pat Leon’s horse as he mock cooes at her.

“That’s right Bella,” Matty pretend whispers, “if the city boy disparages my good name again, you just dump his ass on the ground.”

“Aren’t you supposed to make sure we stay on the horses,” Leon grits out.

Matty rolls his eyes, “I can’t help it if they can sense how much of a dick you are. Seriously, do you deal with this everyday?”

That last question is aimed at Connor.

Connor pauses, he has no idea how to say ‘no, this is the most I’ve seen Leo emote since the devastating playoff loss that ended our Cup run a few weeks back’ so he settles for a bland shrug.

“Right,” Matty drawls after a few seconds, when it becomes clear that Connor isn’t planning to elaborate. He reaches out to pat Connor’s horse and-

Connor sucks in a quick breath when he realizes how close that hand is to his thigh.

And it’s stupid, he’s not, he doesn’t, but-

He can’t help but stare when Matty looks up at him from below his lashes.

He’s a sight.

Sun-kissed skin, lips red because he has an obvious oral fixation and stretched in an insouciant smile that shouldn’t make him handsome but does.

“Lucky these city boys are lookers Bella,” Matty says casually, looking over at Leon when the other makes a choked off noise, “because Lord knows neither of them have a personality.”

Which-

“You,” Leon starts, eyes dark.

“Me?” Matty has the audacity to smirk at Leon.

Connor swallows hard at the look that temporarily steals over Leon’s face before he controls it and smoothes it into an approximation of his usual grumpy frown.

But it had been there long enough for Connor to see it.

The desire, the frantic lust that consumes them sometimes after a big game-

Connor doesn’t know what his face looks like but he thinks he’s blushing, because suddenly his mind is whirling, and flashes of dark eyes, naked skin and red lips and-

A low whistle forces him to blink away the images.

Matty is eyeing them both with a curious look, one that turns decidedly sly at whatever he sees on their faces.

It makes him look like an asshole.

It’s also painfully attractive.

“I had you boys all wrong,” he says slowly, “less miracle on ice and more brokeback mountain eh?”

They’re saved from replying when the other Tkachuk brother calls for attention.

Matty gives them another look, indecipherable but no less heated for it, before he smirks. 

“Have a good ride boys”.

[chiapielle]

Well, apparently I am going to continue thinking about these two so...have a Petey/Quinn Flower Shop AU :)

Elias stumbles across the flower shop on Robson Street mostly by accident.

He’s jogging in place while waiting for the light when he sees the shop tucked into the corner. It has a rather unassuming store front, but what catches Elias’ attention is the prominently displayed bouquet, situated in a men’s hockey skate of all things.

It startles a chuckle out of Elias and he’s intrigued enough by the artistry and sheer oddity of the piece that he decides to duck into the small shop. If nothing else, he might just get the hockey skate bouquet, maybe that would stop his mom from commenting about how dreary his apartment is every single time they FaceTime.

Or maybe not.

Whatever.

A guy can dream.

“Welcome,” chirps a cheery looking brunet when Elias pushes open the door, “how can I-holy shit, you’re Petey. I mean Pettersson, I mean, holy fuck. Wait here.”

Elias looks on in bemusement as the brunet takes a couple of steps back, before dashing off into a side door as if the hounds of hell were on his heel.

That’s…concerning.

Vancouver is a hockey city, so Elias is used to being recognized but reactions like this either ends with him trying to fend off an obsessive fan or having to calm down a panicking fan before he can go about his business. 

Neither of which sound very appealing.

He thinks about turning around and heading right back out, funny hockey skate bouquet be damned, but by the time his hand is on the door, a quieter voice calls out from behind him and stops him in his tracks.

“Hey, uh, sorry about before.”

The owner of this voice sounds less like they’re about to mob Elias, and after a few seconds of internal debate, Elias turns around, ostensibly to try and explain why he was about to sneak out the front door like a thief that has been caught red-handed, but then he catches sight of the man at the counter and his brain stops.

When Elias does not respond after a few seconds, counter guy looks politely (and justifiably) concerned.

“Did you need, um, did something catch your eye?” 

You, Elias thinks, unable to look away from the soft swoop of brown hair that falls messily above the other’s eyes and determinedly drags his gaze away from the other’s unfairly red lips.

“The skate,” he gets out instead, “it’s pretty cool.”

“Oh,” counter guy sounds confused but there is a hint of a smile lifting up the corner of his mouth, “thanks. I did it on a whim? It’s, uh, I mean, yeah. Thanks.”

“I’m Elias,” Elias blurts out, then wants to smack himself because what the fuck. 

He’s usually better at this.

He swears he has game normally?

But something about the gorgeous counter guy is short circuiting his brain.

Honestly, Elias feels a bit like someone’s caught him out mid skate and checked him hard against the board.

That’s how out of breath he feels.

Christ.

Still, his awkward introduction somehow makes counter guy smile, a proper one that makes Elias’ brain buzz pleasantly.

“I know,” counter guy says casually, “we’re pretty big hockey fans.”

“Right,” Elias replies, still staring.

“So,” counter guy continues, “were you looking for something?”

Your name? 

Your number?

Your interest in dating Swedish professional hockey players based in Vancouver?

Elias inwardly makes a face and tries to regroup his thoughts into something more innocuous. “Yes,” he eventually replies, “I’m looking for flowers.”

Counter guy blinks at him before looking around the small store slowly. There’s a small smirk playing about his lips when he looks back at Elias. “Well, I have good news for you.”

Elias takes the chirp and tries not to look too visibly besotted.

Gorgeous and has a sense of humour then.

“How much for the hockey skate bouquet?” he blurts out instead.

Counter guy looks taken aback. “Oh uh,” he pauses to lick at his lips.

Elias swallows hard at the sight.

“That’s more a display item?” Counter guy sounds apologetic, “I mean, we can make one for you if you’d like but, yeah.”

“Yes,” Elias says immediately, seizing the opportunity to prolong this conversation, “I would like to commission one.”

Counter guy looks quietly pleased. “Yeah? Okay,” he says, “do you have any thoughts about what you want it to look like or?”

“Not really,” Elias shrugs, “I trust your skills.”

That earns him another smile.

“I’m, um, I’m Quinn by the way,” counter guys offers tentatively, ducking below the counter briefly to grab a pad of paper and a pen.

“Petey,” Elias retorts automatically, then tries his best to mentally smack himself.

Seriously.

He has met hotter men.

He has slept with hotter men.

What the fuck is it about Quinn that’s throwing everything off kilter?

Thankfully, again, Quinn seems to find Elias’ floundering amusing rather than disturbing because he smirks, “I know.”

Elias tries not to stare too obviously at his lips.

“So how would you like it?”

Elias’ brows rise before he can control them.

“The bouquet,” Quinn clarifies, clearing his throat with a small cough, “do you really not have any specifications about the bouquet?”

“I guess some nice flowers, preferably still in a skate?” Elias eventually offers when it becomes obvious that Quinn is looking for at least some input from him.

Quinn looks like he’s trying hard not to laugh. “No preference on types of flowers or a colour scheme?” he looks down and scribbles something on the paper pad, “or, if you, uh, know who it’s for? Perhaps I can make some suggestions?”

Elias takes a moment to think about this.

“My mom likes orchids,” he eventually offers, “maybe that if that’s possible?” He moves a bit closer to the counter, trying and hopefully coming off as casual.

Up close, Quinn’s eyelashes are absurdly long and Elias can’t help but notice that Quinn’s shoulders fill out his shirt nicely. Elias lets his gaze linger a touch longer than he really should.

“That’s,” Quinn says as he looks up, looking slightly startled at how close Elias now is before he smiles again, “that’s pretty wholesome. Any idea what kind of orchids?”

“There are different types?” Elias mutters, more to himself than anything else.

Quinn makes a face that clearly shows he’s trying hard not to laugh once more.

“So, uh, think it’s obvious that I’m out of my league,” Elias says slowly, “would be cool if the new one looks a bit like the one in the display.” He pauses to catch Quinn’s gaze, “but I trust you so do what you think looks best.”

“Yeah, okay,” Quinn replies, turning around to fuss around with some paper forms. He makes a soft sound when he turns around, a neatly written small card in his hands, “that’s your order receipt.”

“Thanks,” Elias says, taking the card and flicking his gaze down to see what’s printed.

Disappointingly, it does not have Quinn’s number.

“Do you want to-”

“So uh, thanks-”

They both pause.

“If, uh, if you want to leave a number,” Quinn offers tentatively, “we can give you a call once it’s ready?”

Elias does not hesitate to jot down his number.

He probably should.

Lectures about the value of privacy, NDAs, data protection, and other annoying PR considerations briefly ran through his mind.

But honestly, something about Quinn makes him stupid.

“That’s my personal number,” he clarifies pointedly before sliding the paper pad back to Quinn, “in case you need to reach me.”

[itshawkey]

my boys (who are smiling at each other in these photos and as there's nothing to disprove that then it must be true)

[chiapielle]

Hello! Um, this is very very random but anon from earlier this week who was gushing about your QPetey stories here!

Still thinking about your stories and saw this post while I was scrolling through your blog! I am now very invested in the idea of Petey calling Quinn his boy...and wanted to write a little snippet, hope that's okay! (⸝⸝ᴗ﹏ᴗ⸝⸝)

“No,” Quinn blurts out, looking a bit wild around the eyes, “just.”

He bites his lips.

They are really red, Elias notices distantly.

“I just,” he continues reluctantly, looking like every word pains him, “it’s just, it, uh, was kinda weird when you said my boy.”

Elias pauses to think this through and furrows his brows when nothing immediately comes to mind. “You do not like to be called boy?” he tentatively guesses, wondering if this is one of those times where he has failed to perhaps pick up on some obscure English connotation or slang. 

But it’s odd? 

He’s certain Quinn and the others have said “boys” in the past when referring to the team.

Quinn’s cheeks are already red, but as Elias watches, the flush makes its way down his neck.

It’s oddly mesmerizing.

“No,” Quinn bites out, looking away, “I, it’s not the boy part.” He clams up immediately, regret visible on his face and takes a step back.

Out of sheer instinct, Elias reaches out to catch his arm to prevent him from going further.

“You do not like me saying you’re mine?” he parses out, then pauses when he realizes what he said. This isn’t above his understanding of English and he’s aware of how that question came out. Elias opens his mouth to try and explain that, oops, sorry Huggy, that’s not what he meant to imply, only, he catches sight of Quinn’s slightly parted lips and still ruddy cheeks and snaps his mouth shut.

Oh, Elias thinks.

Ohhhhh.

His mind flashes back to that interview.

He swallows, aware of the line they’re dancing on but unable to help himself.

“Do you like it when I call you my boy,” he asks quietly, and is viciously pleased by the choked noise Quinn makes. 

Elias tries not to laugh in relief, as the doubts and confusion of the day abruptly disappear, leaving him feeling warm and something close to giddy. “Or do you like it better when I call you my captain?”

Quinn sucks in a sharp breath.

“Petey,” Quinn says softly, “I, what-”

His captain is an idiot, Elias thinks fondly even as he tugs Quinn closer so he can gently brush his lips against Quinn’s frozen ones.

[chiapielle]

Drabble #2

Didn't think I'd be writing more but here we are! I'm trying to get a better sense of character so would appreciate anything you feel would help (e.g. lore, videos)! :)

Um, this was going to be funny, and now it's not, and at this rate, likely won't be a drabble. Sharing a snippet, will post onto Ao3 once I finish the full thing! ><

Inspired by a prompt on the dbd discord server!

Warning: um, mature-ish? Nothing explicit or too violent yet, but please read with caution.

“Franklin,” Ghostface guesses.

Frank resolutely ignores the stupid suggestion. Over the past month of reluctantly making the other’s acquaintance, he’s learned that acknowledging the older killer’s presence only serves to encourage the incorrigible motherfucker.

“Francisco?”

Better to ignore the man so he would lose interest and go away faster.

“Frankfurter,” the other continues blithely.

For fuck’s sake, Frank’s right eye twitches, as does the hand clutching his knife.

Ghostface has the audacity to sigh when it becomes clear that Frank is determined to maintain his silence despite the insulting suggestion that he’s been named after a hotdog. “You’re being no fun Frankie,” the man makes a tsking sound, “a terrible conversationalist one might even say.”

The fucker has the gall to sound disappointed, as if Frank’s main purpose for existence is to entertain the bastard.

Actually, knowing the narcissistic asshole, that’s probably not far off from what the man is thinking.

“It’s Frank,” Frank quips back despite himself, tone as dry as the desert, “and, despite me not being a great conversationalist, somehow you’ve not taken the hint.”

“Why Frankie,” the older killer begins faux-cheerfully as he pushes off from where he had been leaning against a nearby tree, “with such hurtful words, one might think you don’t want me here, and that can’t be true now, can it?” What begins as a fairly decent attempt at a jovial tone falls flat by the end and there’s a tension in the man’s body that didn’t exist just seconds ago.

Like the eerie calm before a storm or seeing a predator coiling up its muscles to ready for a fight, the change in demeanor forces the hair on the back of Frank’s neck to stand up at the perceived threat despite his internal attempts to reassure himself.

He can take this guy.

He for sure could.

Absolutely.

“Who,” Frank forces himself to say past clenched teeth when the pressure gets too much, “would think something stupid like that?”

There is another pause whilst the other considers his words.

“You’re an interesting one Frankie,” Ghostface eventually says, a hint of glee in his voice, “or should I say, Francis?”

Frank suppresses a grimace.

“Whatever.”

“If you say so dear!”

---

“Oh honey, I wouldn’t do that,” Ghostface says a few days later.

Frank swears out of habit and nearly drops the knife he had been holding up to his jaw. He turns around in the tiny washroom so he can glare at the man suddenly hovering into view by the door, and tries to calm the frantic beating of his heart.

“How the fuck do you keep doing that?!” he demands, “seriously, are you even human?”

“What do you mean?” Ghostface asks innocently.

Frank has the distinct impression that if he didn’t have a mask on, the other would be batting his eyelashes mockingly right now. “Argh just, can you not right now? Seriously, go fuck with someone else-”

“No.”

Cursing the immediate and resolute answer, Frank turns around and is about to clean up what he was previously doing before something clicks in his brain.

“What did you just call me?” he demands, glaring at Ghostface’s reflection in the dirty washroom mirror.

“Frankie?” the other tries.

Frank narrows his eyes, refusing to buy the act.

“Oh, you mean honey,” Ghostface says, “did you like that?” There was something sly in his voice.

“Fucking gross,” Frank mutters. He’s never been fond of the disgustingly sweet pet names couples used and have refused to use them with any of the past girlfriends and flings. 

“What about sweetheart?” 

Well fuck, he’s in one of his moods again, Frank grits his teeth and resolves to ignore the older killer for as long as possible.

Be boring, he reminds himself as he attempts to put away his shaving supplies, really, just his knife and a not too dirty face cloth. He doesn’t trust the other to be around him when he’s holding up a knife to his jaw.

Knowing the bastard, he’d probably push Frank into his own knife just to watch him bleed.

“Baby?”

Don’t talk back-

“Baby boy?”

Frank’s jaw clenches despite himself and he knows the other sees it when he hears the man suck in a surprised breath.

Fuck.

“Ohhhh,” Ghostface says in a wondering tone, almost cooing out his next words, “do you want to be my sweet baby boy Frankie?”

“For fuck sakes,” Frank explodes but before he can twist himself and beat the shit out of the infuriating asshole, he finds himself pinned by the older killer. 

He growls when Ghostface immediately grips onto his wrists and wrenches them back so hard he swears he hears his bones crack. “What the-”

“Now, now,” Ghostface chides, breath quickening in what might be excitement, “there’s no need to be embarrassed, everyone has their kinks.”

[mori-me]

so uh. spirit halloween is selling ghost face chokers :x

[chiapielle]

Oops, new to the fandom but I really, really, really liked this image and it got away from me!

Thank you for sharing your beautiful art with us and I hope it's okay that I ended up taking some liberties and writing a short drabble. :)

“Okay you motherfuckers,” Frank calls out once he enters the main living area where the others are currently in various state of wakefulness, “who thought it was funny to do this?”

Joey, the closest to him and who appears to be the most awake of the three, turns and peers quizzically at him. “What’s up?”

Frank points to the thick black choker adorning his neck. He had found himself wearing it when he woke up a few minutes ago and has been lowkey simmering in embarrassed rage since, not because he didn’t like the soft leather or the clean design, but because the damn thing has a tiny Ghost Face mask hung prominently onto the front. Doesn't help that he can’t seem to find a way to take it off because it’s on so damn tight and the back appears not to have an easy buckle.

“Really fucking funny,” he mutters darkly.

“Uh,” Joey says once he’s gotten a better look, eyes wide, “not me bro.”

“Well one of you-”

“You’re so loud,” Julie gripes as she shuffles closer, “what’s got you all-”

She pauses.

Frank glowers at the honest look of shock on both of their faces, well, at least he’s found the culprit for the insanely lame prank. “Alright nerd,” he calls out to Susie, “real dumb attempt at fucking with me, now take this thing off before I get summoned into a trial.”

Susie makes a sleepy sounding ‘hey’ at the label but obediently moves closer, rubbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie, she squints at his neck before her mouth drops open.

“Wha-”

Frank will fully admit that, post being taken by the fog and being able to participate in trials everyday where he gets to expend most of his innate bloodlust by stabbing boring losers, he is a much chiller dude than when he was living in Ormond.

But not so chill so as to put up with this amount of bullshit and disrespect.

“I swear to-”

“Frank,” Julie cuts in quietly, “it’s not one of us.”

“Hah?” Frank tries not to yell, “I know it’s not Joey or you, but what about Miss I Like Chokers Over Here? This your idea of joke Susie?”

He feels a vicious sense of satisfaction when he sees Susie visibly pale within the confines of her hoodie, shrinking into herself at the mounting fury in his voice. Good, he thinks harshly, she needs to fucking learn a lesson if she thinks she can get away with messing with me.

“I didn’t do it,” Susie mumbles out, backing up a step and holding up her hands in a gesture of supplication, “I promise Frank, I wouldn’t-”

“So what?” Frank snorts, “some magical fairy just up and gifted me a new choker last night?”

Susie shakes her head and backs up another step, “no, that’s not what I’m saying, I just, I swear I didn’t do it, you got back later than I did and I was already asleep. I don’t, I'm saying it’s not mine.”

Despite the low burn of fury in the pit of his stomach, something tells him to stay silent and reassess the situation. So he does. Frank stares at Susie first, narrowing his eyes and taking in the nervous downward turn of her lips and the fidgeting of her hands as she pulls at the hem of her hoodie. The longer he watches her, the more convinced he is that she isn’t lying, which then leaves the other two. Frank shifts his gaze towards Joey and Julie, scrutinizing them in turn, both having sensed the change in the air and having quietened in response.

“God, just let me take it off,” Julie says eventually, squaring up her shoulders and meeting his gaze directly when she can’t seem to stand the tension any longer.

Frank thinks about being contrary a bit longer but grunts and turns instead so she can get to the back of the choker. He still has no idea who the fuck decided to put this on him but he’s content to figure it out once he has the damn thing off.

“Hold still,” Julie chides half-hearted when he tenses at the touch of her cold fingers against the back of his neck, “what the hell even is this?”

“What,” he demands.

Julie sighs noisily through her nose but doesn’t say anything else.

Frank feels her fingers tug at what must be the buckle and then-

“SHIT,” he swears and jerks away from her hands when what feels like lightning strikes through his upper body. “What the fuck did you do?”

“What? What happened?”

Frank rounds on his gang, gnashing his teeth against the residual tingles he still feels in his fingers, “what the fuck was that? It feels like you fucking stuck an electrical plug into my neck.”

Julie’s look of confusion clears but it’s Joey who speaks, though he looks very much like he wishes he didn’t have to. “That, uh,” he swallows, “that’s not a choker.”

Frank waits a beat. “Well?” he prompts impatiently.

“It’s a shock collar,” Joey finishes.

There is a beat of silence.

Frank whirls around and stomps back to his room, determined to find his knife so he can try and cut the damn thing off. Then he’ll come back and shut these fuckers up for messing with him, because they must be messing with him. Let's see if they still think it’s funny when he’s fully awake and no longer being humiliated. 

He’s digging around his bed (sue him, he likes sleeping with his knife okay?) when he spies something pink sticking out from under his pillow where it wouldn’t be obtrusive unless someone was looking. He hesitates, ignoring the concerned calls he hears from the other Legion members coming closer, and tugs at the pink slip he sees until it's in full view.

It’s a heart-shaped sticky note, the kind of lame shit one sees around Valentine’s Day back in Ormond.

‘Hope you like the gift Frankie, saw it and immediately thought of you!

x.o.x.o. GF’

Frank swears he sees red, he's going to kill that son of a bitch.

[chiapielle]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Lip Sync Battle AU

“-by Eminem,” Pete rumbles back. “What?” Kells interrupts, suddenly feeling much more clear-headed, “what the fuck are you two going on about?” Someone snorts. “I’m telling you to do Lip Sync Battle with me,” Pete repeats slowly, as if testing each word out, “and I’m calling fucking dibs on a Eminem song.” “Why the fuck are you picking his songs?” Kells mutters, irrationally hurt, “since when did you start sucking his old ass dick?” “Real nice asshole,” Pete retorts, “I’m picking it cuz you always win when you do the classics man.”

[chiapielle]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Eminem (Musician), Machine Gun Kelly (Musician)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Colson Baker | Machine Gun Kelly/Eminem
Characters: Eminem, Colson Baker | Machine Gun Kelly, Pete Davidson, Casie Baker
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Fluff, Not Beta Read
Summary: Random drabble (might add more if inspiration strikes): “Dad, aren’t these pretty?” Kells looks up when Casie bounces into the store, eyes drawn immediately to the small bouquet of daisies gripped in her hand. He stares. “Where did you get that baby?” he asks, setting down the cloth he had been using to wipe down the counters in favour of moving closer. Upon a second inspection, at least one of the daisies appears to be drooping slightly. Kells narrows his eyes in suspicion, mind racing through the list of boys his daughters knows to identify who would be brave enough to randomly gift her flowers. She beams back at him. “Next door! I noticed someone had bent one of the stems of the sunflowers displayed outside so I went in to tell someone? And Em gave them to me as a thank you.” She blushes, “apparently I’m welcomed back anytime.”

[chiapielle]

Drabble

Um, well, apparently, I am throwing my hat into the ring for this fandom. I have 0 clues about either Eminem or MGK so this should go spectacularly well! :)

But I really want to contribute something!

Short drabble - inspired by the fact that Pete's done two incredible Eminem impressions on SNL (and stated in an interview that he called Em to say thanks)

“You serious?”

Colson grunts from where he’s sprawled out on the sofa, not bothering to move in favour of scrolling further through his Instagram feed. “Sup.”

“Uh huh,” Pete waits for a few seconds then lets out a slow sigh, “right, I’mma need to be high for this.”

Colson pushes himself upright enough to make a 'give me' gesture once Pete lights the joint, and pushes himself all the way up into a sitting position once he gets it in hand. He takes a deep inhale and quietly relishes in the familiar burning in his lungs.

Huh, Pete’s pulled out the good stuff.

“You gonna tell me what’s got you twisted?”

Colson slides a side look at the other.

Pete looks tired, as he usually is on Sunday mornings, likely the crash from the stressful adrenaline of finally having the live show wrap up for the week (and hungover from the drinking that the SNL cast indulges in afterwards). There are dark circles under his eyes and there are still imprints from the pillow on his right cheek, along with the strong smell of sweat and alcohol.

“You look and smell like shit,” Colson observes as he passes the joint back.

“And you’re here obnoxiously early,” Pete retorts without any real heat, “so what’s up?”

In a rare moment of uncertainty when speaking with one of his closest friends, Colson hesitates. “Saw clips of your show last week,” he gets out after a beat too long, gaze dropping to where his fingers are unconsciously tapping against his thigh.

He doesn’t know what to say to articulate the mess of feelings inside.

Pete is silent for a long moment, his eyes closed as he slowly gets through the joint before he mutters, “thought you were over it.”

“I am,” Colson snaps back immediately, bristling at the hint of something much too close to pity in the other’s voice, he swallows hard, “just, seriously? Another one of his songs?”

“NFTs are hot right now,” Pete replies evasively, though he does open his eye to peer at Colson. “And what can I say,” he shrugs glibly, “the dude’s songs are iconic.”

“His old shit maybe,” Colson concedes petulantly.

Pete offers the joint again but Colson shakes his head, he feels too wired already, and the feeling has nothing to do with the weed.

“Just, fuck,” he groans, “he ain’t even relevant anymore.”

Pete exhales slowly and when he speaks again, his voice is lowkey amused, “I spoke to him you know.”

“What?” Colson jerks his head towards Pete's direction, tensing as some unknown feeling makes knots in his stomach, “how did you? What did-? What?”

“He did a cameo last time,” Pete starts, turning to look out at his sparsely decorated yard, “and I dunno, he was cool with us doing it again, and even said some nice words, so I called him to say thanks. Only polite y’know?”

Colson did not know.

“What?” he repeats.

Pete shrugs. “He’s a pretty cool dude,” he pauses pointedly, “when he’s not pissed at you.”

“You said it was a good idea!” Colson protests, because he’s not a complete idiot and he does trust his friends (what few true friends he has) and he definitely sought their opinions before he released Rap Devil and none of them had said anything at the time. “And what the fuck ever, I don’t care that you spoke to some old ass rapper who still thinks his shit is hot.”

“Uh huh,” Pete says, managing to adopt the driest tone Colson’s ever heard from him.

“Give me that,” Colson grumbles out, snatching the joint back with petty vindictiveness and taking in a deep drag.

Pete raises a hand to rub at his right eye and badly hides a yawn, “have it, I’mma go back to bed.”

Colson grunts.

Pete pauses by the doorway, and Colson looks up when the other stays for a moment too long.

“What?”

“You happy with Megan?”

Colson clenches his jaw, “yes.”

He feels unbearably scrutinized under Pete’s normally placid gaze, but refuses to look away out of sheer obstinacy. He has nothing to hide, Pete can stare all he likes.

Eventually, it is Pete who looks away first, digging into the pockets of his hoodie that he slept in with clumsy hands.

Colson takes another drag, suppressing a smug smile, only to falter when his phone vibrates.

The notification alert pops up to announce it’s a text from Pete.

“Wha-”

“Just in case you’re not,” Pete mutters as he begins to shuffle back to his bedroom, “happy I mean.”

Colson stares after his retreating back for a few seconds before his brain makes the connection between the words and the text and suddenly, he’s scrambling to unlock his phone.

It’s a phone number.

Colson swallows.