Bringing the Ruckus

Switchblades Trash

[corporalgordonhouse]

Hey everyone, long story short: due to tumblr’s mandatory password update, I have been locked out of this account. (I’m making this post on mobile, yay.) The only “solution” to my problem is to make a new account. So, if you still wish to follow me, please head over to floralprintpunk.tumblr.com

Thanks!

[eroticcensorship]

Hey everyone, thanks to tumblr's new mandatory password update, I've been locked out of all of my blogs. (Thank mobile for the ability to post this.) I'm in the process of making a new main as well as a new switchblades blog. If you still want content from me, feel free to follow my new main blog: floralprintpunk.tumblr.com or my new switchblades blog: bloodiedknuckles-bruisedhearts.tumblr.com

[hausofgreene]

okay, here’s the deal.

in the past 48 hours I’ve gotten upwards of fifteen anons with the same couple of issues: “who are these fictive blogs?” “are you okay with all of this?” “what’s the difference? why aren’t they an RP blog?”

these are all fine to ask, in fact I anticipated them. the ones that have pissed me off have been the two about “who lets people like this into the AU?” and “I can’t believe blogs like this exist”

listen here, because I’m only going to say this once.

no matter what blog, who they are, if it’s fictive or RP (and trust me I know the difference, I’m old remember I’ve been around the block a few times), they’re welcomed here just like you are.

for me, everyone who identifies with anything SBGC is one of my children. this goes especially for fictive and RP ones; if this is who you are, or who you chose to show yourself as, I’m happy to have you here.

that being said, if I hear about anyone being rude, nasty, unwelcoming or hurtful to anyone, there’ll be hell to pay. I can deal with a lot of things, but there’s no way I’ll stand idle while any of my little ones is being harassed.

respect everyone’s wishes, don’t be a dick, if you don’t have something nice to say just keep it to yourself.

[eroticcensorship]

Hi there! Just an update on me: I’m still making things for sbgc, but I recently got hired to a retail job so the writing/graphics will just be coming a little more spaced out. I love you all, and I am working on a really happy piece right now if that makes it any better. 

[eroticcensorship]

I’ll Let Someone In (peakbin) || switchblades and gym class || au by @hausofgreene

Inspired by the playlist i started using again by @coolstepdadkovic  (specifically the song Using by Sorority Noise) 

warnings: drug use (cocaine), abuse of prescription pills, talk of (vaguely) suicidal thoughts, and (if you squint) hinted abuse 

The sun has long since set, the sky an inky black above them, broken up by only a few splatters of stars. Together, they are stretched out in the backyard, grass damp under their backs. Joel’s arm is folded behind his head, the sleeve of his denim jacket soaking up the late night dew and keeping the blades of grass from tickling his neck. His other arm is down by his side, fingers curled up into Matt’s palm. They aren’t holding hands, not quite, just curling their fingers together.

They stare wordlessly at the sky for a long time, watching the blinking lights of airplanes mix with the stars. It’s cold and Joel is starting to shiver, but he makes no move to get up. Matt’s fingers twitch against his palm, a quick spasm, and Joel thinks Matt might be falling asleep. He glances over at the other boy, finds him still staring straight up, eyes tired but awake.

Joel returns his gaze to the sky. He takes a deep breath before he speaks, the words barely a whisper.

“I started using again.” Matt’s feet rustle the grass when he shifts, crosses one ankle over the other. He doesn’t make any indication that he’s heard Joel, but Joel keeps speaking anyway.

“We made so much progress, but. I couldn’t.” He swallows, licks his lips. “I couldn’t keep going home to him. I felt helpless, I felt weak. I felt sick. I couldn’t-” Joel cuts himself off, squeezes his eyes shut. Matt’s fingers twitch in his palm again. Joel relaxes his hand, and Matt intertwines their fingers. “I started using again,” he repeats, voice still no louder than a whisper. It’s the first time he’s admitted it, even to himself, that he’s gone back to his old ways, back to his vices. That the line is the bathroom wasn’t a one time thing, and that he was going to come back for another. And another.

The silence settles back over them, Joel’s words hanging above their heads like dull stars. He wishes a breeze would pick up, carry his admission away, but the air remains still.

“Me too.” Matt’s words catch him by surprise, and there is a long moment in which Joel thinks he’s imagined them. But then Matt is continuing, and Joel realizes this is the first time he’s heard Matt speak in days. 

“I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t stop thinking. I wanted- I don’t know what I wanted.” Matt fidgets, picks at Joel’s hand, his nails a dull scrape against Joel’s skin. “But I took a handful, and for the first time in weeks I slept all night. I woke up… happy?” He laughs humorlessly. “I didn’t feel like a burden.”

Matt’s nails dig particularly hard against his palm, and Joel gasps. He turns to look at Matt -  the older boy is still staring at the sky, but his eyes have gone glassy.

“I kept staring at that stupid, orange plastic bottle.” Joel watches as tears fall from the corner of Matt’s eye and roll down the side of his face. A sudden surge of unexpected guilt lances through his chest; there is so much about Matt Joel doesn’t know.

Matt stops talking for a long moment then, but his thumbnail keeps digging into the flesh of Joel’s palm, each pass harder than the last. Joel doesn’t think Matt realizes he isn’t picking at his own hand, but he is afraid to move, afraid to break whatever moment they have.

“I didn’t-.” Matt clears his throat, but doesn’t keep speaking. The words hang in the air, heavier than Joel’s had. Only then does Joel squeeze Matt’s hand. It breaks the moment, and Matt immediately digs into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes.

Joel’s palm is stinging from where Matt’s been scraping at the flesh, and Joel doesn’t realize he’s been crying until he turns his head back to the sky and feels them trail down the side of his face. He doesn’t say anything, just watches a shooting star streak across the sky as Matt lights the cigarette now hanging between his lips.

They lay in silence, passing the cigarette between them until it’s nothing but filter. They only move when Adam calls them in from the back door.

“Come inside you idiots, it’s freezing out here.”

Joel hadn’t realized he’d gone numb to the cold a long time ago.

They sit up, and Matt stubs out what’s left of his cigarette against his shoe before flicking it into the yard. (He knows Adam will grumble about it later, but he does it anyway.) Once they stand, Joel relaces their fingers together.

“I love you,” he whispers, head tilted toward Matt. He knows the words won’t magically make Matt better, but Joel still wants Matt to hear them.

Joel doesn’t know if Matt plans to say it back, but if he is, he’s cut off by Adam ushering them into the house. The warmth stings his skin as he steps through the doorway.

“Hot shower, then bed.” Adam drops a kiss to each of their heads. Joel is thankful that he doesn’t pry, simply lets his two boyfriends make their way toward the bathroom.

Matt turns on the water, doesn’t say anything when Joel shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot. He undresses and steps into the shower without looking behind him. He still says nothing when Joel joins him minutes later, the back of his hand rubbing against his nose.

They’ll let the others know in due time, but for now, Joel lets himself be guided under the spray of water.  

[eroticcensorship]

spovic || switchblades and gym class || au by @hausofgreene

I will never let you fall I'll stand up with you forever I'll be there for you through it all Even if saving you sends me to Heaven

[eroticcensorship]

James || switchblades and gym class || au by @hausofgreene

All you sinners stand up, sing hallelujah Show praise with your body Stand up, sing hallelujah And if you can't stop shaking, lean back Let it move right through ya  Say your prayers

[eroticcensorship]

bad boys blow smoke

switchblades and gym class au words: 1363 warnings: recreational drugs use (weed)  Pairing: Matt/Bruce/Sean, ot7 

Bruce and his boys hot-box his car. 

The front seats of Bruce’s Toyota are reclined as far back as they can go, and Bruce is laying on his stomach in the driver’s seat. He has Spoole and Matt in the back, pressed together in the middle of the bench seat. Bruce takes a hit from his pipe, a small, green affair made of blown-glass before passing both it and his lighter to Matt.

Bruce rolls onto his back, knees knocking the bottom of the steering wheel, smoke still held in his lungs. He rests his head on the headrest and blows rings of smoke up toward the roof of his car. He lets his eyes slip closed; he knows Spoole will tap him when the pipe makes its round back to him.

There is a moment filled only with giggles before Bruce hears the tell-tale sound of two mouths sliding together. Bruce is immediately sitting up and looking into the backseat. Matt and Spoole are leaned into each other, the hood of Spoole’s sweatshirt covering part of their faces. But Bruce recognizes the motion, recognizes the sound.

“Hey, hey,” Bruce rolls back onto his stomach and pushes himself up the seat and closer to his boyfriends. “‘S not fair,” he whines a little, catches the sleeve of Matt’s shirt and tugs until the pair pulls apart.

Matt turns to him, fixes him with a knowing smirk, and Bruce absolutely pouts. Then, Matt reaches across Spoole and picks up the previously forgotten pipe and lighter, and takes another hit. He sets them both down next to him on the seat before leaning forward to Bruce. Their top lips brush as Matt blows smoke into Bruce’s mouth.

Barely half of the smoke has left Matt’s mouth before Bruce is surging forward and sealing their lips in a real kiss. Smoke leaks from the seams of their joined mouths, and even more snakes up to the roof when Bruce licks into Matt’s mouth.

It’s Spoole’s turn to whine, already pushing himself to the edge of the bench seat. His fingers tangle in the sleeves of Bruce and Matt’s shirts, tugging just firmly enough to get their attention.

Bruce chuckles, swipes his tongue over Matt’s teeth one more time, stud clicking quietly.

He switches directions, presses a quick kiss to Spoole's lips and it earns him another whine.

“No, I want-” Spoole gets cut off with another chaste kiss. Then Bruce is turning away, stretching so he can grab the pipe next to Matt. Spoole seems to understand, and sits still, waiting. Bruce pulls himself up onto his knees and takes the biggest hit he can hold in his lungs. Grabbing both boys, he pulls them in, careful not to knock their heads together. When they are both close enough, Bruce slowly lets the smoke from his mouth, the pale grey fusing with the haze already filling the car.

Matt and Spoole both tilt their heads in, pulling in the smoke in smooth inhales, and Matt’s lips brush Bruce’s. Their noses are touching and Spoole is balancing himself with a hand on Bruce’s shoulder.

Spoole’s exhale has smoke billowing from his nose, back across his mouth and Bruce licks his own lips, catches Matt’s bottom lip on the pass. Bruce can feel Matt smile against his mouth. Matt swipes his tongue across Bruce’s lower lip in retaliation, quick and playful. Then, Spoole is pushing forward, forehead against Bruce’s, and suddenly it’s a mess of lips and tongue, everything tasting of weed and the barest hint of spearmint gum.

Spoole’s lip ring is body-warm against Matt’s lips when he turns slightly to the left. Bruce’s tongue stud clicks against teeth and sends shivers through his boys when he runs it slow and lazy over whoever’s lips he can reach. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated, but so, so good.

Spoole effectively breaks the kiss with a giggle, Matt’s fingers brushing against the back of his neck, feather light and tickly. Matt noses along Spoole’s cheek, nips at his jaw, earning more giggles and quiet happy noises. He pulls back Spoole’s hood to suck a mark right at the juncture of his jaw, and Spoole whimpers, fingers digging into Bruce’s shoulder where he's still balancing.

Bruce takes the opportunity to pull Spoole in closer (or as close as he can without pulling Spoole off of the bench seat). His tongue glides over teeth, back over Spoole's lower lip, and Spoole breathes out a little ah noise. Bruce catches his lower lip with his teeth, tugs on it gently, let’s it go, only to tug on Spoole’s lip ring in the same way.

“Bruce,” Spoole whimpers his ring slipping free from Bruce’s mouth. Bruce hums and wraps a hand around the base of his neck under the hoodie. Matt is still sucking hickeys into Spoole’s skin, in places that will be barely hidden by a flannel or sweatshirt. Spoole will pout about it in the morning, but right now he’s squirming happily, one hand on Bruce’s shoulder, the other interlaced with Matt’s.

Bruce runs a thumb across Spoole’s jaw and kisses him again. It's not often he gets Spoole like this, warm and pliant, and Bruce is going to take full advantage of it. He knee-walks further up the reclined seat, ignoring the slight creak it gives when he shifts his weight. Spoole leans farther into him - Matt moves with him, still pressing kisses into the skin of Spoole’s neck.

The kiss is lazy and slow, and Bruce’s world narrows to nothing but Spoole’s lips. Spoole is making little contented noises into his mouth, kiss occasionally broken by smiles and giggles. Bruce’s hands roam under Spoole’s hoodie, pipe completely forgotten as he trails up the smaller boy’s ribs, fingers a firm pressure.

Bruce’s fingers eventually run over Matt’s hand where he’s holding onto Spoole’s hip. Bruce pulls away from Spoole’s mouth, chuckles only a little when Spoole follows.

“Matt.” Bruce’s voice is a little rough, but he doesn’t clear his throat, just waits for Matt to lift his head. Their eyes meet and wordlessly, Matt is leaning over Spoole to kiss Bruce. Matt’s lips are more chapped than Spoole’s, but they are warm and plush.

Bruce is about to pull Spoole into another messy three-way kiss when a knock on the car window has the trio jumping apart. Bruce leans back to wipe away the condensation that settled over the windows. Through the newly cleared patch he can see Adam smirking down at him. He watches as Adam signs ‘dinner’, still smirking. (They had all picked up a little bit of ASL to help Matt on his worst days.)

“Food,” Bruce says, already reaching forward to pick up his pipe, tuck it back in the case he had thrown into the passenger seat. The flush from being caught is still high on both Matt and Spoole’s cheeks, but they nod enthusiastically. Bruce leans into the backseat to give each of his boyfriends a quick kiss.

The cloud of smoke that billows out when they open the doors is comically large.

“Worked up an appetite, I see,” Adam chides. Bruce catches him around the waist, presses their mouths together, off center and crooked. “Come on, the others are waiting.”

When the boys at the table catch sight of Adam leading three incredibly stoned boys in behind him, they can’t help but smirk.

“And where were you?” James asks even though he already knows the answer.

“Celebrating weed’s birthday,” Spoole supplies with a barely suppressed giggle. James laughs, but opens his arms for Spoole to come sit in his lap anyway. Spoole goes happy, climbing into James’ lap with ease.

They all sit down, for once all of them present at the dinner table.

“Now, who wants to say grace?” Bruce asks, also barely suppressing giggles. James throws a fork at him, intentionally sending it over his head. Bruce makes an over-exaggerated kissy-face in response, which makes James smile.

The dinner is filled with Matt and Bruce playing footsie under the table and Joel and James practically hand-feeding Spoole. Adam and Lawrence exchange small smiles over their water glasses, but say nothing, content to just watch their boys be ridiculous.

[eroticcensorship]

yo, when I get back from my interview, I’ll have fluff to give you in order to make up for all of the pain I’ve caused recently. 

[eroticcensorship]

too far gone (to change for anyone)

switchblades and gym class au words: 2391 warnings: violence, implied child abuse, a lot of blood, self-destructive behavior, emotional pain

Bruce makes a mistake 

Bruce had plans this weekend - the first baseball game of the season on Friday, Joel’s dance recital on Saturday, celebrating Adam’s birthday on Sunday - and now, all of it was effectively down the drain. One of his coworkers called out for the weekend - Bruce honestly wasn’t listening to the reason - and now he was expected to pick up shifts that, of course, conflicted with his plans. He had agreed with gritted teeth, because he needed this money (and he already had a strike on his record, and honestly couldn’t afford another one).

His voice echoes through the garage, harsh fucks slamming into to walls and floor and bouncing back at him. Bruce fists a hand into his hair, tugs sharply and yells again.

“Fuck!” He kicks a paint can, sends a flood of pale blue paint across the floor and half across a folded up tarp. “Motherfucker!” He kicks it again, makes the mess even bigger, finds a modicum of satisfaction in watching the paint slide over the cracked cement. It’s not enough though, and he’s whirling around to find something else to take his anger out with.

His hand is still in his hair, pulling at the strands. He can’t help it when he screams, primal and tearing at the back of throat. The frustration is thick in his blood, making him itchy, hot - and he needs to get out of the garage.

Bruce starts to storm out of the garage ignoring the paint still spreading across the floor. He decides he’s going to find Adam. Adam’s always good for a fight (or a fuck), he’ll bruise Bruce, make him bleed. Honestly, it sounds like the most appealing thing right now.

He’s almost to the door that leads back into the house when it cracks open, a very timid looking Spoole stepping out from behind it. Bruce’s steps falter for just a moment. If he was level-headed, he’d notice how much Spoole’s fingers are trembling where he wrings them together in front of his chest.

“What’s wrong?” Spoole’s voice is so soft, almost a whisper. Every fiber of of Bruce’s being wants to scream, shout back ‘everything’ but he can’t, not to the small, sweet boy in front of him. Instead, he shakes his head, teeth gritted, every muscle flexed in hopes it will help mitigate some of the anger.

“Can I help?” Spoole asks, voice wavering. He’s afraid to meet Bruce’s eyes, focuses instead on the worn toes of his shoes. He hates when Bruce gets angry like this, hates the yelling - it reminds him too much of his own house. But he wants Bruce to be happy, so he swallows down as much fear as he can. 

“No.” The word comes out through tight lips, Bruce straining to keep his anger in check. The frustration is still burning through him, making his fingers tingle. He pulls at his hair again.

Spoole blinks up at him for a brief second, sees the fire in Bruce’s eyes, and Spoole wants to run, to find somewhere on the exact opposite side of the house and hide away until the storm has passed. He swallows against the sour taste in his mouth.

Bruce wants to tell Spoole that there’s nothing he can do to help, not right now, but the fire is spreading up his arms, across his chest, filling his lungs; even his face feels so hot, and the words won’t come. He’s about to push past Spoole and into the house, will apologize for it later, but Spoole is speaking again, words so soft and quiet, almost drowned out by the roaring starting to fill his ears.

“Please, I want to hel-” It’s the last straw for Bruce, and he doesn’t want to, but he’s cutting Spoole off with hard words and flurry of motions.

“I said no,” Bruce yells, his fist making contact with the drywall next to Spoole's head before he can even blink. He punches through it easily, making a ragged hole in a flurry of dust.

He reels back with the intention to swing again, make the hole bigger, but he catches sight of Spoole, and suddenly he feels sick.

The smaller boy is curled on the floor of the garage, arms over his face. There is drywall dust settling across his arms, and he’s shaking. Bruce slowly lowers his fist back to his side, all of  the heat sapped from his body.  His throat tightens as words spill from Spoole’s mouth in a mantra, a prayer. A plea.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I-I'm so sorry, I’m s-sorry,”

Bruce takes a slow step forward, reaches out to Spoole but doesn’t make contact. His chest feels tight, his stomach as heavy as lead.

“Sean?” At the sound of Bruce’s voice, he flinches, curls into himself tighter, knees to his chest and his head down.

“No, I won't – I'm sorry. S-sorry. I won't – I,” His  mantra changes a little, quickly turning into muffled gibberish as his voice gets faster, more frantic, more desperate. Bruce doesn't know what to do, his only thought is I did this, and he can’t stomach himself. He backs away from Spoole, can’t take his eyes off the trembling boy even as he’s backing toward the side door of the garage.

Bruce leaves without another word, closes the garage door with a click.

It's already dark out when Bruce finally parks his car.He’d been driving on autopilot and after a quick look around, he realizes he’s at one of his go-to bars. It’s one of his favorites: the booze is cheap, the bartenders don’t card, and there is always someone willing to throw punches.

He ends up in the back alley, cigarette dangling from his mouth as he shoves some guy twice his size. He has whisky and nicotine on his breath and his hands on this guy’s chest, urging him to throw the first punch. It takes exactly two hardy shoves before Bruce gets what he wants.

He gets sucker punched in the nose, feels and hears the tell-tale crack of broken cartilage and the sudden wave of heat as blood gushes out of his nostrils. He licks his lips, tastes pennies. Bruce realizes he’s lost his cigarette when he wipes his face with the back of his hand. The gesture is useless and Bruce only makes a bigger mess of his face.

“Fuck you,” he spits out, a blood-mist spattering from his mouth. It earns him a punch to the temple. He goes stumbling back into the brick wall of the bar, and his head hits the wall hard enough that he blacks out in one eye and his ears ring.

“Pussy!” Bruce yells, loud enough to be heard over the ringing in his own ears. The guy gets him in the stomach, sends him sliding down the wall. Bruce receives a hard kick to his ribs before he can slur out any more insults. Then the guy is gone, disappearing back into the bar.

Bruce stays against the wall for what feels like hours, clutching his side and trying not to swallow too much blood when he breathes in.

He sleeps in his car that night, parked down the street from his old house. (As he had killed the engine, Bruce’s only thought was Are you proud of me now, mom?) He wakes up with the sun, dried blood coating his face and his steering wheel. He resets his nose in the rearview mirror of his car, soaks up the fresh waves of blood with his already soiled shirt. He wipes down his face with a packet of baby wipes he finds in the trunk. There’s nothing he can do about the bruising under his eyes, can only scowl at his reflection.

Bruce drinks gas station coffee, ignores the stares of the old lady buying lotto tickets, and goes to his morning shift at the art supply store. He had an extra uniform in his trunk as well, but his shoes are still covered in his own blood. If his manager notices, he doesn’t say anything.

After work, he changes back into his dirty clothes, tosses his uniform back into his trunk and finds one of Lawrence’s old wooden baseball bats. He drives to one of the abandoned buildings he used to frequent, and with the baseball bat and a half-empty handle of vodka that was also in his trunk, Bruce takes out what’s left of the buildings windows.

Bruce ends up with busted knuckles from punching through one of the last panes. He sleeps in his car again.  

He’s lost track of the week, time only marked out in cycles of work and drinking. He only knows he’s been gone for days before he tries sneaking back into Basecamp. He parks his car on the street instead of the driveway a few hours before sunrise. Bruce figures he’ll have the best chance that none of the boys will be awake at this hour. (He stopped referring to them as his boys somewhere in the first two days.)

Bruce only wants to grab backpack with a few changes of clothes, his other work uniform and the almost full pack of cigarettes he knows he left on the top of his dresser.

He goes through the front door instead of the garage door, because he knows it’s quieter - won’t rattle the metal garage door when he closes it.

Bruce is just turning around, the front door clicking closed behind him, when Bruce gets sucker punched in the face. For the second time that week, Bruce hears the crack of cartilage, and the warmth of blood as it flows down his face. He blinks, eyes adjusting to the dark of the house. As soon as his vision stops swimming, Bruce sees a very pissed off Adam standing in front of him, nose to broken nose.

“What the fuck, Kovic?” A bit of blood splatters across Adam's face, but neither of them acknowledge it.

“Shut up, Greene. You're lucky I didn't change the fucking locks while you were gone. Where the fuck were you?” With a closer look, Bruce notices that Adam's face is tear-stained and the bags under his eyes are so dark, like he hasn't slept since Bruce left. But his jaw is set in a hard line.

Bruce sets his jaw to match and shrugs. He's trying to cling to the anger he felt at being punched in the nose, but seeing how torn up Adam is - his thin facade already crumbling - has Bruce’s chest tightening.

“Out,” he replies, but his eyes don’t meet Adam’s.

“Out? You were out?” Adam shouts, voice wavering. Bruce doesn't need to look to know there are  tears gathering in Adam's eyes, about to spill over. “For four days,” There must not be anyone else home, because Adam isn’t trying to keep his voice down. “You were out!” He's crying now, Bruce knows, but he still can't bring himself to look.

“Do you know what you did?” Bruce can feel the tears welling in his own eyes and snot is starting to gather in his still bleeding nose. “Did you know that while you were out, Spoole hasn't been here? Lawrence took him to his house. Because Spoole wouldn't stop shaking, telling everyone how sorry he was. He hasn't been to school, he's barely spoken to any of us, Bruce. Did you know that?”

The tears are hot against his face, and Bruce wants to wipe them away, but he can't make his arms move from his sides. He still can't look at Adam, eyes locked on the now-blurry image of his own art hung in the hallway.

“Did you Bruce?” Adam’s words are almost sobs, nearing close to hysterics. “We could have fixed it, we always fix it. But you ran away! You left him!” Bruce closes his eyes, can feel his jaw trembling. He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything, just lets Adam scream in his face. “You left him, Bruce!” His eyes squeeze shut tighter. “Fucking look at me!” Adam's voice is hysterical now, high and tight. It feels like a knife in his chest, and he opens his eyes, blinks away as many of the tears blurring his vision as he can.

“Why did you leave, Bruce?” The words are a little calmer, but Adam's breath is ragged and the tears are still falling.

“I-” Bruce sniffles, gets a mouth full of blood and snot for it, swallows it with a cringe. He shakes his head. “It's not like you came looking for me.” It’s the wrong thing to say, Bruce knows, but the guilt and anxiety and everything else that’s built up in his head has them spilling out before he can stop them.

The emotions that flash through Adam's eyes feels like someone is twisting the knife in his chest.

“We did come looking for you, Bruce. For two days we looked. No one could find you. James even checked in at the store, and when your manager said you were still coming in to work-” Adam squeezes his eyes shut, draws in a ragged breath.

“I thought - we thought - you were gone. For good.” Adam’s mouth falls open in a sob. “All the times you've walked out-  I thought...” He sobs again, shoulders shaking. “I didn't think you were coming back this time.”

Adam looks so broken and Bruce wants to pull him into his arms, nuzzle his bloody face into Adam's hair, tell him it's okay, that he's here now. But he doesn't know if he's allowed to.

“Four days, Bruce,”Adam whimpers. He looks like he can barely stand with how hard he’s sobbing. Whatever resolves Bruce had to just stand there and take his verbal punishment is gone. He's wrapping Adam in his arms, pulling the other boy to his chest. Bruce knows he's getting blood and mucus in Adam's hair, knows it's smearing everywhere he touches his face.Adam clings to his shirt, face pressed tightly against the dirty fabric.

“I hate you. I fucking hate you,” Adam mumbles into Bruce's shirt, voice muffled. Bruce just hugs him tighter, lets Adam cry and hiccup and sniffle. Bruce lays his face across the top of Adam’s head and holds his as securely as he can.

“I hate me too.”

[eroticcensorship]

Your Spoole fic was everything I needed i life, you are an outstanding writer!

oh my gOD ANON I AM SCREAMING. PLease, let me squish your face. I love you!

[eroticcensorship]

that damn fic has me thinking about how much joel would want the same thing, to live with rose or peake, but his father has so much power in their community that he knows it's impossible and so he focuses on being happy for sean without thinking too hard about how good it would be to have the same option :(

ouch. just… ouch. 

Joel throws himself into his dancing to take his mind off of it. (He can’t help how often his mind will drift to the baggie he has stashed in the medicine cabinet as Basecamp. But he promised Spoole, and no matter how frustrated and upset he is, he promised.) 

He throws every emotion into his dance, every raw feeling of anger or envy, every ounce of hatred for his father. He leaves it all on the floor of the practice room. Joel pushes until his muscles burn and his head throbs, and he can’t keep moving, and then he does anyway, only stopping when his legs give out from underneath him. 

He collapses onto the hardwood with a thud, can barely hold his torso up with his hands. That’s when Spoole crawls from the corner where he had been watching, lip caught between his teeth. He rests a hand on Joel’s shoulder, grimaces only slightly with how slick with sweat the skin is. 

“I love you, Joel.” It’s soft, almost a question, like he can tell this is somehow his fault. It hurts Joel’s heart, because he doesn’t want to frustrated with Spoole, doesn’t want to be angry at the things Spoole has, because he deserves to be happy, to be safe. 

But the envy leaves a sour taste in his mouth, because it’s not fair that Spoole gets to live with Rose and he still has to go home to his cold house with a calloused father. And he’s still a ways away from eighteen, can’t just move out without repercussions.

He swallows, grits his teeth. 

“I love you too, Sean.” And it’s not a lie, will never be a lie, but Joel is just so frustrated. 

He lets Spoole press their foreheads together in the stuffy dance room. They stay like that until the sweat on his skin has started to dry and his legs have started to go numb. 

“I love you too.” 

[eroticcensorship]

the iv and your hospital bed (this was no accident)

switchblades and gym class au by @hausofgreene words: 3265 warnings: descriptions of violence and child abuse, single use of an anti-gay slur, hospital stay, general angst

His hands are shaking when he tells his parents he’s moving out. He mentions the others, doesn't refer to them as his boyfriends or his lovers, or his anything, but he knows his step-father reads into the context.

It's on the second kick to his ribs when Spoole hears the tell-tale crack of a broken bone. He tries to curl tighter into a ball, to protect his chest with his knees, but his step-father is a large man, and he easily pushes Spoole's knees away with the side of his foot.

Eric squats down, leans in close enough that his sour breath washes over Spoole's face.

“I bet you wish your faggoty friends were here now, huh Sean?”

Spoole tries not to react, even when he hears more than feels his step-father spit on his face. Eric stands, gives Spoole one last brutal kick to the stomach, before he's leaving the room, leaving Spoole curled on the floor, breath coming in gasps.

His chest hurts, tight and throbbing in time with his frantic heartbeat, and Spoole is shaking so violently. His face is already so hot - from the pain, from the tears, that he doesn't notice the added warmth of the blood pooling at the corner of his mouth. The metallic taste is so commonplace that Spoole doesn't dwell on it, his sole focus on digging into his pocket without causing himself too much additional pain.

He knows he can't talk - it hurts to draw in anything more than a shallow breath - so Spoole does his best to fish out his cellphone and type out a quick text. He’s thankful his most recent contact is Adam, because Spoole doesn't know if he could search through his contacts right now. He manages a quick ‘home need help’ before he's dropping his phone to the floor and curling in on himself again.

~~~

The drive to Spoole's house takes ten minutes. Adam makes it in five, his heart hammering in his throat.

He doesn't bother knocking, favoring instead to throw the front door open. The knob hits the opposite wall with a bang.

Adam doesn't know what he expected, but what he sees has his stomach twisting up into his throat to join his heart.

He can see Spoole curled against the wall on the far end of the living room. Adam is at his side in seconds, gently pulling to him. The whimper that slips past Spoole’s lips is heartbreaking.

“Hey, I’m here, Adam’s here,” Adam coos, wiping away the blood at the corner of Spoole’s mouth with his thumb. “What happened?” Adam thinks he already knows.

“Eric,” Spoole mumbles, eyes downcast.

“Can you stand?” Adam asks, but he's already hooking his arms under Spoole. When the smaller boy shakes his head, Adam scoops him up bridal style. Spoole lets his head rest on Adam’s chest as Adam carries him to the car.

The whole drive to the hospital, Adam is torn between driving fast and driving smooth.

~~~

Unlike Spoole, Adam is over 18, legally an adult. The hospital nurses don't bat an eye when Adam lies about Spoole’s parents being out of town. It doesn't matter because Adam is his first emergency contact anyway. (Besides, it's gotten to the point where the overnight nurses know both of them.)

~~~

While Spoole is being x-rayed, Adam calls Bruce. He had left Basecamp in a flurry; he isn't even sure he locked the front door.

Bruce picks up on the first ring.

“Hey, where are you? I came home and the house was empty, no note. I texted you…” Bruce sounds so worried already.

“I’m at the hospital.” Adam runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

“What the fuck? Adam are you okay?” Adam can hear the jingle of keys, like Bruce might already be heading to his car.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I, I had to pick up Spoole. He-” Adam cuts himself off, swallows around a suddenly dry mouth.

“Is he okay? What happened?”

“What do you think happened?” Adam tries to keep his voice hushed so he doesn't give anything away to the passing by nurses.

“I’m coming down there. I have to come down there, Spoole-”

“He’s in x-rays right now, we don't even know what's wrong yet.” Adam scrubs at his face with his free hand.

“What’s wrong is his step father is a piece of shit and-”

“They think it's a broken rib at least. Bare minimum, he’ll be kept overnight. I'll let you know when they move him to a room. Just,” Adam swallows again, clears his throat. “Just stay at Basecamp. Tell the rest of the boys. I’ll stay in touch okay.”

He can hear Bruce sigh over the phone, followed by the sound of Bruce's keys hitting the kitchen counter.

“Yeah, okay.”

~~~

The diagnosis is two broken ribs resulting in a punctured lung. Four hours later, Spoole is settled into his own room, hooked up to a morphine drip and countless machines.

Spoole is drifting in and out of sleep, and Adam thinks he looks so young when his eyes slip shut.

“You should get some sleep,” Adam says, voice low and soft as he runs a hand gently through Spoole’s hair.

“Wanna see them,” Spoole croaks, eyes still half shut. Adam cards his fingers through Spoole’s hair again and let's him drift into a light sleep.

Then he calls Bruce.

~~~

Twenty minutes later, Bruce arrives with Joel. As soon as they’re through the doorframe, Joel is rushing to Spoole’s side. Adam watches as Bruce takes a single step into the room before he freezes, takes in the sight of Spoole, tiny and fragile against the pale blue hospital sheets. He angrily wipes away the tears forming in his eyes.

Joel curls his fingers gently around Spoole’s, not quite holding his hand. He runs a thumb across his knuckles when he speaks.

“Sean?” Joel’s voice is quiet, but Spoole’s lashes flutter against his cheek and his eyes blink open. “Sean, baby.” Then, Joel’s laying barely there kisses across Spoole's cheek, avoiding the worst of the bruising. Spoole smiles, small and tired.

Adam makes his way to Bruce, gets an arm across his shoulder. They lean against each other in silent support.

“I told him I was moving out after graduation.” Bruce and Adam whip their heads around to look at Spoole. “That I was going with you,” Spoole is looking at Adam, but they all know he's referring to all of his boys. “He-” Spoole tries to take a deep breath, shudders from the pain and let's it out with a stuttering breath. Joel’s fingers tighten marginally around his.  He tries again, inhales just enough. “He didn't like that.”

“Baby,” Joel's voice is soft and delicate in his ear, and Spoole thinks it must be what angels sound like.

“I'm gonna kill him.”

Spoole flinches at Bruce's too loud words, turns his face to Joel's, rests their foreheads together and tries to get lost in the hazel of his eyes.

“I'm gonna fucking kill him. The fucking worthless piece of shit,” Bruce is ripping himself out of Adam’s grip, suddenly pacing in in the narrow space of the room. His muscles are tense, like he could throw a punch at any moment.

“Bruce, please.” Adam is there, hands against Bruce's chest to halt him. He tips his head toward Spoole and Joel, pauses long enough that Bruce can hear Joel whisper, “We love you, Sean. We love you so much. We’re so proud of you,” over and over into Spoole's ear.

“Some things take priority.”

~~~

James and Matt arrive an hour later, and it's only Joel left in the room with Spoole. (Adam had taken Bruce to blow off some steam, and Spoole let them go only after they had each pressed a kiss to his forehead.)

Spoole is sleeping, but Joel can't help but run his fingers over the exposed skin of Spoole's arms and hands - across the fresh bruising around his wrist from being grabbed and thrown, the old bruising across his upper arm, peaking out from under the hospital gown, the vertical row of three cigarette burns across his inner arm, the scars from the stitches he got around his elbow. It's all from a mish-mash of abuse and just being a reckless kid, and it makes Joel so sad.

James sets his jaw when he sees his two tiny boyfriends. His fingers flex against the denim of his jeans, and he's frozen in place. Matt squeezes his eyes shut, hating the feeling in his stomach he gets from seeing Spoole like this. Joel can tell he's biting the inside of his cheek.

“Bruce texted us right after Adam called. Sorry it took us so long to get here.” James tries to be quiet, but at the sound of his voice, Spoole blinks his eyes open. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to focus, but when he sees James, Spoole leans forward as far as the cords and wires and pain in his abdomen will allow.

“James!” He reaches out for a hug, and James goes to him easily. He's all too aware of the ice pack across Spoole's ribs, of the breathing tube, and the iv in his arm. James wants nothing more than to scoop him up and hold him tight, but he knows he can't, not right now.

James pulls away, helps Spoole lay back against the bed. He presses a kiss to Spoole's forehead, making Spoole giggle then wince.

James steps back, just enough that Spoole can see Matt still standing in the doorway of the room, his eyes now open.

“Matty,” His arms go out again, but he doesn't sit up, already exhausted. But Matt doesn't move, just furrows his brow, says nothing.

“M-Matt?” Spoole slowly lowers his arms, and there are tears pricking at his eyes, the pain medication making him easily overwhelmed. Matt closes his eyes again, and he's shaking his head, feets still stuck in the same spot.

“Matty?” And Spoole's voice is so high, breaking around the name in his mouth. Matt shudders at the sound, but he can’t gets his feet to move. Spoole doesn't know why his boyfriend won't acknowledge him, can only do his best to stop his brain from supplying the worst answers.

Matt is still shaking his head, tears starting to slip out from under his closed lids.

“Hey, Sheriff,” James tries - he knows Matt hates that nickname - but there's no response. “Peake?” he notices the trembling in Matt's hands where they’re fisted at his sides.

Matt is suddenly enveloped in James' arms, his face pressed against the broad chest. “He's okay, he's okay.” James repeats into his hair and Matt finds himself nodding, tears still rolling down his cheeks and soaking into James' shirt. “But he needs you right now.” Matt nods again, and James pulls away, uses his thumbs to wipe away the tears.

James' hand on his back guides him to the bedside. Joel is still tracing nonsensical patterns into Spoole’s skin, and Matt leans over them both, cups Spoole’s jaw carefully with one hand and kisses him slow and sweet.

“I love you,” Matt says against his lips, voice hoarse and cracked. Spoole doesn't care what he sounds like, just that he’s here. He kisses Matt back with everything he can.

Later, when it's just Matt and Spoole (Joel and James having been called home for the night), Matt taps out a text on his phone.

'I never want to lose you, Sean. You mean the world to me.'

Spoole’s phone buzzes on the side table, and he pulls it into his lap to read it.

“I know.” Spoole manages to squeeze Matt’s hand as he reads the text. “I know.”

~~~

The next morning, Spoole wakes up to light coming in from the windows and the faint smell of what Spoole can only call home. Matt is asleep in the chair next to the bed, head tucked into his knees. Spoole wants to reach out and touch his face, but Matt's on his bad side, and right now it hurts to breathe too heavily, let alone move.

“Good morning, sweetpea.” The voice startles Spoole, and he's rushing to sit up and look for the source of the words. He winces at the pain the shoots through his chest.

“No need to rush,” Rose Sonntag stands from her chair, steps toward the bed, and Spoole already has his arms outstretched.

“Mamma!” Spoole wants to bounce in excitement, but the pain has him sitting stock still as Rose wraps him in her arms. He sags into her embrace and rests his face against her shirt.

“I'm here, Sean.” Spoole lets himself be held for what feels like eternity. Rose smells like earth and lavender and love. And Spoole never wants to let go. He doesn't realize he's crying until Rose finally pulls away and there is a wet patch on her shoulder where his face had been.

“S-sorry,” Spoole hangs his head and wipes at his eyes.

“Don't be sorry, sweetpea. You've been through quite a lot.” Her smile is warm and reassuring and Spoole finds himself nodding. He looks around the room again – Matt is still asleep in the chair next to him, but other than Rose there is no one else in the room. Just as Spoole opens his mouth, Rose is already answering.

“I sent Lawrence down to get breakfast. He should be back any minute now.”

~~~

Lawrence comes in around ten minutes later. Rose is knitting quietly in her chair, humming something mostly to herself. Spoole is sitting up whispering to a tired looking Matt, their hands interlaced across Spoole's thigh.

“Spoole! You're awake!” Lawrence all but bounds towards the bed, has to remind himself to be gentle because Spoole is still so, so fragile. He stops himself at the bedframe, and he can't help but smile. Because while Spoole might be lying in a hospital with two broken ribs and a breathing tube in his nose, he's alive.

Lawrence reaches out slowly and brushes his knuckles against Spoole's cheek. “I love you,” he says.

“Love you too, Larr.” Lawrence smiles and presses a kiss into Spoole’s hair.

~~~

“When do you think he'll be out of the hospital?” Lawrence is standing at the stove, helping his mother make dinner.

“Only a few more days, I think. I talked to a few of the nurses during my shift last night, they said his lung is looking good, they’re just waiting on it being able to stay inflated on its own.”

“So they'll send him home?”

Rose hums as she steps around her son toward the spice cabinet. “Yes. They'll prescribe some painkillers for his ribs, give him a set of instructions on what he can and cannot do until he's all healed up. He'll have a check up here and there. Standard procedure.”

“They can't send him home, Mamma.” Rose settles her son with a look. Lawrence runs a hand through his hair. “Did he tell the doctors what happened?” He asks, hand still at the back of his head.

“His files say he slammed into a piece of railing at the skatepark.”

Lawrence let's out a long rush of air, pushes his glasses up to press his palms to his eyes.

“It was his step-dad. Same at the cigarette burns, same at the chipped tooth, same as the black eye. All his step-dad,” Lawrence says, unsure of why he's telling his mother all of this. “He can't go home, Mamma.”

Rose straightens to her full height, lifts her chin and meets her son's eyes. “Well, he won't go home then. He'll come stay here.”

“You mean it?” At Rose's nod, Lawrence has her in his arms, lifting her off the ground in a hug.

“Now Blackbird,” Lawrence feels his face flush at the nickname – his mother used to call his father the same thing. “The stew isn't going to stir itself.”

“Yes, Mamma.” He sets Rose back on her feet, but bends his knees a little so she can reach up and press a kiss to his cheek.

~~~

The day he's set to be discharged, Spoole can't stop his hands from shaking. When the nurses ask if anything is wrong, Spoole simply fakes a smile and lies.

“I'm just excited to go home. I get shaky when I'm excited.” The nurse returns his smile.

“I bet you miss your parents.”

Spoole swallows, his hands trembling that much worse. He doesn't think he can lie about that. He nods his head anyway. “Yeah, I really miss my Mamma.”

~~~

One of the nurses presses a written prescription into his hand with instructions to have it filled that afternoon. Then he's being helped into a wheelchair and taken down the hall to the elevator.

“Your parents are waiting for you downstairs.” Spoole is glad the nurse can't see the dread on his face; he doesn't think he can come up with an excuse for it. When the elevator doors slide open, Spoole doesn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this.

By the front desk stand Rose and Sergeant Peake. Rose sees him immediately and is already making her way over. Spoole can only describe her motion as gliding. Sergeant Peake follows close behind.

“Are you Sean's parents?” The nurse asks sweetly.

Rose nods easily. “Joel, sweetheart,” she calls behind her and Joel is leaning out from around a corner. Spoole thinks his smile might split his face. Joel is quick to be by Spoole's side. He thinks for a moment that Joel and Rose could be related by the grace with which they move.

Joel moves to take over the nurse’s position behind the wheelchair.

“Alright, goodbye Sean. And take care of yourself.” The nurses rubs her hand on Spoole's shoulder.

“Thank you,” Spoole murmurs. Then the nurse is returning to the elevators and Joel is pushing him out the doors to the loading section. Where the surprises continue.

Leaning against Rose's car are the rest of his boys. Spoole feels the laughter bubble in his chest, and it only hurts a little bit.

Spoole immediately stands, would run to his boys if he could. Instead he walks as fast as the dull ache in his side will allow. Then he's being gathered up, into whose arms he can't say. He just knows that everything smells like cigarette smoke and Adam's laundry detergent, and that smells just as much like home as Mamma S does.

Spoole doesn't realize he's crying until there are fingers gently wiping his tears.

“We're taking you home,” Adam's voice is clear amongst all the muttering.

~~~

'Home' turns out not to be Basecamp, but instead the Sonntag residence. That in itself isn't the biggest surprise. The surprise is the suitcases by the kitchen counter that Spoole recognizes as his own.

Before Spoole can ask the question, Rose is answering. (Sometimes Spoole thinks she's an actual mind-reader.)

“You won't be going back to that house if we can help it. So, we brought some of your things here. Adam and Bruce are... working on the rest.” She isn't exactly happy with the boys’ proclivity for breaking and entering, but sometimes less than savory behavior is necessary.

Spoole has his arms around Rose so quickly, and she’s hugging him back. It hurts his ribs a bit, and he knows he's crying into her shirt, but he's so unbelievably happy, that he doesn't care.  

“Thank you, Mamma,” Spoole mumbles into her shirt, and Rose simply rubs his back.

“Of course, sweetpea. Of course.”

[eroticcensorship]

oh man, i know you asked for painful fluff, but i might have gone hard on the pain. like real hard on the pain.

[eroticcensorship]

I have a handful of sbgc wips on my drive, and I don’t know what to work on next. So what are you guys in the mood for: pain (available in multiple flavors), fluff (in surprisingly less flavors), or kinda-sorta smut? 

[hausofgreene]

is all of them not an option…?

[eroticcensorship]

I mean, I could cook up painful, smutty fluff. I'd just prefer to finish something I've already started. ;)

[eroticcensorship]

I have a handful of sbgc wips on my drive, and I don’t know what to work on next. So what are you guys in the mood for: pain (available in multiple flavors), fluff (in surprisingly less flavors), or kinda-sorta smut? 

[hausofgreene]

I'm curious: we all mention the bedrooms (mostly the master) but I'm assuming Adam does have(or had) his own room. Does it still look like a teenagers room?

hello my tiny one! the answer can be simplified to: yeah of course. but I’m assuming you want something longer, so here.

Sam and Jackie had bought the three bedroom house for two reasons: They were going to need an office, and a nursery, and neither of them wanted to try and cram a desk into a living room or a baby into their bedroom. 

When Sam got promoted, got his own office with plenty of space to bring stuff in from home, they downgraded their office to accommodate a smaller desk and a double bed for guests. 

As Adam grew up, his room changed from soft soothing colors to a muted grey wall, getting covered in band and movie posters like all teenage rooms do. They let him throw up fairy lights, get dark curtains when he started sleeping in more, upgraded his twin mattress to a bigger one for his growing body.

The master bedroom still held their charm, the brocade wallpaper in soft mint and cream, the off white carpet and their furniture. The king sized bed was the best part, could cram all of their boys in there if they needed to (and often did), and the sheets his parents used to use are shoved safely in a box.

In conclusion yes, his old room still looks like his room, but he’s rarely there anymore. Most of the time it’s two or three of his boys sharing it, usually Sean and Joel, who find the soft lighting and heavy blankets to be something like a safe haven.