𝚍𝚘 𝚒 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚎 ?

let us go then, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢, when the evening is 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 against the sky like a patient 𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙯𝙚𝙙 upon a table;

[toastandfruit]

rightreaction‌:

closed — @teatwosugars​

HE HAD SEEN BUDDY in dreams that moved like syrup and blossomed like splitting wounds. yep, buddy was there in the lines of finn’s knuckles after all this time, like streams, like ribbon, only to be pulled and scraped off clean ready again for the night following, then the one after that, and after that  — oh, and that wednesday afternoon, napping at mum’s, too. just passing through. that was a good one. it’s worse in that bedroom, you know? or maybe worse is the wrong word. it’s pleasant in the same way seeing someone you aren’t fond of getting decked clean in the mug; hey, shame we had to resort to violence but, can’t say i’m not recording the crack of your nose. and the form was great, too, nice straight wrist. it’s a great big mucky dream of how’d i get here? and buddy’s presence is violence posing as beauty, or maybe not, because he is beautiful, that’s true  —  finn thinks about the bridge of buddy’s nose sat on the bench in his prep room. not bad this time  — towels, thank fuck, clean ones. oh, and a mini fridge. buddy’s nose is small like his hands, like his tolerance for the unextraordinary. like the time in between desperate meeting mouths, gateways for murmurs. what the fuck were they ever saying? finn can’t recall now  —  the fridge is leaking. it’s splattering on dull, imperfect, grey concrete. making it dark. looks like paint. the walls are brick painted white, big wide brick. buddy is pale and fine like a pearl. like the ones on that fucking horrid mermaid statue his ma had picked up on a cruise passing the cayman islands. finn looks up when the door creaks open and thinks, rude. 

it ain’t rude for long. “hey, uh,” not his manager. it’s an older looking gentleman with a blue collared shirt. looks like a dad, like he shouldn’t be working here. finn wonders if he has kids. “..your boy’s back.” the man’s mouth opens like he had something more to say, but he only nods and leaves. probably wise. finn breathes out with the click of the door, allowing himself to slouch. so, he had seen him. he had been on edge since he won, since he stepped off, since he smiled quick and wet with sweat, and got out of there so fast. finn’s near numb when he reaches for his phone, on a small wooden table, next to his smokes. he should smoke after this, yes. he’d like to smoke with buddy. 

“hey, uh, buddy’s there? …  send him in. no  —  yeah, i’m good. swear it, mate. send him in. alright. yeah. alright, buh-bye.” he would be seeing rick later that night, schedule stuff  —  but hopefully he’ll be seeing buddy first. 

narrow hallways had always made buddy nervous - or more so diligent, aware. he didn’t ever like to admit that he was nervous, but that didn’t mean he never was. few people would’ve picked up on the way his eyes glazed over peeling peach paint with an inclination toward the odd. finn would. not the thinly starch-pressed man who click-clacked a few steps behind him like a strangely accommodating ghost. he looked like a dad. buddy hated dads. he sniffed, as if to say, i’d fucking hate to be one of your kids, followed ‘round like this. he wasn’t sure that starchman would pick that up. finn would. the thought made him smile and fall into step with the poor bloke, stealing his rhythm and throwing him off it completely; was it ethical to pickpocket the gait of the man delivering him to the gates of heaven ? he didn’t have time to pick apart the muddled thought before a door, no pearly gate, was pushed open, and his newly polished shoes were toe to toe with a threshold that looked more like splintered wood than fluffy cloud.

“ hello. “

he remembered himself. finn always did that, his presence always did that. he was suddenly keenly aware of having nobody’s mannerisms to steal, and awfully aware of the curl that threatened to flop flaccid between his eyes, and quite terribly aware of his smokers growl, and horribly aware of the plastic bag he clutched between clammy fingers, rustling obnoxiously, emblazoned with the most ironic slogan. big blue crumpled letters screamed ‘we’re happy to help!’ and buddy’s eyes screamed, just screamed, and they both stared finn down. he’d bought a microwave meal to the hotel in that bag, shoved finn’s t-shirt he’d borrowed that night last week inside the bag, in the sink, under the fluorescent light, in the hotel, where he’d just cut his hair and his mind was stuck replaying it because the stupid bag wouldn’t stop stupid crinkling but he didn’t feel stupid so he dropped it by the door. shut the door with his heel. eyed that hand that had haunted his every waking hour clutching a pack of smokes. finn took the form of everything ragged and lovely. he’d seen a blown-out tire looking like a flower by the side of the road and he’d smiled like he was looking right down the throat and into the lungs of the man he used to breathe into every day. it had been the opposite of romantic, but so full of love, and he hadn’t felt bad. there was never any expectation of red rose romance in the air between them, only ever bitten fingertips and getting by on the kind of love that made you think of loving a person down to their blown-out lungs. he shouldn’t have been thinking about that then. he should’ve been thinking about politeness.

“ you were good. “

bud, what the actual fuck ?

“ like, fighting. good. “

[toastandfruit]

me ?? writing another buddy drabble ?? likely <3 tw; violence, death, gore (sorta) 

ben said buddy was an idol, the catholic kind, make no mistake - there was no glamour in their glitz, they were more like scuffed silver or costume jewellery turning your finger green. green like the twisted ivy that grew through the cracks of the caravan ceiling, not too much to be too worried, enough for the walls to groan in the wind. buddy was happy with the kind of sickly euphoria somebody got when they were sailing so quickly into their own self assured destruction. he was a grinning, winking gangster-is-an-ugly-word-and-besides-i’m-just-the-eye-candy tragedy in polished oxfords, he had the kind of glow that wasn’t healthy, he looked well-fed but on all the wrong things.

awoken pressed, stuck, to the cold sweat of ben’s bare chest, buddy didn’t mind. it was skin on his skin and he’d been lonely for a while, so he buried his face in the gap between his shoulder and the untouched pillow (he slept too close) and took his first deep breath of the damp morning. the weather was easy to clock, as was the time, when the walls were as thin as water and the forest moved through it. so was the mood. when a heavy arm scraped him up and closer, buddy let loose a cackle, a radical thing that could flip a switch in the most steady man, but didn’t phase ben. he liked ben, for that. nothing touched him. not buddy, not god, despite the rosary around his neck. he kissed his cheek, eyes flickered open and met his own in the dim morning of a misty day. another kiss. buddy was doting, not exactly adoring, and above all, angling for a cigarette, which was promptly propped between his teeth and lit like a sparked tar breakfast. he only ate well at the dinners; the caravan stove hadn’t worked in months. probably something to do with the lack of electricity, but there was no use telling ben that, he’d still pretend he hadn’t heard you and ask god for a wire. when the gas worked he’d call it a miracle, and buddy would keep quiet about it all. quiet like he was now, like they both were, watching each other carefully. not so much predator and prey, but wounded animal on wounded animal, strays sizing each other up. another kiss and the score was settled. buddy could rest his head back on his chest where they squeezed in a single bed, safe in the knowledge they were both still dying.

it wasn’t that they were unwell, though buddy was sure he might’ve caught a cold from the night ben had had him sitting outside on wolf watch. he’d done it, sort of believed it himself. he’d wanted to believe it, it made life more bearable, to buy into his delusions, and he always bought into buddy’s, and fair’s fair. they shared an ache that cored them like the pneumatic drill ben heard sometimes, they’d had their minds, brains, it was physical, put through the ringer and spat out under that drill again. nobody outside understood but they didn’t need to, as long as they paid up enough for ben to fix a new suit and for buddy to pocket a new tin of hair gel. because that was enough, wasn’t it? to dress up, to not be alone, to dress up and not be alone. buddy had driven a knife into a man’s leg the week before last and he’d cried so hard he’d seen stars, and ben had dressed them up as real stars, and he hadn’t been alone, and when he laid out in the mud after the rain and stared up at the stars on his eyelids and when ben had kissed him and pointed out the constellations and when he’d held out a hand to reach them and when ben had told him it was god and when he hadn’t believed him and, when he squeezed his eyes shut so tight the stars disappeared and all he could see was colour, when he saw the shape of a scotsman with kind hands and a voice that said ‘bud, get out of that mud, you silly bugger’, he hadn’t been alone.

on this morning, his mouth tasted like metal. a tooth at the back had fallen out, but that wasn’t a problem. he’d sucked on a penny to prove he could clean it and to make a joke about tonguing the queen in front of the sensible types. they’d just looked a little sad, and he hated pity, despised the way it made him feel just his height, so he’d spat it out. ben had applauded. and he hadn’t been alone.

[toastandfruit]

rightreaction‌:

IT’S THE START OF A BAD JOKE or an even worse porno. a builder and a drag queen walk into a club.. one is falling head over heels over nails and the other is half-costumed, dreaming about handy manny’s strong, capable arms. clive quirks a brow, “..so you’re gay.” stereotyping, are we? “ —   or an annoyingly effeminate straight man, taking up space. just crush my dreams already, hercules. i can hardly stand it, ” it’s big and honest, a billboard on the western dirt road of their conversational waltz. clive wants to watch him forever; cowboy seems to move with familiarity, duh, he’s doing his job, but it’s fascinating like watching an ant carry a piece of your entenmann’s crumb cake across the shabby chic tile. you shouldn’t just watch, you should do something about it, clive. they opt to pull an earbud out, never connected to anything regardless, and lying on their stomach. chin engulfed by palms, they’re watching the home depot commercial unravel before them. 

clive blinks in time with the hammering. soundcheck be damned, “say, cowboy,” they begin, “you come here often?” now they’re scrambling, all fabric and soft grunts, to sit up, legs swinging off the end of the stage. clive’s the doily hanging off this thrifted coffee table. cowboy is the handsome stranger in the window. “if not, you should. because this place is falling apart at its cum stained seams. one more high note from me and the whole house is coming down, and not in the good aretha franklin way.” there’s some silence from clive, watching. “..and you should also come see me tonight because, if you’re gay, then we can have a honeymoon and i can sing you a song. any song, i’m very versatile  —  and if you’re straight, i can just take pictures of you and frame them. do you model?”

he should’ve known pink would be hot, searing pink, but the heat of their bold blunt observations was like a surprise party, ribbons and all. frank loved a party, was a sucker for indulgence, and even more so for the kind of candied candidness the frantic angel seemed to delight in doling out. call a spade a spade, a spanner a spanner, frank a cowboy. “ and ‘eres me thinkin’ you was just a looker. “ insulting kim’s intelligence and complimenting the way the fluorescents hit them like a pearl, all at once, and without the mushy bit about the pearl ? a win. cowboy. it stung the end of his tongue, he was vaguely concerned for a moment it might’ve stumped him into excitable silence. the way they moved with urgency had him mirroring their beat, and when they scrambled he sat up, on his knees, properly. cowboy. cowboys didn’t swoon so easy. he leaned back on his heels.

“ didn’t know the place was ‘ere, if i’m honest. “ which he was, always, painfully. a quick glance at his surroundings reminded him of why, as did the constant nagging knowledge in the back of his head that he’d agreed to fix up the stage for free on the promise that it’d take ten minutes and he could have a drink on the house that night. the starlet sat at the front of the stage like they owned it, like they owned the empty audience, like the empty audience adored them, like frank was the audience and the show and he adored adored adored - they didn’t need to know either. honesty wasn’t always about the truth, and the only honest thing frank had on his mind was the promise of a song. “ honeymoon. “ not a question, not a statement, just an honest sincerity. hammer strewn down with all the grace of an oaf, he shuffled forward, sat beside them, just a little away. terrible posture forced his hands clasped in his lap, his head turned toward them with the cracks of a crooked smile. “ don’t get me hopes up. you look like you know a man like me too well. “

[toastandfruit]

rightreaction‌:

IT HAD BEEN A DAY of shortsighted glamour and lights so hot they turned clive into howdy doody attending a gay prom. it was a more convincing look than packed on blush, they’d admit. but the sweat was unlike a highlight and speaking of highlight, clive might’ve found theirs for the day in a rough and tough walking men’s health issue requesting tools from the unqualified. and presenting the kind of kindness you’d find when an older man holds the door open for you. 

“jesus, kim. you should know a wrench since you’re apparently as smart as one,” it’s a comfortable murmur meant for the queen who could dish and take only, and in suit comes a compact mirror nearly chucked at clive’s wigless head. a monotone thanks is chirped back upon its arrival. clive was sitting, legs spread like a doll on a shelf, elbow deep in a bag of their belongings on the worn scratch of the stage before mr. all legs and terms of endearment came strolling up like a calvin klein pop up ad. you’d think a company like that would be above such a thing, right? eh. kinda tacky, guess it fits. 

curiosity leads the gently wide-eyed look on clive’s face and lift of their chin; it’s all eyes on the cowboy. “sure,” they say, certain, simple, and eyes find their bag again. shuffling, searching, “..but i do specialize in hammering.” clive breathes out a grateful ah once they find what they were looking for, no time to laugh at their own remark. headphones. they marvel at the tangled wires as if someone wasn’t standing there. clive stands then, dress following, tucking one earbud into their ear. “don’t you have a little helper or something? if you’re looking to employ kim over here, don’t bother. you’ll call for a nail and she’ll ask if you’d like gel or acrylic.” good lord, he’s hot. and not princess rosacea clive under the dazzling lights of the club deemed accurately as ‘ the cum stain hotspot ‘ by its patrons hot, like hugh jackman hot. like the kind of hot you dream about in high school and tent your grandma-picked khaki slacks over. the kind of hot that remains unattainable and disappointing when spotted in real life, oh, long, tan and handsome has a wife and three kids and doesn’t wanna flirt with a broke singer-dancer cake eater who is staring at them in this target bikini section. what a ripoff. clive looks at bob the builder curiously, “get an elf, santa. not a queen.”

curiosity killed the cat and came bloody close to killing frank when he, ungraciously distracted both by being called santa and by being called santa by a flushed looking pseudo-victorian who screamed pink! like a rosy siren beckoning him toward the very wooden board he’d been fixing, tripped and stumbled and steadied himself on the upturned splinter. all that charm he’d been congratulating himself on felt like cold sweat on his skin now; he wasn’t sure whether he’d lost it or was soaked in it completely. “ oi. “ lost it. “ keep yourself off the naughty list, if you know what’s good for you. “ soaked in it ? worth the thrill, either way, of their nimble back and forth. he eyed the tangle of wires in their hands, followed the loop of their fingers as if they were an extension of the chaos, fixed surely to hands to wrists to arms to a body he pulled his eyes from before he might be considered a creep. he was, after all, stood in paint-spattered, wood-chipped, sand-ripped overalls, and he hadn’t shaved in a week. maybe the santa comment was warranted.

in all his usual attention to detail, he hadn’t noticed himself move to pick up that wrench, but he had, and was glad of something to do with his own hands. he had the immovable certainty of a man who would give nothing away, and it comforted him, most of the time, only it didn’t in the present, and as a man with a reckless abandon to match, he’d much rather be an open book when there was somebody around to read it. the way their eyes darted made him think they might want to read it. so with a rusty nail held between his teeth, bent at the knee, he got to work fixing the board back amongst it’s well-worn neighbours. “ acrylic. “ he was talking to kim but he was speaking to the siren. “ i’m an acrylic man, meself. gel glares. it ain’t pretty. “ pretty, punctuated with a wink in pink’s direction. it was campy, shameless flirting, but he was never one to skirt. in went the nail, and as he hammered it down level, he could see a little cartoon in his head, like the ones he’d draw on napkins in bars; gruff, scruff of a man nails a scrap of paper to the LONELY HEARTS BOARD, ‘seeking OH GOD PLEASE LOOK AT ME AGAIN, contact them at ARE YOU REAL???’, whilst an all-american angel sits on a heart-shaped cloud amongst a tangle of headphone wires. 

[toastandfruit]

closed ! - @rightreaction​

hammered nails and hardy laughter were tricks that lived, nestled, up frank’s rolled up sleeve, comfortably. both came easy, both were part of the job, and he could fish them out without a moments notice to fix up a bathroom and sweet talk his way to an increased rate and a cup of tea. and whilst he sat now waist-deep in a dive-bar stage with a queen feeding him their best, not the best, lines, he flexed both. easy. his charm was trickery, perhaps, but it was genuine, sincere trickery, like a street magician pulling a quarter from behind the ear of a passing child and handing it off as a souvenir. it passed the time. it made people smile. it meant his ego was as hard as rock and in his ‘line of work’, it helped. “ wrench, sweetheart, if you could. no it’s- yeah, nah, that’s a screwdriver. to the right. your right, not my right. “ he’d been entertaining the entertainer who’d been keeping him company, but when bustling skirts settled beside the very tool he needed with a rustle, the pencil tucked behind his ear lifted with the curve of his smiling cheeks, warmth spreading like lace trim across his face. fanned out, all-encompassing, a little fragile, if you were to take a pin to the holes in it. he’d found himself staring at a pin in the hem of the stranger’s whispering dress, and felt like that very same street magician, only caught having had the quarter up his sleeve the whole time. " darlin’, on me’ mother’s life, please tell me you know what a wrench is. “ the darling in question was so darling once his eyes adjusted, that he thought he’d be quite happy to reveal every secret in his toolbox. that of all thoughts made him grin a little wider, askew, earnest. 

[toastandfruit]

hello hello !! i have revamped (finally) & would luv to get some plots up & running again !! like this & i’ll come to u <3

[toastandfruit]

rightreaction‌:

🍓 — CLOSED / @cxultnt​

ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-TWO empty glass bottles. ox had counted them threefold that afternoon   —  he kept losing track after number forty-seven. most of the glass was shattered or chipped, dirtied around their rims much like his mailbox sat out front. which, had taken a few beatings ever since the protests concerning his execution. TRAITOR! they’d shout, HE’LL KILL US ALL! ox would’ve furrowed a brow & stared at you silly if you explained such rage. now, how could someone feel so upset while the sun shines? the present, however, sat with ox like an unwelcomed guest, and he supposes they had that in common. he burns with the core of the earth he didn’t truly belong to, shrivels with its weeds. he grows in spirals along with them, black as coal in the creases of the heated concrete. once his wonderment gave in like buckling knees, so did his outward charm. it was a game he was destined to lose; he was never going to be earth’s foreign sweetheart.  

fists grip the shiny black of two full garbage bags. he can tell their insides like he could dissect his own; just by sound and texture. the first, in his right hand, is heavy, cold and clinks; glass. the other, smells horrendous ( new word! ) and that’s the means for his compost. if there’s one thing he’ll never regret, it’s taking up gardening. 

when did a lingering figure become a threat first and potential friend second? ox jolts a step back at the sight of the unfamiliar, fists gripping tighter, and face quite unwelcoming to start. he remembers when people treated him with such hesitance. “um.” he was once told ones that ums and uhs helped to humanize him, his speech which was deemed too precise and far too literal. it still feels so taught in his mouth. 

half up his driveway, his faux posture softens. “are you lost?”

kit liked to look, from the fringes, wide-eyed but devoid of curiosity. he wasn’t naive, he always knew. so he was the looking glass of the government, they saw right through him & sifted through what he thought were his most lovely observations and greedy, grabbed whatever they wanted. he didn’t like that part of it, they weren’t ever so gentle with his brain; but his brain wasn’t ever so gentle with him, so, perhaps it deserved it. it saddened him, as he stood with his toes curling over the curb, hands folded neatly in front of him, that they didn’t see the value in the secrets, that they wouldn’t see that this assignment was already dripping with gold, nestling in amongst serial killer’s chess games and big bankers gambling habits. not in the same way he did. he watched the slow crawl of a lazy beetle in the sun wind it’s way up past the feet of the figure who then spoke as if on cue.

“ oh ! i’m sorry. “ habit. he pushed his glasses up upon his nose, half scratched himself with his nail and pondered why on earth they ever sent him out in the field. “ i mean, no. sorry, no, i, uh, i just moved in a couple doors down and i just, thought i’d pop by and introduce myself. “ he could lie through his teeth if prepared, but that little beetle had caught his eye a little too late and now he was tripping over words without the grace of the thing who stared him down with so much command of a language never his own. he didn’t envy how well he steered interaction in a way he could never; it seemed like far too much of a fuss, but he did like to look. he was staring; he flashed a smile, bought himself half a second to decide, “ my name’s happy, “ then cursed himself for picking his middle name, and his foster parents for picking one so ridiculous.

[toastandfruit]

ello !! i have been absent for a whiiiile cos my muse was on the floor so .... i’ve dropped all but 2 ! for now i’m writing buddy & kit (who i am SUPER excited abt) <3 srry to everybody that drops, i deffo still want to write with anybody & everybody so feel free to come to me to plot w/ either of my boys !! gonna post sum open starters in a bit but this has been an Update nobody asked for

[toastandfruit]

rightreaction‌:

HIS BUDDY IS DREAD IN A PRETTY PACKAGE. it’s a funny thing to watch him unravel in moments, in words, snarled like sin but plump around the edges, the shine in his smile. he’s completely fucked, that’s for sure, and finn’s positive he’s never seen someone so far gone. when he looks at himself, handsome and put together, he’s a damned bastard but he’s aware. he has to be, to keep that control. he can settle into the calm of his office and sort through the wreckage of his head to find some rationale. and he can sit, pay bills, make arrangements, play every part needed to function. with buddy, however, his chaos is contagious. it’s hard to tell how much he plays up for the hell of it and how much is out of his control. but that’s apart of the fun, ain’t it? the oh-so-joyous fun in being lost, in questioning. it’s liberating, it’s exciting. it’s what causes finn’s gaze to latch onto buddy’s every movement like a frightened cub to the leg of its mother, like tar dried to the scum of dirty sidewalks finn had forced kisses upon time and time again. he had always loved breaking teeth. 

finn’s got a devilish look on his face, “i’ll take ye up more than jus’ the fucking tower, doll.” and he’d make ‘im scream more than all those frightened tourists, seeing what would most likely be their first, fresh corpse. and what a cherry to be popped! in the city of love! finn mirrors his lover, leaning in with a chilly stare like he had been promised a secret and needed it between his teeth. he thinks there might be a million written in every crease and upturn on buddy’s face. 

as their pipe dream develops, so does finn’s smile. “s’that how it all works in your head?” his own cants, “prim and perfect and deadly?” he’d really like to know. he admires the wicked simplicity lingering within the smoke and mirrors of buddy’s imagination. so much so, he considers how he could pull off such a scene in front of all those people. fool move. eyes flicker down to where fingers were toyed with, broken more times than finn could recall. now, though, you wouldn’t be able to notice unless you looked closely. finn detaches his hand only to firmly claim buddy’s, squeezing. he looks back up at him then, and in suit, a change of tone. “this guy i’ve told you ‘bout, he’s no joke. he’s a fucking idiot but he’s reckless, and that’s nearly worse than all that calculated joker shit.” a breath —  he had thought of buddy for the job mostly because he’s the best bet for having the head required to get around the hotheaded, the impulsive. in other words, figuring out a fucking idiot and knowing when to strike where it matters. anyone else might crumble under confusion, too used to the cold, controlled silence of an in-and-out. but not his boy. “i’m leavin’ this up to you, but no fucking around. don’t wanna see too many theatrics. you get it done, and you call me. then i’ll take you wherever it is you wanna go, city’s all yours.” so much for modesty. his smile returns, oh the glory! “i’ll fuck you senseless, too. make you walk ‘round paris with me leakin’ out your arse.” he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away when a waiter comes to set down some spare cutlery, preparations for the second course. he can see them linger, probably expecting a glance that they weren’t going to get. no, far too wrapped up.

practicalities, finn was all about them, buddy was all without them. he despised them, really. he hated planning ahead, exists, entrances, escape routes and clean up jobs, what to say to an officer, what not to say to an accomplice, but most of all he hated teamwork. he hated people, didn’t think he counted much as one of them, so he was excused, as was finn. because no matter how different they were, their violence bound them in a way they called love; he was the only being akin to a person who had ever subdued buddy, if only for a moment, if only for a fleeting sigh, and that had to be love, it really had to be, for if it wasn’t it was the most terrifying feeling on earth. but maybe they didn’t belong on earth, maybe they didn’t belong anywhere at all. vacuum valentine vagabonds. his mind did go to funny places at times. “ when have i ever been theatrical ? “ the irony was lost on a boy who’s life bled irony with every twist and turn. “ you’re not comin’ with me ? “ a moment of vulnerability, the words felt like ice-cream bile in his throat. best to swallow it, to bury it with another flurry of false sweetness. “ fine, gotcha. in an’ out, quick as you like. even ‘e won’t notice that he’s conked it. ” two questions that he answered himself. he didn’t like not knowing, would rather act like a smart arse than admit he was bewildered, but not always in front of finn.

 he caught sight of a waiter bringing the bill to a nearby table, and his mind wandered back to the time finn had handed him a wad of cash, he hadn’t even recognised the currency, told him to count it, to keep him preoccupied instead of trying to stab poor jason with a compass, and he’d pretended until they had a moment of peace, then had proclaimed he was bored, tossed it down with far too wet a gleam in his eye to be mischief’s flood alone. finn had known, always did, with his ocean eyes, saw water and knew. from behind the sleeves of finn’s suit jacket that buddy had commandeered after protesting he was cold when really the heat was up high and they knew it, he had told him that numbers made his head spin (more than most things) and that the multiples of two were a mystery to him. when he’d been met with sweet words and a lap to sit in, he’d been all smiles, less sharp than usual, peppered him with a thousand kisses; every thursday night was the same, in a big, too-expensive armchair in the window lit by streetlamps, whispering numbers over finn’s accounts and sums, mathematics by drug shipments.

but this was friday, and he was being promised filth in paris, he was sticking a steak knife in the table far too close to the nosy waiter's hand. he scurried away quickly enough. “ we gonna stay at your place ? cos you know i’m a squealer, i ain’t promisin’ i’ll be good. “ he reached out to hook a finger through finn’s buttonhole, leant in closer, but his volume stayed the same. mock politeness; he wanted them all to hear. and when had there ever been a time that buddy francis hadn’t got what he wanted ? “ i’ll let y’film it, we can take home a souvenir, show ‘em all what they’re missin’, what they’ll never have. “ dastardly delicate beneath the dim light, he wanted to tear at his lover to see what made him tick, peel back his skin to try to understand his loveliness, just like he did most things. like picking petals off a flower - he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me. his fingers scratched at his palm. “ m’all yours. “

[toastandfruit]

burykings‌:

@cxultnt

“i should tell you now before you find out yourself — keith ruined one of your shirts. too much blood, too many cuts. if it makes you feel any better, i told him not to wear your stuff on a mission but he didn’t listen. said it gave him good luck.”

“ good luck my arse. it’s my impeccable taste, see, it’s absolutely irresistible. and he refuses to spend money on anything nice for himself. i know his game. “

[toastandfruit]

rightreaction‌:

LAUGHTER FORCED from the boarded bravery that made up his chest, and buddy hits him a tornado claiming land, ripping up from the earth and devouring selfishly, then onto the next thing. a collision of warmth and pressure attacking his torso, buddy with prying claws, taking what was his because finn was, as it seemed, his. he’ll never admit it to your face but who else would he wait around for? his mother, and that’s just about it. yet even she’s on thin fucking ice. “ah. never leave a nutso by their lonesome,” he says it like it’s a grand title, a storybook, the pages adorned with violent tears and sticky red. buddy’s a good fucking read. he pulls the smaller man from his chest and gets a good look at him, pinches his chin, and then turns to take a seat. he gestures that buddy should do the same.

clearing his throat, he unravels that fancy napkin from its slick black bindings. he catches buddy’s eyes, “yer probably wonderin’ why ‘av brought you all the way out with the best of the best.” a pause, gaze flees to somewhere vague. “well. not better than you and i, angel. business men with more money than they know what to do with matched with poor financial smarts and side pieces unbeknownst to their wives,” chuckles and spoken with the kind of birds eye view a god might have; finn likes to watch the culture swirling among the rich like clouds of poisonous gas. they’re never as clever as they pretend to be, and finn loves their thin serpent mouths drooling proposals around the blunt of his gun. they always offer money. as if finn needed any more of that, let along their dirty bills! everyone has a mask on, you see, and it’s ridiculously hilarious to watch them stumble with their bindings, forget their places like a terrible school play funded by the wicked one percent. behind sweat slick top lips pressing up into sad excuses for some mock friendly gestures, there’s always something. he’ll never forget that american man who invested in facebook and went to prison for first degree murder not a month later. hilarious! he had killed his maid in a rage! imagine the irony in cleaning that up!

finn shoves a toothpick into his mouth and speaks around it, which was brought hurriedly in a small woven bowl upon his request. just one, he had said. hilarious. “i need your expertise.” he says, “i’ve got a guy in france who’s getting on ma’ last nerve and i think you’ll like his kind.” he’s fond of chainsaws, for one, and buddy’s got the imagination for the job. finn places that napkin into the collar of his dress shirt, neatly tucked. he doesn’t go into more detail just yet. ”..and i’d like to show you paris.” he doesn’t think about whether buddy’s already been or if he wants to go or not. 

nutso. a swift knee to finn’s nuts would be warning enough of his temperamental temper, always simmering, licking; horrified sensibilities, a gasp, the clattering of a poor pensioners silverware and a half-groan half-growl from a man who could end him where he stood winking in his size fives. he didn’t, though, that was always the catch. buddy wondered how far he would have to push to catch lead on the brain, whether it would keep whirring with ways to warp their sordid love affair further in the seconds after impact. he thought about the blood that’d seep not like anything else but blood, not like sticky cherry hot sauce or the wine he was quick to order with a petulant tug to the string of the waiters apron. like blood, the stupidly fallible trickle of humanity, embarrassing, crude in the way it gives so easily, spills like it can’t wait to be gone of its host. he was just doing all those platelets a favour. a hiccuped giggle into the pink stained round of his glass, and then his meandering attention decidedly settled on finn.

“ je n'ai jamais été en france avant. “ i’ve never been to france before. a stupidly obvious lie, a paradox waiting to be picked apart like pandora’s box. he liked to play the game, and he was playing, with every person he encountered on this earth unlike himself; they confused him, he couldn’t be like them, so he became somebody like them. he thought he had a pretty solid grip on reality, to recognise his own disguise. just because he heard his mother, sometimes, just because he saw doves, sometimes, flying where they shouldn’t be. there was one sat on finn’s shoulder as he danced about formalities, so buddy gave it a little wave, flashed a grin that said i see you. i’ll get you. dizzy eyes flickered back to meet steely blue, always so steady. he adored finn’s mastery, the violence of stillness he possessed, had created, he was sure, not just cultivated. he had a lot to learn from that dreadful blue of the dead deep-sea. he leant across the table, awful manners, plucked the toothpick from between finn’s teeth with his own, chewed it for a second, then spat it out on his plate as he slumped back down in the chair. “ ain’t forgotten that you left me today. you gonna sit there and talk fancy shite about paris but you left me in fuckin’ chelsea, you prick. “ no malice, he was smiling; but that was no consolation. he kicked his shin beneath the table. “ i want ice cream. “

[toastandfruit]

thevcyager‌:

@cxultnt liked this for a one liner starter:

“It looks like you’re in trouble there. Can I help?”

“ not unless you can change the train times by at least an hour and rewind time so that i don’t miss the one that just left. but i appreciate the sentiment, truly. “

[toastandfruit]

closed ; @villanelles1x1

autumn was fickle; elliot was too. it wasn’t that the fog, the grey clouds that whispered, were an inconvenience, nor a nuisance, more so that they made it damn near impossible to find the building she had been hunting for, a half-hour endeavour at the very least. an adventurous soul, she’d chosen, consciously chosen, to track a bag full greek plays and a pair of loosely tied, thin leather boots over the grassy common that stretched seemingly for miles across campus. and, finally, a building. red-brick, oak doors, an aloof air as if the architecture could speak. it had to be it. so she strode ahead inside, clunking down the hallway, leaving squeaking muddy footsteps in her wake. oddly empty, she realised. wrong place, most probably. persistent as ever, she pressed on, down winding staircases, mumbling every door number under her breath, searching, not even for her class, just for somebody to ask, until she saw a flash of a familiar face behind the small square of glass fixed in the door opposite. they’d had a translation class together ! (she knew because she’d zoned-out all dreamy-eyed when the other girl had started talking about neo-classicism). with the brightest of smiles, she shouldered open the door, announcing her arrival in typical clumsy sing-song fashion. “ ever so sorry, the size of this place - holy shit, is that a body ? “

[toastandfruit]

sagafied‌:

open to: f/m/nb  potential connections: supernatural creatures, humans, other people on the force, someone he’s trying to protect, someone he suspects, go wild about muse: andy trudeau. inspector. either human or whitelighter (depending on verse). he was always a supernatural magnet before even finding out about this world so 

“listen, halloween is already nearing its spooky little head…“ there he was again, going on a tangent about the supernatural world. that was what lead him to bring out his dirty and kind of ugly pair of white sneakers, but he thought they were his good luck shoes. “i need all the protection i can get, don’t you dare judge me for this.” andy rolled his eyes slightly as he crossed his arms over his chest. “what are you doing here anyway?” he really couldn’t stop investigating even when he wasn’t technically on the clock. his shift didn’t start for another hour, but there was an open case that was starting to get under his skin. he hated when he wasn’t able to solve something and when it seemed to be nearly uncrackable. “the crime scene isn’t too far from here. i’m starting to wonder if you knew that already though…” his mother should have never let him watch so many crime documentaries growing up. that mixed in with his dad having been an inspector he was basically a walking conspiracy theory. “if you want, you can join me on grabbing a bite to eat though. or doing something that would get my mind off of the case until i have to start thinking about it again.”

raising a scuffed red converse-clad foot to the sound of snorted laughter, kit waved it as though an amnesiac ballerina. “ believe me, i got no room to judge. “ he still might, probably would, in his head (they were truly awful sneakers), but behind his oddly thoughtful exterior, nobody would know. then he was shifting between those scruffy shoes, planted firmly on the ground, bow-legged and turned inward, his smile staggering slowly back down to his usual quirk. “ i was, uh, lookin’ for inspiration, y’know. people-watchin’. “ people eating. god, he could be so dramatic sometimes - it had only been the hand this time, he hadn’t even been the one to kill, he’d only been cleaning up scraps. his reasoning didn’t do much to alleviate his guilt, but somehow, going to lunch with a detective felt like it might go some way to moral redemption. again, dramatic. “ i could grab a bite, i’m starving. “ he shrugged his shoulders, pushed his glasses up on his nose and flashed a brief, tight smile; no teeth. he couldn’t risk that his canines may still be sharp. 

[thegreatgodbird]

what if i... joined a prentenious classics greek class in a foggy private vermont college and kissed you after murderering one of our classmates, even though i’m straight, and we never talk about it again.. aha ha, just kidding.. unless.. ?

[toastandfruit]

rightreaction‌:

THEIR STEP BACK doesn’t go unnoticed. but finn was a stubborn beast, and he invites himself beyond the threshold, the squeak of wood on hinges announcing his arrival for him. at the mention of a them, finn entirely narrows, expression questioning before he could even get a word out. “..what? who?” and when it comes to light, he swears he feels himself go paler than he already was. there’s a slow series of blinks, then a reminder of that sickly truth that had always threatened to split finn into two, unclean pieces of himself, damned. he thinks after a while he had to swallow that infliction, and make peace with never being whole just for the chance of being beside his love, his definite parallel. being apart from buddy was just as relieving as it was suffocating, and though he never felt really free, truly free of his love’s grip ( more his fault than anyone else’s ), he did feel a sense of breathing room, despite it all. all that time he had felt like a man breathing and reflecting on all that mucky sin without purpose;  though it was far from true ( or so he was told ).

thickly, he swallows, and takes a few steps forward, not expecting much from buddy. “..no one’s hurt, bud— “ a breath in, sharp, making room for quick, devastating correction. “buddy. i didn’t come here to.. to accuse you of shit.” stupidly, he almost speaks like buddy should know why he was there, laying every single fucking desperate attempt at normalcy he had collected over FIVE YEARS on the line just to see that fucking face. just to gape at an inkling of all he had lost, shit, that monumental blow of a loss. he pinches the bridge of his nose, collecting himself. it’s a meek attempt. naturally, he swats away some fucking gnats and lets out a huff of frustration. it’s bordering on entitled and finn can’t stand this, yet can’t stop it either. “can we  —  fuck, buddy. you got a fuckin’ .. porch or some shit? i’m getting eaten alive here.” another breath, eyes shut briefly. “i just wanted to see you. and that’s — maybe that’s fuckin’ stupid of me. i don’t fucking know. just, please,” and so the wound of his longing was ripped agape, entirely buddy’s to aid or destroy.

‘bud’ came rushing toward him as a ravenous flock of vultures, every twitch and breath than followed in the half-second after raining down upon him like hungry pecks. he was sure, when he corrected himself, one plucked his heart clean out of his chest. it rang in his ears as though every version of finn he’d ever thought of, treasured, sometimes worried he’d made up, had sighed the familiar tune of bud all at once. bud, sighed, exasperated, overjoyed, deprived and practically loopy, lust-soaked and cultivated just for him. sleepy, morning, gravelly bud, wrapped up in a feathered duvet and a morning-breath kiss. for five years, the hope he might hear it again bloomed with spring and died in the autumn, plagued loneliness, taunting him with what he once had in one incredibly simple word. “ they ain’t gonna kill you, darlin’. “ darling, no g, lost in guttural frenzy after a match, lost in too many words he’d spoken too often with too little meaning, lost in the moments he’d mumbled it into his sleeve, in the moments it slipped between adoring lips. foreign to receive, foreign to give, it tasted like finn’s famed roast dinner on his tongue.

curious, he blinked, head leaning just a little. not as daring as he once was, but inquisitive. he knew people, that knowledge hadn’t disappeared, he knew finn, he kept that knowledge under twenty-four-hour protection, refused to let himself forget. one and half sugars, not the mug with the chip in the lip, hit ‘em with the right hook, bud, fingers tracing knuckles resting upon knees upon thighs, drunken movie marathons and falling asleep at 2am. he knew finn was teetering, gnashing, clinging on. his fingers came absent-minded to the hem of his own shirt, as if in some way, examining what was unfolding, asking himself whether he was a vulture, too. he’d like to be a songbird, he’d like to sing for his love. “ got a porch. s’just this way, you can, uh, follow me. “

[toastandfruit]

currently; sat in my new flat under a blanket listening 2 space music whilst it storms outside & i feel SUPER cosy & rly wanna write some things - pls pls like this for a starter !! it’ll b random & u can ignore it if u want but i JUST wanna b creative & fun or send me memes even if we’ve never interacted <3