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raeschaeTitle: Unrequited? (a series of disclaimer!verse ficlets)
Author:raeschae
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
neutraldeviance
Graphics:raeschae
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Tom/Mike, Chad/Sophia, Katie/Genevieve, Danneel/Someone (vague mentions of the boys and Brayden)
Warnings: Swearing mostly. And some angst.
Word Count: 4500ish
Disclaimer: I own no one mentioned here. Or, anyone at all, really.
Summary: You know the story of Jared, Jensen, and Brayden. These are the other stories that were going on while they were blending into one big, happy family.
(Part of the disclaimer!verse. If you haven't read that, these probably won't make much sense to you at all.)
A/N: These are just some ideas I had floating around in my head for various time stamps in the 'verse. Rather than making a bunch of separate posts, I shoved them all together. Hopefully, you'll be able to figure out when they take place – if not, just ask and I'll fill you in. :)
(Minor graphics under the cut – just dividers)
He's maybe on his fourth trip around the pier. Possibly the fifth. Tom can't be sure, because he's not really paying attention to the steps he's taking. He's more interested figuring out how his entire life went to hell in the span of one fucking dinner.
”Tom, you have to stop pretending this doesn't exist. You are gay. I can't change that, and neither can you. Be with Mike or don't, but we can't keep doing this.”
He has tried every possible thing he can think of to not be who he is. He's tried ignoring it, pretending it doesn't exist, and changing it. He's tried living with it, around it, and through it. Has told himself that it's a phase, that he'll get over it.
As he nears the skate park, he tells himself that it's just Mike. Didn't even notice guys until that spastic ass hat came into his life. And that's the thought that stops him cold. Because it doesn't really fucking matter if there's been a thousand guys before. There's just one now. One person that he can't stay away from. One that he absolutely cannot bring himself to walk away from, no matter how he justifies or rationalizes it. One person with whom he feels totally and completely himself.
Jamie sees it. Hell, everyone sees it. They've all tried to tell him a million times. Danneel's tried to beat it into his thick head. Jensen tells him all the time that he's the dumbest fucking smart guy they all know. And he's not wrong, either.
Tom's a planner. Anal retentive, Mike always says. But on the ten minute drive to the older man's house, he doesn't so much as think about what he's going to say when he gets there. All he can think about is how fucking stupid he's been, and how much he's hurt the guy, and how he's going to make it better. Wonders if he can make it better.
The time between his knocking on the front door and the thing actually opening seems like an eternity. Mike's dressed in thin, cotton pajama pants and a tee shirt, dark hair sticking out in all directions. He squints up into Tom's face and then his eyes clear.
“The hell do you want?” he asks, angry and bitter. The tone is so foreign on his lips that Tom almost reconsiders this entire non-plan all together. This isn't his Mike. His Mike is happy and forgiving and open.
“I know it's late,” Tom starts, and Mike snorts his agreement with a roll of his eyes. “Look, I'm just going to say this, and then I'm gonna get outta your hair. I had dinner with Jamie tonight.”
“I don't wanna hear this,” Mike interrupts, shoulder rolling off of the door. “I get the hint, okay? Just . . . you don't owe me a goddamn thing, Tom. Just go.”
He catches the slamming door with his hand and pushes it back, stepping over the threshold. “You don't get it,” he descends, kicking the front door shut and grabbing Mike's face with both hands. When he's shoved the smaller man against the nearest wall, he rubs his thumb over Mike's cheek and lets the smile make an appearance. “I owe you everything,” he whispers, dipping his head to catch Mike's lips.
Mike pushes him back, eyebrow quirking. He looks dark, more brooding than Tom has ever seen him. And fuck all if that's not sexy as hell, too. “The hell's gotten into you?” he asks, sidestepping until there's some space between them. “You can't just bust up in my house at two thirty in the morning and tell me that you had dinner with your wife, and now you fucking owe me something? I don't wanna be your sloppy seconds. Not anymore.”
For once in his life, Mike is taking good advice, and he's taking a stand. Danneel told him that he deserves better than being some closet case's dirty little secret. Danneel's right. Mike doesn't need this. He can't keep letting Tom walk in and out of his life. It makes him crazy, and the world feels all small and claustrophobic, and it's not how he wants to live. He can't.
“I love you,” Tom says for the first time in the five years they've been doing this dance.
It should shake the foundation of his world. Mike's been waiting a mini-lifetime to hear it. “You got a funny way of showin' it,” he accuses, back turned. If he faces Tom, with his broad shoulders and his blue eyes and his fucking shampoo-commercial hair? He'll never stick to his guns.
But he's probably not as stealth as he thinks he is, because Tom's at his back, hands on his shoulders, when Mike doesn't look at him. “I have tried every last fucking thing I can think of to stay the hell away from you. It doesn't fucking work. I'm getting a divorce, and if I have to spend the rest of my goddamn life proving that you're the one I want to be with? That's what I'll do.” His lips cover Mike's ear and his teeth tug gently on the lobe.
He wants to hold out. Fuck, he wants to stand his ground and tell Tom that he had his chance and he fucking blew it. But if the younger man thinks he has a hard time staying away, he should try to walk a mile or two in Mike's shoes.
Twisting, his hands find Tom's face and pull him close, their foreheads resting against one another. “We do this for real? There's no walking away. Not even if you freak the fuck out and think the whole world's going to collapse on your big, gay head. Because I am not going through this shit again, Tommy. You walk out on me again and it's over. For good.”
It's not often that Mike sounds like the rational adult in their relationship, but when he does use what Jared likes to call his 'grown up' voice, Tom knows he means it. He's giving him one more shot. What he does with it is solely up to him.
“I'll sleep on the couch,” he offers, hoping that Mike will see it as a sort of peace offering. A way of saying he doesn't really expect anything. That they can take this as slow as Mike is comfortable taking it. He's willing to try to make this different than all of the other times he's fucked it all up.
But Mike just rolls his eyes and pulls Tom's arms around him as they stumble toward the stairs. “So it took Jamie sayin' it for you to realize you're a giant homo, huh?”
Tom rolls his eyes. “Did everyone know?”
With a laugh, Mike pulls his boyfriend (cause that's what he is now, right?) into the bedroom. “Even people who don't know you,” he answers, popping the button on Tom's jeans.
“Seriously? Because I'm not feminine, at all.””
“Tom?” Mike pushes Tom back onto the bed and rolls his eyes. “Shut the fuck up for once in your life and just . . . stop worryin' about gay and straight and just be you, 'kay?.”
The worst fight they ever had was about four years into their relationship, and Sophia can't even remember now why they were broken up for damn near two whole weeks. She can't ever remember why she and Chad break up, specifically. Overall, it's pretty much always the same fight, but the reasons they find for bringing it up again are always new and exciting and different.
She doesn't like fighting with him. Not that anyone would believe her. She's kind of made an Olympic sport of bitching him out. Loudly and publicly. But not because she wants to. It's just that Chad is the only person she's ever met who not only pushes every one of her buttons simultaneously, but who proceeds to lean on them until she has no choice but to explode. After more than five years together, she's kind of convinced that he does it on purpose.
A week ago, he said some stupid shit about how Jay's all mopey over Brayden goin' back to his dad's house. Said that the guys aren't cut out to be parents, that they don't even want to be, so why the fuck isn't his best friend just snapping the fuck out of it and moving on with his life? What kind of bull shit thinking is that? And how in the hell is she supposed to just go on dating someone who thinks you can just cut someone you love out like that? Just snap back.
He's an ass. A skinny, moronic asshole who doesn't even have the capacity to fucking commit. He doesn't get it. And it's not because he's stupid. He's just dumb as a motherfucking rock.
She doesn't mean to stop at Slinging Ink tonight. There's no reason to, except for the fact that going home means eating leftover Chinese take out and going to bed alone. They bought a California king-sized bed last year, during a particularly long stretch of 'good' times. She thought it meant something. Now, every time they fight, it reminds her of why she actually loves his dumb ass and it pisses her off. Until it just starts hurting. And then it makes her cry. And she doesn't want to cry over Chad, or anything else.
She lets herself in through the front door and walks slowly toward her station in only the moonlight pouring through the front window. There's someone in the break room, and it could easily be any number of people, but she somehow knows it's not. Somehow she knows he's here, and it makes her smile to know that he's not out picking up some sorority chick at some random club down the Pier.
He's hunched over the table, tank top tucked into the waist band of his jeans. His lean shoulders work back and forth and she finds herself slightly mesmerized by the sight. It's been a long damn time since she just stood back and admired the man. Everything, from the curve of his spine, and the vertebrae tatted the length of it, to the way his jeans hang low on his thin hips, and cover his tight little ass, makes her lips quirk. His right knee is bent and his foot is tapping against the floor in rhythm with whatever song is stuck in his head tonight. Probably something from Nine Inch Nails.
Slowly, she moves to his side at the table and lowers herself into the chair there, leaning forward on her elbows to watch him work. The block of concrete is three feet wide, and it's not yet apparent what the piece will turn out to be, but the hard angles and lines remind her of the graffiti he covered their bedroom wall in a few months ago. In the center, she painted a portrait of the two of them, naked and tangled together in a tight embrace. It's the most beautiful piece of art she's ever seen, and she remembers the way they fucked so damn hard and dirty when it was finally finished.
He doesn't even bother turning to look at her. There's a faint smile on his full lips, but it doesn't really reach his eyes. It's weird, kind of, because he seems so vibrant during the day at work. Like it doesn't even bother him that she told him that they're done. For good. And that she really, really meant it this time.
Sure, she says it every time, but that's only because she means it every time. She really does get fed up with his immaturity. She really does want him to grow up and realize that they're not nineteen anymore and they can't keep doing this forever. She's dying for him to realize that, when she breaks up with him, she's really just crying out for him wake up and realize that she needs more from him. Desperately wants more.
It's a mind game, and she knows that. But she can't stop playing it with him.
As she watches him work, her eyes flit up and down the intricate sleeve of tribal and Celtic designs on his left arm. She's admired them with her fingers, her tongue, and her eyes so often that sometimes they blur together and she thinks maybe she doesn't even realize the beauty in them. Jared really is the best in the business. Doesn't hurt that he had a fan-fucking-tastic canvas to start with.
Narrowing her eyes, she zeroes in on something she's never seen before. Tucked safely between two of the arcing lines, in a script of his own design, are six letters she knows better than any others in the alphabet.
S-O-P-H-I-A.
It's completely healed. At least six weeks old, possibly more. And she's never even noticed it. How has she never fucking noticed that this man, who she so regularly accuses of not being committed to her, has branded his arm with her name. Not his chest, or his hip, or even his back. In a sweatshirt, or a jacket, he could hide it, but Chad doesn't wear either of those things very often.
It's right here. And it's in fucking color. And she should have known. Should have noticed it. When did she stop looking close enough to see that Chad's love for her is literally written right here on his sleeve? When did she decide what his commitment is supposed to look like, and stop noticing what it actually does look like.
Her fingers trail the letters, eyes riveted, and Chad's hand stops moving over the concrete block. When their eyes meet, she smiles softly. “My name is on your arm,” she whispers.
Chad just shrugs. “You want it on my forehead?” he asks, though there's no real bite behind the question.
He would do it. For the first time in over five years, Sophia knows that Chad would do it. If she said 'yes', he would tattoo her name on his forehead. She believes it, like she's never truly believed the words 'I love you' from him. Because this isn't for her. He doesn't have this to impress her, or convince her of anything. The guy she thought he was would have flaunted the damn thing and made sure that she, and everyone else, knew it was there.
“Come here,” she says, standing and grabbing his wrist. He follows willingly and Sophia pushes him down into the massage chair.
Chad barely has time to 'oomph' when she straddles his hips and attacks his mouth with her own. His fingers dig into the denim over the curve of her ass when she grinds her hips down into his. God bless Jared and this motherfucking chair, especially when Sophia presses the button by his elbow and sets the seat vibrating beneath Chad's ass.
Tearing his mouth away, he says breathlessly, “Marry me.”
Sophia laughs. “Marry you,” she shakes her head and rolls her eyes at the joke.
But the chuckle dies in her throat when he picks her up from chair and all but drags her into the shop. Chad pulls the bottom drawer of his station out and then kicks it shut. When he turns to her, there's a black velvet box in his hands. Simple flick of the wrist and he reveals a platinum band with a yellow diamond, exactly like the one she teased wanting for Christmas last year.
“Marry me.” There's no humor in Chad's eyes. Not even a hint of amusement. And no fog of arousal driving his proposal.
Tears spring, unbidden, and Sophia swallows around the lump in her throat. “Marry you,” she whispers, her hand covering her mouth in disbelief. If he had done this a week ago, before she knew what she knows now? She would have told him to fuck off. That he couldn't make some half-assed proposal and expect it to fix everything.
But now? He's standing here, with the look in his eyes she's always mistaken for hunger and lust and want. It's not any of those things, in reality. It's affection and love and the purest form of desire, not for her body, but for her heart. He means it, and she's never believed it. Until now.
Retracting his hand, Chad starts to close the box. “Okay, so maybe you need a little more time,” he starts, and doesn't mention that they're going on six years of this bull shit and if she's not ready for a fucking commitment, maybe she should stop demanding one so goddamn loudly every third day of the week.
“No,” she laughs, grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand back toward her. “I mean, yes,” she shakes her head and rolls her eyes, hand finding the back of his golden blond hair. “Yes, I will marry you! That's what I meant.”
Chad nods and leans forward, hands under her ass as she wraps her legs around him, their chests pressed tightly together. “Well, alright then,” he winks when he pulls back. “Come on. I left the chair running.”
(fortaintedlove, to whom I promised femslash in the disclaimer!verse – there might be more later, but for now, I hope this will get you by.)
She's been working for Jared about six months now, and Katie's never been happier with her life in general. Sure, she just got out of a pretty intense relationship a few months back, but the bitch was crazy and she needed to be cut out. Without the drama, she feels loose and relaxed all the time. Doesn't hurt that her boss is so laid back he's practically in a coma most of the time, and that the rest of the people she works with are so fucking cool, they shouldn't all be allowed to congregate in one place at the same time. It's kind of not fair to the rest of the world.
Well, most of the people she works with are cool. She doesn't really know Steve all that well, since he's not around as much as the others. And Sandy's sweet, but she's pretty much the busiest person Katie's ever met. They don't get a lot of time to hang out, which is kind of a shame, since Sandy's the hottest little piece of ass Katie's seen in a long while.
Sophia's awesome, though, and Chad's cool in his own right. Jared's just amazing, and the fact that he took a chance on hiring her still knocks her back. His talent blows her mind, and sometimes she wishes that she could just clear her schedule and sit around watching him work all damn day. He's more than an artist. He's her fucking hero. Of course, she doesn't tell him that because it would weird him out and make her look like an idiot. But facts are facts, and the fact is that she's damn lucky to be working for him.
And then there's Genevieve. They've known each other, run in (sort of) the same circles, for the last few years, but Katie never really noticed the younger woman until she started working at Slinging Ink.
Well, that's not entirely true. She noticed. She just didn't like her much. Now she's finding herself a little more taken with the kid.
Taken might be a strong word. Intrigued might be better.
Ya see, Genevieve talks a damn good game. She wouldn't have so many co-ed femmes trekking in and out of the shop to see her, to talk to her, to get her number or willingly cough up theirs, if she didn't. Rumor has it, she follows through. Rumor also has it, however, that you haven't been turned out until you've spent a night with Katie Cassidy.
So maybe it's a competition thing. Not that Katie feels threatened. She knows who sits at the top of the bitch pile, and she's perfectly secure in that position. But if one more chick saunters up to Genevieve at this bar and flirts like a coy little high school girl, Katie might be forced to prove herself.
“Hey, Gen,” a sing-song voice sounds over her shoulder and Katie just rolls her eyes.
Next to her, Genevieve smiles knowingly and then lifts her eyes to whatever slut-of-the-moment is standing behind Katie. “What's goin' on, Maggie?” she winks and the girl giggles. It's a high, lilting sound and it's so damn transparent, Katie's almost embarrassed for her.
“You busy?”
And that's the question that breaks the fucking camel's back. The one that has Katie sliding off of her stool and grabbing Genevieve's leather-clad arm tightly. “Yeah, she is,” Katie answers, nearly pulling the younger woman from the bar.
They're in the car and on the road before Genevieve speaks. Katie figures that's probably a good thing, being as she's not exactly sure what the hell's gotten into herself and she doesn't want to have to explain it. “Your place?” is the first thing Genevieve asks when she does speak.
Hooking a right at the next light, Katie worries her bottom lip between her teeth and concentrates on the slow-moving traffic in front of her. “Yours is closer,” she points out, taking a hard left that throws Genevieve against the door.
By the time they make it to Genevieve's apartment, Katie has convinced herself that this punk-ass bitch needs to be reminded of her place. Though, if she really stopped to think about it, she would rationally tell herself that Genevieve has never actually questioned Katie's reputation. But who really thinks rationally when they're about to fuck a hot brunette in skin-tight jeans and fuckin' bad-ass combat boots?
It's not like they're on each other the second they walk through the door or anything. This isn't one of those 'I have to have you right now moments. Instead, Katie tucks her hands into the pockets of her jacket and casually makes her way back to the bedroom. She tosses her jacket onto the floor near the vanity and crosses to the bedside table. “So damn predictable,” she smiles to herself as she crouches low and opens the bottom drawer.
“What? You have some special carved box for yours?” Genevieve's voice is tinted with humor and amusement in the doorway.
Shrugging, Katie stands, a pink jelly dildo in her hand. “You ever use this on anyone else?” Genevieve shakes her head, peeling her jacket off of her thin shoulders and dropping it at her feet. Nodding toward the bed, Katie says, “This doesn't mean anything.”
With a roll of her eyes, Genevieve walks around the bed and grabs Katie by the back of her hair. “Bitch, please,” she huffs sarcastically. “I invented the fuck and run.”
There's less than a second between the time the words leave Genevieve's mouth and the time Katie has her thrown onto the mattress, thigh pressed firmly against between her thighs. “You didn't invent shit, little girl,” she corrects. “You're runnin' the exact game I was a couple years back. And I'mma show you that I still do it better.” There's so much fucking heat rolling off the woman beneath her that Katie thinks she might not make it through the list of plans she has for turning this kid upside down and sending her on the express train to Happyland. “Now shut the fuck up and take your clothes off.”
It's not sweet and gentle. It's not so much rough and tumble, either. In the end, there's a lot of sweating, and swearing, and trash talking. Also, orgasms. A lot of fucking orgasms. And when it's over, Katie has to admit that Genevieve's rep is well-deserved. She's not ready to concede her spot or anything, wouldn't call Genevieve the best ever under any circumstances. But maybe, maybe the best Katie's had.
“Jesus God,” Genevieve groans, rolling to her side. But as soon as she finds her feet, she collapses back to the mattress. “My legs . . . I just . . . damn,” she stops and her grin splits her face in two. “I have never,” she starts, but then stops when her brain won't form actual complete sentences.
And Katie just nods, eyes drifting shut as sleep threatens every corner of her brain. “I know.”
It's not so much love as it is companionship. Keeping each other company. Helping each other forget that they can't actually have what it is they really want. It's just mutual admiration, and respect, and occasional reprieve.
She knows her own infatuation with Jensen is fucked up. The hardest part to wrap her own head around is the fact that doesn't want him for herself. She gets that he's gay and that he belongs with Jared and that they're beautiful and wonderful and happy together. And she's genuinely happy for them. It's not even a matter of wishing that things were different.
Maybe, in the end, what she really loves is the way Jensen loves Jared. The way they are together and the way the world just disappears for them. Maybe she's just waiting for the day that somebody just fucking lights up when she walks into a room, the way Jensen does when Jared stops by the shop. Maybe she can't get into dating anyone who doesn't put her at the center of their universe, because she's seen what it looks like when someone does. Because she knows it exists, and now she can't settle for less.
So she fucks Chris. And occasionally Steve, though rarely, and always with Chris. Because Chris and Steve are pretty much perfect for each other in every way, except they both still love fucking women too much to give it up for good, and they don't mind that Danneel would rather be fucking a straight version of Jensen. Because they're all hot, and the sex is good, and they're still friends afterward, without everything being all weird and awkward.
She never used to believe that real love, the epic kind that sweeps you off your feet and makes you walk around like a babbling moron, actually existed. Now that she knows it does, biding her time and waiting for it to find her doesn't seem like the worst thing in the world. Especially with Chris's sex-and-whiskey voice whispering filth against her ear in the meantime.
Author:
raeschae Beta:
neutraldevianceGraphics:
raeschaeRating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Tom/Mike, Chad/Sophia, Katie/Genevieve, Danneel/Someone (vague mentions of the boys and Brayden)
Warnings: Swearing mostly. And some angst.
Word Count: 4500ish
Disclaimer: I own no one mentioned here. Or, anyone at all, really.
Summary: You know the story of Jared, Jensen, and Brayden. These are the other stories that were going on while they were blending into one big, happy family.
(Part of the disclaimer!verse. If you haven't read that, these probably won't make much sense to you at all.)
A/N: These are just some ideas I had floating around in my head for various time stamps in the 'verse. Rather than making a bunch of separate posts, I shoved them all together. Hopefully, you'll be able to figure out when they take place – if not, just ask and I'll fill you in. :)
(Minor graphics under the cut – just dividers)
He's maybe on his fourth trip around the pier. Possibly the fifth. Tom can't be sure, because he's not really paying attention to the steps he's taking. He's more interested figuring out how his entire life went to hell in the span of one fucking dinner.
”Tom, you have to stop pretending this doesn't exist. You are gay. I can't change that, and neither can you. Be with Mike or don't, but we can't keep doing this.”
He has tried every possible thing he can think of to not be who he is. He's tried ignoring it, pretending it doesn't exist, and changing it. He's tried living with it, around it, and through it. Has told himself that it's a phase, that he'll get over it.
As he nears the skate park, he tells himself that it's just Mike. Didn't even notice guys until that spastic ass hat came into his life. And that's the thought that stops him cold. Because it doesn't really fucking matter if there's been a thousand guys before. There's just one now. One person that he can't stay away from. One that he absolutely cannot bring himself to walk away from, no matter how he justifies or rationalizes it. One person with whom he feels totally and completely himself.
Jamie sees it. Hell, everyone sees it. They've all tried to tell him a million times. Danneel's tried to beat it into his thick head. Jensen tells him all the time that he's the dumbest fucking smart guy they all know. And he's not wrong, either.
Tom's a planner. Anal retentive, Mike always says. But on the ten minute drive to the older man's house, he doesn't so much as think about what he's going to say when he gets there. All he can think about is how fucking stupid he's been, and how much he's hurt the guy, and how he's going to make it better. Wonders if he can make it better.
The time between his knocking on the front door and the thing actually opening seems like an eternity. Mike's dressed in thin, cotton pajama pants and a tee shirt, dark hair sticking out in all directions. He squints up into Tom's face and then his eyes clear.
“The hell do you want?” he asks, angry and bitter. The tone is so foreign on his lips that Tom almost reconsiders this entire non-plan all together. This isn't his Mike. His Mike is happy and forgiving and open.
“I know it's late,” Tom starts, and Mike snorts his agreement with a roll of his eyes. “Look, I'm just going to say this, and then I'm gonna get outta your hair. I had dinner with Jamie tonight.”
“I don't wanna hear this,” Mike interrupts, shoulder rolling off of the door. “I get the hint, okay? Just . . . you don't owe me a goddamn thing, Tom. Just go.”
He catches the slamming door with his hand and pushes it back, stepping over the threshold. “You don't get it,” he descends, kicking the front door shut and grabbing Mike's face with both hands. When he's shoved the smaller man against the nearest wall, he rubs his thumb over Mike's cheek and lets the smile make an appearance. “I owe you everything,” he whispers, dipping his head to catch Mike's lips.
Mike pushes him back, eyebrow quirking. He looks dark, more brooding than Tom has ever seen him. And fuck all if that's not sexy as hell, too. “The hell's gotten into you?” he asks, sidestepping until there's some space between them. “You can't just bust up in my house at two thirty in the morning and tell me that you had dinner with your wife, and now you fucking owe me something? I don't wanna be your sloppy seconds. Not anymore.”
For once in his life, Mike is taking good advice, and he's taking a stand. Danneel told him that he deserves better than being some closet case's dirty little secret. Danneel's right. Mike doesn't need this. He can't keep letting Tom walk in and out of his life. It makes him crazy, and the world feels all small and claustrophobic, and it's not how he wants to live. He can't.
“I love you,” Tom says for the first time in the five years they've been doing this dance.
It should shake the foundation of his world. Mike's been waiting a mini-lifetime to hear it. “You got a funny way of showin' it,” he accuses, back turned. If he faces Tom, with his broad shoulders and his blue eyes and his fucking shampoo-commercial hair? He'll never stick to his guns.
But he's probably not as stealth as he thinks he is, because Tom's at his back, hands on his shoulders, when Mike doesn't look at him. “I have tried every last fucking thing I can think of to stay the hell away from you. It doesn't fucking work. I'm getting a divorce, and if I have to spend the rest of my goddamn life proving that you're the one I want to be with? That's what I'll do.” His lips cover Mike's ear and his teeth tug gently on the lobe.
He wants to hold out. Fuck, he wants to stand his ground and tell Tom that he had his chance and he fucking blew it. But if the younger man thinks he has a hard time staying away, he should try to walk a mile or two in Mike's shoes.
Twisting, his hands find Tom's face and pull him close, their foreheads resting against one another. “We do this for real? There's no walking away. Not even if you freak the fuck out and think the whole world's going to collapse on your big, gay head. Because I am not going through this shit again, Tommy. You walk out on me again and it's over. For good.”
It's not often that Mike sounds like the rational adult in their relationship, but when he does use what Jared likes to call his 'grown up' voice, Tom knows he means it. He's giving him one more shot. What he does with it is solely up to him.
“I'll sleep on the couch,” he offers, hoping that Mike will see it as a sort of peace offering. A way of saying he doesn't really expect anything. That they can take this as slow as Mike is comfortable taking it. He's willing to try to make this different than all of the other times he's fucked it all up.
But Mike just rolls his eyes and pulls Tom's arms around him as they stumble toward the stairs. “So it took Jamie sayin' it for you to realize you're a giant homo, huh?”
Tom rolls his eyes. “Did everyone know?”
With a laugh, Mike pulls his boyfriend (cause that's what he is now, right?) into the bedroom. “Even people who don't know you,” he answers, popping the button on Tom's jeans.
“Seriously? Because I'm not feminine, at all.””
“Tom?” Mike pushes Tom back onto the bed and rolls his eyes. “Shut the fuck up for once in your life and just . . . stop worryin' about gay and straight and just be you, 'kay?.”
The worst fight they ever had was about four years into their relationship, and Sophia can't even remember now why they were broken up for damn near two whole weeks. She can't ever remember why she and Chad break up, specifically. Overall, it's pretty much always the same fight, but the reasons they find for bringing it up again are always new and exciting and different.
She doesn't like fighting with him. Not that anyone would believe her. She's kind of made an Olympic sport of bitching him out. Loudly and publicly. But not because she wants to. It's just that Chad is the only person she's ever met who not only pushes every one of her buttons simultaneously, but who proceeds to lean on them until she has no choice but to explode. After more than five years together, she's kind of convinced that he does it on purpose.
A week ago, he said some stupid shit about how Jay's all mopey over Brayden goin' back to his dad's house. Said that the guys aren't cut out to be parents, that they don't even want to be, so why the fuck isn't his best friend just snapping the fuck out of it and moving on with his life? What kind of bull shit thinking is that? And how in the hell is she supposed to just go on dating someone who thinks you can just cut someone you love out like that? Just snap back.
He's an ass. A skinny, moronic asshole who doesn't even have the capacity to fucking commit. He doesn't get it. And it's not because he's stupid. He's just dumb as a motherfucking rock.
She doesn't mean to stop at Slinging Ink tonight. There's no reason to, except for the fact that going home means eating leftover Chinese take out and going to bed alone. They bought a California king-sized bed last year, during a particularly long stretch of 'good' times. She thought it meant something. Now, every time they fight, it reminds her of why she actually loves his dumb ass and it pisses her off. Until it just starts hurting. And then it makes her cry. And she doesn't want to cry over Chad, or anything else.
She lets herself in through the front door and walks slowly toward her station in only the moonlight pouring through the front window. There's someone in the break room, and it could easily be any number of people, but she somehow knows it's not. Somehow she knows he's here, and it makes her smile to know that he's not out picking up some sorority chick at some random club down the Pier.
He's hunched over the table, tank top tucked into the waist band of his jeans. His lean shoulders work back and forth and she finds herself slightly mesmerized by the sight. It's been a long damn time since she just stood back and admired the man. Everything, from the curve of his spine, and the vertebrae tatted the length of it, to the way his jeans hang low on his thin hips, and cover his tight little ass, makes her lips quirk. His right knee is bent and his foot is tapping against the floor in rhythm with whatever song is stuck in his head tonight. Probably something from Nine Inch Nails.
Slowly, she moves to his side at the table and lowers herself into the chair there, leaning forward on her elbows to watch him work. The block of concrete is three feet wide, and it's not yet apparent what the piece will turn out to be, but the hard angles and lines remind her of the graffiti he covered their bedroom wall in a few months ago. In the center, she painted a portrait of the two of them, naked and tangled together in a tight embrace. It's the most beautiful piece of art she's ever seen, and she remembers the way they fucked so damn hard and dirty when it was finally finished.
He doesn't even bother turning to look at her. There's a faint smile on his full lips, but it doesn't really reach his eyes. It's weird, kind of, because he seems so vibrant during the day at work. Like it doesn't even bother him that she told him that they're done. For good. And that she really, really meant it this time.
Sure, she says it every time, but that's only because she means it every time. She really does get fed up with his immaturity. She really does want him to grow up and realize that they're not nineteen anymore and they can't keep doing this forever. She's dying for him to realize that, when she breaks up with him, she's really just crying out for him wake up and realize that she needs more from him. Desperately wants more.
It's a mind game, and she knows that. But she can't stop playing it with him.
As she watches him work, her eyes flit up and down the intricate sleeve of tribal and Celtic designs on his left arm. She's admired them with her fingers, her tongue, and her eyes so often that sometimes they blur together and she thinks maybe she doesn't even realize the beauty in them. Jared really is the best in the business. Doesn't hurt that he had a fan-fucking-tastic canvas to start with.
Narrowing her eyes, she zeroes in on something she's never seen before. Tucked safely between two of the arcing lines, in a script of his own design, are six letters she knows better than any others in the alphabet.
S-O-P-H-I-A.
It's completely healed. At least six weeks old, possibly more. And she's never even noticed it. How has she never fucking noticed that this man, who she so regularly accuses of not being committed to her, has branded his arm with her name. Not his chest, or his hip, or even his back. In a sweatshirt, or a jacket, he could hide it, but Chad doesn't wear either of those things very often.
It's right here. And it's in fucking color. And she should have known. Should have noticed it. When did she stop looking close enough to see that Chad's love for her is literally written right here on his sleeve? When did she decide what his commitment is supposed to look like, and stop noticing what it actually does look like.
Her fingers trail the letters, eyes riveted, and Chad's hand stops moving over the concrete block. When their eyes meet, she smiles softly. “My name is on your arm,” she whispers.
Chad just shrugs. “You want it on my forehead?” he asks, though there's no real bite behind the question.
He would do it. For the first time in over five years, Sophia knows that Chad would do it. If she said 'yes', he would tattoo her name on his forehead. She believes it, like she's never truly believed the words 'I love you' from him. Because this isn't for her. He doesn't have this to impress her, or convince her of anything. The guy she thought he was would have flaunted the damn thing and made sure that she, and everyone else, knew it was there.
“Come here,” she says, standing and grabbing his wrist. He follows willingly and Sophia pushes him down into the massage chair.
Chad barely has time to 'oomph' when she straddles his hips and attacks his mouth with her own. His fingers dig into the denim over the curve of her ass when she grinds her hips down into his. God bless Jared and this motherfucking chair, especially when Sophia presses the button by his elbow and sets the seat vibrating beneath Chad's ass.
Tearing his mouth away, he says breathlessly, “Marry me.”
Sophia laughs. “Marry you,” she shakes her head and rolls her eyes at the joke.
But the chuckle dies in her throat when he picks her up from chair and all but drags her into the shop. Chad pulls the bottom drawer of his station out and then kicks it shut. When he turns to her, there's a black velvet box in his hands. Simple flick of the wrist and he reveals a platinum band with a yellow diamond, exactly like the one she teased wanting for Christmas last year.
“Marry me.” There's no humor in Chad's eyes. Not even a hint of amusement. And no fog of arousal driving his proposal.
Tears spring, unbidden, and Sophia swallows around the lump in her throat. “Marry you,” she whispers, her hand covering her mouth in disbelief. If he had done this a week ago, before she knew what she knows now? She would have told him to fuck off. That he couldn't make some half-assed proposal and expect it to fix everything.
But now? He's standing here, with the look in his eyes she's always mistaken for hunger and lust and want. It's not any of those things, in reality. It's affection and love and the purest form of desire, not for her body, but for her heart. He means it, and she's never believed it. Until now.
Retracting his hand, Chad starts to close the box. “Okay, so maybe you need a little more time,” he starts, and doesn't mention that they're going on six years of this bull shit and if she's not ready for a fucking commitment, maybe she should stop demanding one so goddamn loudly every third day of the week.
“No,” she laughs, grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand back toward her. “I mean, yes,” she shakes her head and rolls her eyes, hand finding the back of his golden blond hair. “Yes, I will marry you! That's what I meant.”
Chad nods and leans forward, hands under her ass as she wraps her legs around him, their chests pressed tightly together. “Well, alright then,” he winks when he pulls back. “Come on. I left the chair running.”
(for
taintedlove, to whom I promised femslash in the disclaimer!verse – there might be more later, but for now, I hope this will get you by.)She's been working for Jared about six months now, and Katie's never been happier with her life in general. Sure, she just got out of a pretty intense relationship a few months back, but the bitch was crazy and she needed to be cut out. Without the drama, she feels loose and relaxed all the time. Doesn't hurt that her boss is so laid back he's practically in a coma most of the time, and that the rest of the people she works with are so fucking cool, they shouldn't all be allowed to congregate in one place at the same time. It's kind of not fair to the rest of the world.
Well, most of the people she works with are cool. She doesn't really know Steve all that well, since he's not around as much as the others. And Sandy's sweet, but she's pretty much the busiest person Katie's ever met. They don't get a lot of time to hang out, which is kind of a shame, since Sandy's the hottest little piece of ass Katie's seen in a long while.
Sophia's awesome, though, and Chad's cool in his own right. Jared's just amazing, and the fact that he took a chance on hiring her still knocks her back. His talent blows her mind, and sometimes she wishes that she could just clear her schedule and sit around watching him work all damn day. He's more than an artist. He's her fucking hero. Of course, she doesn't tell him that because it would weird him out and make her look like an idiot. But facts are facts, and the fact is that she's damn lucky to be working for him.
And then there's Genevieve. They've known each other, run in (sort of) the same circles, for the last few years, but Katie never really noticed the younger woman until she started working at Slinging Ink.
Well, that's not entirely true. She noticed. She just didn't like her much. Now she's finding herself a little more taken with the kid.
Taken might be a strong word. Intrigued might be better.
Ya see, Genevieve talks a damn good game. She wouldn't have so many co-ed femmes trekking in and out of the shop to see her, to talk to her, to get her number or willingly cough up theirs, if she didn't. Rumor has it, she follows through. Rumor also has it, however, that you haven't been turned out until you've spent a night with Katie Cassidy.
So maybe it's a competition thing. Not that Katie feels threatened. She knows who sits at the top of the bitch pile, and she's perfectly secure in that position. But if one more chick saunters up to Genevieve at this bar and flirts like a coy little high school girl, Katie might be forced to prove herself.
“Hey, Gen,” a sing-song voice sounds over her shoulder and Katie just rolls her eyes.
Next to her, Genevieve smiles knowingly and then lifts her eyes to whatever slut-of-the-moment is standing behind Katie. “What's goin' on, Maggie?” she winks and the girl giggles. It's a high, lilting sound and it's so damn transparent, Katie's almost embarrassed for her.
“You busy?”
And that's the question that breaks the fucking camel's back. The one that has Katie sliding off of her stool and grabbing Genevieve's leather-clad arm tightly. “Yeah, she is,” Katie answers, nearly pulling the younger woman from the bar.
They're in the car and on the road before Genevieve speaks. Katie figures that's probably a good thing, being as she's not exactly sure what the hell's gotten into herself and she doesn't want to have to explain it. “Your place?” is the first thing Genevieve asks when she does speak.
Hooking a right at the next light, Katie worries her bottom lip between her teeth and concentrates on the slow-moving traffic in front of her. “Yours is closer,” she points out, taking a hard left that throws Genevieve against the door.
By the time they make it to Genevieve's apartment, Katie has convinced herself that this punk-ass bitch needs to be reminded of her place. Though, if she really stopped to think about it, she would rationally tell herself that Genevieve has never actually questioned Katie's reputation. But who really thinks rationally when they're about to fuck a hot brunette in skin-tight jeans and fuckin' bad-ass combat boots?
It's not like they're on each other the second they walk through the door or anything. This isn't one of those 'I have to have you right now moments. Instead, Katie tucks her hands into the pockets of her jacket and casually makes her way back to the bedroom. She tosses her jacket onto the floor near the vanity and crosses to the bedside table. “So damn predictable,” she smiles to herself as she crouches low and opens the bottom drawer.
“What? You have some special carved box for yours?” Genevieve's voice is tinted with humor and amusement in the doorway.
Shrugging, Katie stands, a pink jelly dildo in her hand. “You ever use this on anyone else?” Genevieve shakes her head, peeling her jacket off of her thin shoulders and dropping it at her feet. Nodding toward the bed, Katie says, “This doesn't mean anything.”
With a roll of her eyes, Genevieve walks around the bed and grabs Katie by the back of her hair. “Bitch, please,” she huffs sarcastically. “I invented the fuck and run.”
There's less than a second between the time the words leave Genevieve's mouth and the time Katie has her thrown onto the mattress, thigh pressed firmly against between her thighs. “You didn't invent shit, little girl,” she corrects. “You're runnin' the exact game I was a couple years back. And I'mma show you that I still do it better.” There's so much fucking heat rolling off the woman beneath her that Katie thinks she might not make it through the list of plans she has for turning this kid upside down and sending her on the express train to Happyland. “Now shut the fuck up and take your clothes off.”
It's not sweet and gentle. It's not so much rough and tumble, either. In the end, there's a lot of sweating, and swearing, and trash talking. Also, orgasms. A lot of fucking orgasms. And when it's over, Katie has to admit that Genevieve's rep is well-deserved. She's not ready to concede her spot or anything, wouldn't call Genevieve the best ever under any circumstances. But maybe, maybe the best Katie's had.
“Jesus God,” Genevieve groans, rolling to her side. But as soon as she finds her feet, she collapses back to the mattress. “My legs . . . I just . . . damn,” she stops and her grin splits her face in two. “I have never,” she starts, but then stops when her brain won't form actual complete sentences.
And Katie just nods, eyes drifting shut as sleep threatens every corner of her brain. “I know.”
It's not so much love as it is companionship. Keeping each other company. Helping each other forget that they can't actually have what it is they really want. It's just mutual admiration, and respect, and occasional reprieve.
She knows her own infatuation with Jensen is fucked up. The hardest part to wrap her own head around is the fact that doesn't want him for herself. She gets that he's gay and that he belongs with Jared and that they're beautiful and wonderful and happy together. And she's genuinely happy for them. It's not even a matter of wishing that things were different.
Maybe, in the end, what she really loves is the way Jensen loves Jared. The way they are together and the way the world just disappears for them. Maybe she's just waiting for the day that somebody just fucking lights up when she walks into a room, the way Jensen does when Jared stops by the shop. Maybe she can't get into dating anyone who doesn't put her at the center of their universe, because she's seen what it looks like when someone does. Because she knows it exists, and now she can't settle for less.
So she fucks Chris. And occasionally Steve, though rarely, and always with Chris. Because Chris and Steve are pretty much perfect for each other in every way, except they both still love fucking women too much to give it up for good, and they don't mind that Danneel would rather be fucking a straight version of Jensen. Because they're all hot, and the sex is good, and they're still friends afterward, without everything being all weird and awkward.
She never used to believe that real love, the epic kind that sweeps you off your feet and makes you walk around like a babbling moron, actually existed. Now that she knows it does, biding her time and waiting for it to find her doesn't seem like the worst thing in the world. Especially with Chris's sex-and-whiskey voice whispering filth against her ear in the meantime.
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Date: 2009-11-04 04:24 am (UTC)Danneel/Chris?!? Just might be my new OTP. LOVED IT.
I cannot believe you just made me like Genevieve. I didn't think it was physically possible, but I sure did. I can totally see her and Katie getting into a bitch fight. ;)
And Chad/Sophia!! That was perfect!
Loved them!!!
no subject
Date: 2009-11-04 04:39 am (UTC)I was worried that Chad/Sophia was too damn schmoopy, but I sort of fell in love with it when I went back and re-read it. I'm glad you liked them!