sprint across the wire, slide into my hand
open post x overflow
open post x overflow
( Steve has been murdered all sorts of ways, since he ended up in the fog. honestly, all the different ways have started to get blurry, now. most times, he comes back into consciousness at the campfire and doesn't remember much at all. it's the not remembering that cues him in that he died, rather than figments of how it happened.
so the fact he viscerally recalls boils growing underneath his skin, his face sloughing off in a solid sheet, shrieking and shouting as a robotic voice insisted it wouldn't even hurt —– all that is strange enough. waking up with his face stiff and numb is sure as shit not helping, though. he's felt it, sure, but what good does that do? he's felt his own face but never committed it to memory. there's maybe a bruise still, where the needle went in his eye. anything else, Steve can't discern through feeling alone. and, yes. fine! some distant part of him knows that being panicked that his face glued back on sideways is stupid.
he just can't help himself. turns out it's easier to worry about his face being crooked than it is to think about why it might be crooked. or the lumpy flesh monster that did it, jesus christ, because that's what the fog needed! a lumpy flesh robot hybrid from Mars, or whatever the hell the blobby alien planet was supposed to be. fuck.
it takes him awhile to navigate to where Quentin claimed to be. he tries to be a little less rattled by the time he gets there. it's not entirely effective, but, walking and moving and not sitting at the campfire prodding at his own jaw pointlessly was at least a little sobering. Steve shines his flashlight around the trees, thinking mildly that he had no clue crabapple anything existed in the fog. there's some edge of anxiety to wandering away from the campfire, though spotting Quentin does lessen it somewhat. because there's safety in numbers? that's real cute. )
Hey asshole, ( Steve says in sweet, heartfelt greeting, blinking his flashlight at Quentin twice before he turns it off to stare at the trees. ) What the fuck are you even doing?
so the fact he viscerally recalls boils growing underneath his skin, his face sloughing off in a solid sheet, shrieking and shouting as a robotic voice insisted it wouldn't even hurt —– all that is strange enough. waking up with his face stiff and numb is sure as shit not helping, though. he's felt it, sure, but what good does that do? he's felt his own face but never committed it to memory. there's maybe a bruise still, where the needle went in his eye. anything else, Steve can't discern through feeling alone. and, yes. fine! some distant part of him knows that being panicked that his face glued back on sideways is stupid.
he just can't help himself. turns out it's easier to worry about his face being crooked than it is to think about why it might be crooked. or the lumpy flesh monster that did it, jesus christ, because that's what the fog needed! a lumpy flesh robot hybrid from Mars, or whatever the hell the blobby alien planet was supposed to be. fuck.
it takes him awhile to navigate to where Quentin claimed to be. he tries to be a little less rattled by the time he gets there. it's not entirely effective, but, walking and moving and not sitting at the campfire prodding at his own jaw pointlessly was at least a little sobering. Steve shines his flashlight around the trees, thinking mildly that he had no clue crabapple anything existed in the fog. there's some edge of anxiety to wandering away from the campfire, though spotting Quentin does lessen it somewhat. because there's safety in numbers? that's real cute. )
Hey asshole, ( Steve says in sweet, heartfelt greeting, blinking his flashlight at Quentin twice before he turns it off to stare at the trees. ) What the fuck are you even doing?
[ He has a hard time with Steve, knowing when to make him self-soothe and when to be gentle with him. Sure, in a world where Quentin has all the time and patience in the world, it would always be gentleness, talking it through, Socratic discussion, blah blah blah, but he's lousy with neither around here. Hasn't been in strong supply of patience since he stopped sleeping, in fact. It's a skill he'd love to get back, but then someone around here starts to lose it and all he has time for is shaking them until they snap out of it and--
[ It probably does nothing to make Steve healthier in the long run, but he's a really easy candidate for shaking the shit out of.
[ So yeah. Quentin knows he can be a little rough with Steve because Steve can take it. Does take it. Kind of regularly. But the new nasty in this game is no joke. If Soma's account of how the Singularity came to be wasn't chilling enough, Quentin has heard piecemeal stories from people he knows, loves, of how it dissects. Steve died to it. Died to it horribly. He's earned a little handholding over the matter.
[ Or at least, that was the plan, before Steve hits him with the high beams by way of greeting. Quentin hisses, throws a hand up to cover his eyes as he makes his way over. ]
Hey, dickcheese, can you turn that thing--thank you. I'm working. [ One hand throws wide behind him at the trees. There's a wet, musty smell hanging in the air. It's particularly heavy on Quentin as he comes closer. He's been out here a while. Easing in, he squints at Steve's face and, with all the verisimilitude of a peeved siblings, grimaces. ] Oh jesus, man. You weren't kidding...
[ It probably does nothing to make Steve healthier in the long run, but he's a really easy candidate for shaking the shit out of.
[ So yeah. Quentin knows he can be a little rough with Steve because Steve can take it. Does take it. Kind of regularly. But the new nasty in this game is no joke. If Soma's account of how the Singularity came to be wasn't chilling enough, Quentin has heard piecemeal stories from people he knows, loves, of how it dissects. Steve died to it. Died to it horribly. He's earned a little handholding over the matter.
[ Or at least, that was the plan, before Steve hits him with the high beams by way of greeting. Quentin hisses, throws a hand up to cover his eyes as he makes his way over. ]
Hey, dickcheese, can you turn that thing--thank you. I'm working. [ One hand throws wide behind him at the trees. There's a wet, musty smell hanging in the air. It's particularly heavy on Quentin as he comes closer. He's been out here a while. Easing in, he squints at Steve's face and, with all the verisimilitude of a peeved siblings, grimaces. ] Oh jesus, man. You weren't kidding...
[ cont. ]
What, are they saying their vows now? [ Stone-cold sober, but whoa hearing Alex's voice makes him at once glad not to be there and so, so jealous of whoever is sitting right next to him. He hunkers a little lower on the couch, reaches to turn his music down. ] Relax, ditch your boring dinner partner and say you have an important call, come on.
What, are they saying their vows now? [ Stone-cold sober, but whoa hearing Alex's voice makes him at once glad not to be there and so, so jealous of whoever is sitting right next to him. He hunkers a little lower on the couch, reaches to turn his music down. ] Relax, ditch your boring dinner partner and say you have an important call, come on.
[ cont. ]
It's a couple of hours before Quentin can get away from the morbid festivities, scrounge and beg up beer money, and make it to Ronan's doorframe with the plastic rings of the twelve-pack stretching from his fingers. His eyes are red in the whites and dark in the pockets, still shimmering wet from the day's activities as he grins and lifts the pack to demonstrate.
"Let's ball."
Under the strain, a can falls loose. Cursing, he catches it in his hand, but not well; it bounces off his palm and plummets for the floor, the promise of a lite beer mess to kick things off.
It's a couple of hours before Quentin can get away from the morbid festivities, scrounge and beg up beer money, and make it to Ronan's doorframe with the plastic rings of the twelve-pack stretching from his fingers. His eyes are red in the whites and dark in the pockets, still shimmering wet from the day's activities as he grins and lifts the pack to demonstrate.
"Let's ball."
Under the strain, a can falls loose. Cursing, he catches it in his hand, but not well; it bounces off his palm and plummets for the floor, the promise of a lite beer mess to kick things off.
Ronan, leaning against the doorframe, watches the chaos unfold with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He takes in the sight of Quentin: eyes too bright and a grin too wide, like someone who’s trying too hard to shake off a heavy day, but at least he’s showing up.
He watches as Quentin fumbles to catch the can, his own fingers reaching out like he might help, but not really caring enough to do much about it.
"Yeah, real smooth," Ronan says, voice light and teasing, but there's something in his gaze that says he’s seen worse.
"Let me guess, you're already three cans deep, and this is your big plan to make it to the next round of your personal hell?" He steps aside, letting Quentin in without waiting for an answer, because hell, this is what they've always done. Fix up a mess, down some beers, repeat.
He watches as Quentin fumbles to catch the can, his own fingers reaching out like he might help, but not really caring enough to do much about it.
"Yeah, real smooth," Ronan says, voice light and teasing, but there's something in his gaze that says he’s seen worse.
"Let me guess, you're already three cans deep, and this is your big plan to make it to the next round of your personal hell?" He steps aside, letting Quentin in without waiting for an answer, because hell, this is what they've always done. Fix up a mess, down some beers, repeat.
I don't have full smut thread energy, but I'd be down to ftb or write a little ff tag if you want!!
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pharmacy
- 2025-01-14 18:12 (UTC) - ExpandWhen he sees Tillman, Quentin asks if he's really the sheriff. When Tillman says he's a deputy, Quentin asks if the evidence room sees much action; how much drug trouble does a town like this get into? He knows for a fact that the answer is "a lot". He's been through too many of these uncanny rural places to think anything less, and as he's been hitchhiking around this area, people from the next state over all say this place is lousy with gangs. Drugs. Corruption. Hope, running like a vine throwing out seeds, desperately looking for the sun.
When Tillman gives him a look that says exactly what Quentin expects, he jokes about getting a tour. Jokes about making it worth his time. Watches when Tillman laughs and the grizzled men around them laugh harder, and lets the topic move on. He buys the deputy a beer (the most he can afford, thanks for your service, man) and lets small talk take over, dodges questions about where he's come from or how long he's staying, and trusts that he'll be able to tell later if that seed he just threw is going to take.
When Quentin goes out for a smoke, maybe to try to find a ride, Tillman follows him. When he says he might have some time to spare for a tour, Quentin grins around his cigarette and takes a last drag before telling him to lead the way. It's practiced, casual guy talk on the ride to the station, not so flirty that he comes off faggy, not so tryhard manly that he comes off disinterested. If Tillman is looking to get laid, the openness is there, and if he's not--well, they're just hanging out. A little Stark County hospitality, no big deal.
Relief hits him dizzyingly hard when they scuffle into the dark of the empty station and Tillman gets him by the arm and the mouth and Quentin lets out the breath he's been holding all night, rushed through his nose. Cool. Cool cool cool. Not getting hatecrimed yet. He's going to have bruises from bumping into desks as they grope their way across the office, but he doesn't feel them while he's sucking on Tillman's tongue. Gator can paw at him, he'll find skin and bones and a worn out wallet through the layers of fabric, heat radiating through his t-shirt as he breathes greedily. Quentin paws back, fingers denting into the collar and arm holes of the tactical vest, thumbs squeezing possessively at the soft space between the kevlar and Tillman's belt.
He expects to be stopped when his hand wraps over the closed holster at Tillman's thigh. A fist closes around his wrist, and Quentin pulls back from the kiss with a gasp and a reedy laugh. "Easy. Just--you wanna--take that bad boy off? Or is this a, uh. Gear stays on kinda thing?"
When Tillman gives him a look that says exactly what Quentin expects, he jokes about getting a tour. Jokes about making it worth his time. Watches when Tillman laughs and the grizzled men around them laugh harder, and lets the topic move on. He buys the deputy a beer (the most he can afford, thanks for your service, man) and lets small talk take over, dodges questions about where he's come from or how long he's staying, and trusts that he'll be able to tell later if that seed he just threw is going to take.
When Quentin goes out for a smoke, maybe to try to find a ride, Tillman follows him. When he says he might have some time to spare for a tour, Quentin grins around his cigarette and takes a last drag before telling him to lead the way. It's practiced, casual guy talk on the ride to the station, not so flirty that he comes off faggy, not so tryhard manly that he comes off disinterested. If Tillman is looking to get laid, the openness is there, and if he's not--well, they're just hanging out. A little Stark County hospitality, no big deal.
Relief hits him dizzyingly hard when they scuffle into the dark of the empty station and Tillman gets him by the arm and the mouth and Quentin lets out the breath he's been holding all night, rushed through his nose. Cool. Cool cool cool. Not getting hatecrimed yet. He's going to have bruises from bumping into desks as they grope their way across the office, but he doesn't feel them while he's sucking on Tillman's tongue. Gator can paw at him, he'll find skin and bones and a worn out wallet through the layers of fabric, heat radiating through his t-shirt as he breathes greedily. Quentin paws back, fingers denting into the collar and arm holes of the tactical vest, thumbs squeezing possessively at the soft space between the kevlar and Tillman's belt.
He expects to be stopped when his hand wraps over the closed holster at Tillman's thigh. A fist closes around his wrist, and Quentin pulls back from the kiss with a gasp and a reedy laugh. "Easy. Just--you wanna--take that bad boy off? Or is this a, uh. Gear stays on kinda thing?"
He's a little spitfuck is what he is. Quentin, he says his name is. A long streak of fucking nothing, bones wrapped in skin wrapped in cotton and denim. The cigarette from his lips curls smoke at the same angle as his mouth in a crooked smile. There's something knowing about it that Gator doesn't like, but he's in the mood to get laid, and Quentin, well. He'll do for tonight. He's not from Grindr or Tinder, so that has to mean something a little less desperate.
As Quentin grasps at his thigh, namely the holster, Gator wraps his fist around his wrist and squeezes. Not enough to hurt him too badly, but as a warning. You break it, you fucking buy it. That, meaning Gator will more than happily pull it and place it to Quentin's head as an example. It ain't like brains aren't a picture-pretty decoration. His dark eyes glitter at Quentin's question, and as Gator flips his ballcap off and tosses it, the kevlar comes next. He's got on a form-fitting black t-shirt, and that comes off next. He then places his hand on Quentin's belt, yanking it.
"I take it off, you fuckin' take it off."
He's half-naked, pressing Quentin to the desk with his hips. He keeps the holster on, as he's not sure he completely trusts this slippery bastard past how he can fuck him. He brushes a few curls from Quentin's forehead, tongue slipping out to run down his bottom lip.
"Or is that too much to fuckin' ask? I'll rip it, you know. Right off."
As Quentin grasps at his thigh, namely the holster, Gator wraps his fist around his wrist and squeezes. Not enough to hurt him too badly, but as a warning. You break it, you fucking buy it. That, meaning Gator will more than happily pull it and place it to Quentin's head as an example. It ain't like brains aren't a picture-pretty decoration. His dark eyes glitter at Quentin's question, and as Gator flips his ballcap off and tosses it, the kevlar comes next. He's got on a form-fitting black t-shirt, and that comes off next. He then places his hand on Quentin's belt, yanking it.
"I take it off, you fuckin' take it off."
He's half-naked, pressing Quentin to the desk with his hips. He keeps the holster on, as he's not sure he completely trusts this slippery bastard past how he can fuck him. He brushes a few curls from Quentin's forehead, tongue slipping out to run down his bottom lip.
"Or is that too much to fuckin' ask? I'll rip it, you know. Right off."
[ and shortest time to overflow post goes to... ]
you looking for a problem tonight? are you gonna come over in your redneckmobile and solve me?
you looking for a problem tonight? are you gonna come over in your redneckmobile and solve me?
depends. you gonna leave the light on for me, or make me find my own way in?
Billy is an asshole. He wouldn't ever argue that he's not, but in his defense, he's a decent roommate. If you're not looking for a friend (or if you're only looking for a friend at one in the morning, three lines and six beers deep, for smoking and snickering with your elbows over the back of the couch, blowing cigarettes out the open window before dropping into a dreamless sleep fully clothed), he holds down a job, he has a life, and he doesn't ask anything more than that of Quentin either. The house isn't clean, but who cares? Anyone they bring home isn't spending any time in the kitchen or living room, and the bedrooms are too small or mess to really accumulate. Just...don't look under the beds. No problems.
Or...typically, no problems.
Today, Quentin's doing work that isn't his day job of making lattes and selling drugs in the back alley. Today is a passion project day. He's working half a day, then he's got a ride picking him up for a trip out of town for research. The plan's all laid out, no problems except that he forgets his bag in his room. Didn't forget his keys though, so no problems except that he doesn't think to message Billy that he's coming home. Why would he?
It's never been an issue, so he figures it's no problem--even when he bursts through the front door and hears that Billy is definitely at home. "Sorry, man, I forgot my stuff." Quentin calls as he digs in the entry closet. Wasn't his bag in here? Must be in his room. Coffee, instant coffee so he doesn't have to buy it, that's worth making before he grabs the bag. Beelining to the kitchen, he waves absent-mindedly towards the couch. "I'm gonna be back late tonight, if anyone comes around, let'm know I'll be back tomorrow. Hey, are we out of--"
It fully takes him rifling through the fridge, rinsing out a dirty thermos, and getting the coffee out of the cabinet before he realizes there's just as much noise coming from the TV area as there is from him in the kitchen. Two person noise. "Oh shit." Quentin's jaw drops, expression apologetic. He's about to deal out some verbal apologies when his eyes tick from Billy's flushed face and mussed hair down to the face between his legs--and Quentin's eyes go wide. "Oh...shit."
Or...typically, no problems.
Today, Quentin's doing work that isn't his day job of making lattes and selling drugs in the back alley. Today is a passion project day. He's working half a day, then he's got a ride picking him up for a trip out of town for research. The plan's all laid out, no problems except that he forgets his bag in his room. Didn't forget his keys though, so no problems except that he doesn't think to message Billy that he's coming home. Why would he?
It's never been an issue, so he figures it's no problem--even when he bursts through the front door and hears that Billy is definitely at home. "Sorry, man, I forgot my stuff." Quentin calls as he digs in the entry closet. Wasn't his bag in here? Must be in his room. Coffee, instant coffee so he doesn't have to buy it, that's worth making before he grabs the bag. Beelining to the kitchen, he waves absent-mindedly towards the couch. "I'm gonna be back late tonight, if anyone comes around, let'm know I'll be back tomorrow. Hey, are we out of--"
It fully takes him rifling through the fridge, rinsing out a dirty thermos, and getting the coffee out of the cabinet before he realizes there's just as much noise coming from the TV area as there is from him in the kitchen. Two person noise. "Oh shit." Quentin's jaw drops, expression apologetic. He's about to deal out some verbal apologies when his eyes tick from Billy's flushed face and mussed hair down to the face between his legs--and Quentin's eyes go wide. "Oh...shit."
Quentin's pretty alright. Bit of a dickhead, but most of the guys Billy spends time with are. Being his roommate doesn't really change that - their friendship is about as skin deep as all the others - but it does come with some perks. There's always coffee and drugs in the apartment, and a good party is never far away. The place is small, but their bills are paid. For the most part, Quentin minds his own goddamn business, and so does Billy. And after living with his dad his whole life? That's a huge fucking blessing.
For one, Billy can bring hookups home whenever he wants. Sure, he could be a little more courteous or considerate about it, but they're both adults. He doesn't complain when Quentin's got some goth bitch in his room yowling like a cat in heat, he just puts on headphones. So far, Quentin hasn't been stupid enough to complain about Billy's houseguests either. Simple solutions.
That being said, Billy's been a little more cautious about bringing his newest fuck buddy around their place. Deputy Gator Tillman isn't exactly one to follow the exact letter of the law, but that doesn't mean he wants to bring him into an apartment full of illegal narcotics, either. Gator's got a mean streak - to put it lightly - and if things go sour between them, the last thing Billy needs is for Gator to have incriminating dirt on either of them. And largely, that’s been easy - Gator’s not opposed to fucking in the back seat of his truck, or his patrol SUV, or Billy’s car. And when that won’t do, a bar bathroom, a back alley, out in the woods - they’ve got options.
But Quentin’s supposed to be out today, all day, and Billy wants to get fucked good and hard in his own bed. And, well, that was his intention, but they made it to the couch first, and Billy's not about to say no to Gator when he's so eager to get on his knees right now.
“Fuck, daddy, that’s good,” Billy groans, gripping a fistful of Gator’s hair as he rolls his hips up to meet the wet heat of his mouth. His other arm is stretched out over the back of the couch, muscular thighs splayed wide, gym shorts abandoned near his feet.
He thinks he hears something, but ignores it. The walls in this place are like tissue paper - he could practically recite some of their neighbors’ nightly arguments by heart. So Billy ignores it, at first. It’s when he hears Quentin rummaging around that Billy rolls his eyes, but he’s not about to ruin a good thing. He could easily, easily just grab his shit and go - but of course that isn’t the case. He’s gotta yap his ear off, gotta tell Billy his whole fuckin’ life story --
Oh shit. Oh… shit. Billy finally makes eye contact with Quentin from across the room, glaring daggers without so much as moving his hand from Gator’s head.
“Are you fuckin’ done yet? Huh? Jesus Christ, will you shut the fuck up and get out already? Read the goddamn room, shithead.”
For one, Billy can bring hookups home whenever he wants. Sure, he could be a little more courteous or considerate about it, but they're both adults. He doesn't complain when Quentin's got some goth bitch in his room yowling like a cat in heat, he just puts on headphones. So far, Quentin hasn't been stupid enough to complain about Billy's houseguests either. Simple solutions.
That being said, Billy's been a little more cautious about bringing his newest fuck buddy around their place. Deputy Gator Tillman isn't exactly one to follow the exact letter of the law, but that doesn't mean he wants to bring him into an apartment full of illegal narcotics, either. Gator's got a mean streak - to put it lightly - and if things go sour between them, the last thing Billy needs is for Gator to have incriminating dirt on either of them. And largely, that’s been easy - Gator’s not opposed to fucking in the back seat of his truck, or his patrol SUV, or Billy’s car. And when that won’t do, a bar bathroom, a back alley, out in the woods - they’ve got options.
But Quentin’s supposed to be out today, all day, and Billy wants to get fucked good and hard in his own bed. And, well, that was his intention, but they made it to the couch first, and Billy's not about to say no to Gator when he's so eager to get on his knees right now.
“Fuck, daddy, that’s good,” Billy groans, gripping a fistful of Gator’s hair as he rolls his hips up to meet the wet heat of his mouth. His other arm is stretched out over the back of the couch, muscular thighs splayed wide, gym shorts abandoned near his feet.
He thinks he hears something, but ignores it. The walls in this place are like tissue paper - he could practically recite some of their neighbors’ nightly arguments by heart. So Billy ignores it, at first. It’s when he hears Quentin rummaging around that Billy rolls his eyes, but he’s not about to ruin a good thing. He could easily, easily just grab his shit and go - but of course that isn’t the case. He’s gotta yap his ear off, gotta tell Billy his whole fuckin’ life story --
Oh shit. Oh… shit. Billy finally makes eye contact with Quentin from across the room, glaring daggers without so much as moving his hand from Gator’s head.
“Are you fuckin’ done yet? Huh? Jesus Christ, will you shut the fuck up and get out already? Read the goddamn room, shithead.”
The new raft of privates needs a strong hand. Not unusual, of course, but the cohort coming out of Columbus has a few particularly cantankerous additions that are carrying over baggage from boot camp. Smith and Jarvis land themselves in disciplinary action in record time--Jarvis for being a classic piece of shit bully, and Smith for trying to solve it by being slick (pranks, wiseassery, and ultimately picking a vicious fight) instead of running it up the chain of command.
A month of scrubbing toilets for an hour first thing in the morning and the blessed rigor of training seems to break them easy enough. Even if tempers didn't cool, they would at least be too exhausted to let them flare up. Mischief temporarily managed, the next month gives Smith a chance to prove himself to be something more than just a sneak--which he is. He's also a loudmouth, especially with leadership. Especially for people that won't open their mouths themselves. He's reckless, which drives him to dumb choices and to try things that others are afraid to try. He's critical and stubborn, which puts him at odds with his peers and betters on more than one occasion--but if we can beat the stubbornness out of him, he's got the eye for spotting and the nerve for making decisive moves.
He could be a leader in the field. He could be a candidate for Force Recon, if he can tighten up quick and come to heel. Why don't you an eye on him, Frank? Mentor him a little, it'll be good for you. Like having a dog. Just have a couple lunches together, encourage him to start developing this skill or that--keep him out of trouble.
The kind of trouble Frank might want to look out for is the kind of trouble Smith came in with. The heat with Jarvis never extinguished, just went to the backburner and simmered. Still simmers, as Smith starts to learn and distinguish himself and Jarvis struggles to find even a sliver of promotion material in his fabric. In the grand scheme of things, it's not a big deal; every branch needs grunts. But watching Smith find his coltish footing is a splinter in his heel. Every approving look, hit target, executed exercise, or intercepted basketball in a pick-up game drives it deeper and sets it festering.
Big pain from a little wound, and after butting heads furiously ruins that day's field exercise, Jarvis makes a big move to get relief. Most of the platoon is blowing off steam--hitting the gym, studying harder, heading off base for rest and recreation after a devastating debrief. Quentin goes to the pool to do laps till he has his mistakes straight in his head. In the showers after, he feels better, has some idea of what he'll do to correct himself. On his walk down to the barracks, he's even feeling good before he rounds the corner and catches a punch that drives the air out of his core.
Things have changed since the last time they tussled, and if it was just Jarvis, he might be able to hold his own. But when he tries to tackle Jarvis to the ground, the two backups that came along catch Quentin mid-dive, wrenching him back by the arms and hanging him for another blow. Grips rattling his shoulder sockets, knuckles battering his soft sides, boots crunching against ribs and hips and knees as they toss him to the ground, but nothing to his face--not till Jarvis' weight drops on his stomach and his sweat-sticky palm fastens around Quentin's jaw.
"All that cocksucking don't mean much if you still shit the bed on the field." Jarvis hisses. When Quentin bucks and jostles him, one of the other men sits on his legs, the other pinning his wrists to the concrete floor. "Sarge really let you have it. Didn't you swallow for him last night?"
His fingertips grind into Quentin's cheeks, pressing his teeth open for a schoolyard slight that looks strange against the rest of the violence--a wad of spit dripping long from Jarvis' pursed lips, aimed for Quentin's wedged-open mouth.
A month of scrubbing toilets for an hour first thing in the morning and the blessed rigor of training seems to break them easy enough. Even if tempers didn't cool, they would at least be too exhausted to let them flare up. Mischief temporarily managed, the next month gives Smith a chance to prove himself to be something more than just a sneak--which he is. He's also a loudmouth, especially with leadership. Especially for people that won't open their mouths themselves. He's reckless, which drives him to dumb choices and to try things that others are afraid to try. He's critical and stubborn, which puts him at odds with his peers and betters on more than one occasion--but if we can beat the stubbornness out of him, he's got the eye for spotting and the nerve for making decisive moves.
He could be a leader in the field. He could be a candidate for Force Recon, if he can tighten up quick and come to heel. Why don't you an eye on him, Frank? Mentor him a little, it'll be good for you. Like having a dog. Just have a couple lunches together, encourage him to start developing this skill or that--keep him out of trouble.
The kind of trouble Frank might want to look out for is the kind of trouble Smith came in with. The heat with Jarvis never extinguished, just went to the backburner and simmered. Still simmers, as Smith starts to learn and distinguish himself and Jarvis struggles to find even a sliver of promotion material in his fabric. In the grand scheme of things, it's not a big deal; every branch needs grunts. But watching Smith find his coltish footing is a splinter in his heel. Every approving look, hit target, executed exercise, or intercepted basketball in a pick-up game drives it deeper and sets it festering.
Big pain from a little wound, and after butting heads furiously ruins that day's field exercise, Jarvis makes a big move to get relief. Most of the platoon is blowing off steam--hitting the gym, studying harder, heading off base for rest and recreation after a devastating debrief. Quentin goes to the pool to do laps till he has his mistakes straight in his head. In the showers after, he feels better, has some idea of what he'll do to correct himself. On his walk down to the barracks, he's even feeling good before he rounds the corner and catches a punch that drives the air out of his core.
Things have changed since the last time they tussled, and if it was just Jarvis, he might be able to hold his own. But when he tries to tackle Jarvis to the ground, the two backups that came along catch Quentin mid-dive, wrenching him back by the arms and hanging him for another blow. Grips rattling his shoulder sockets, knuckles battering his soft sides, boots crunching against ribs and hips and knees as they toss him to the ground, but nothing to his face--not till Jarvis' weight drops on his stomach and his sweat-sticky palm fastens around Quentin's jaw.
"All that cocksucking don't mean much if you still shit the bed on the field." Jarvis hisses. When Quentin bucks and jostles him, one of the other men sits on his legs, the other pinning his wrists to the concrete floor. "Sarge really let you have it. Didn't you swallow for him last night?"
His fingertips grind into Quentin's cheeks, pressing his teeth open for a schoolyard slight that looks strange against the rest of the violence--a wad of spit dripping long from Jarvis' pursed lips, aimed for Quentin's wedged-open mouth.
Truth is?
The Marines, they let shit fester.
That injustice, that splinter, they don't pry it out. Shit, that infection? It roots out the weak. They burn up don't they? Can't shake it, that itch, that fever, that need. Marines don't need. So those who know, who have shaken the fever, they come up good. The ones who never get sick and tend to themselves, they come up good. But those who look the fever in the eyes and walk away? Well, those are the ones who come up the best.
Seems like Smith isn't walking away. Ah, sure, the guy tried. Sorta. The brass, they tell Frank there's something about this kid but him? Frank just sees a skinny shitheel with a tongue too big for his mouth. He can set to, he can hup, but he can't keep his dick in his pants. Still, bottom line is Marines don't need.
Frank has heavy boots, but he is a quiet motherfucker. The third of this little gangbang sits down without a sound. Shit, he'll wake up fine. Maybe a headache. Certainly not worse then the extra duty they'll assign him. Digging latrines is archaic shit - no pun intended. It's the needless duties that hurt the most. Maybe they'll straight BCD him, then he'll have to go back to whatever slum he crawled out of just to break his back making less than minimum wage. Frank turns from the shadow of the barracks to watch.
Jarvis grabs Smith's jaw as the other sits on his legs. Christ, this shit. Some of these assholes don't realize they're not in high school anymore. This is the fester. Jarvis. He's just burning up. And the fever has reach, even Frank can see that. One rabid dog with fangs. Frank breathes in, and out.
Brass says get a pet so Frank, Frank grabs a leash.
He lets the spit fall though.
Bingo, fuckwad. Nice shot.
And Frank is quiet, for a hundred and eighty pounds of muscle. Jarvis is still looking at Smith's mouth when his second is lifted off the ground and smashed into the wall behind them. No more schoolyard shit, that's not how it's done around here. Truth is that violence against corps is general anathema; but there are appropriate allowance made. They've all got leashes; Frank's is long. The recruit in his hands drops like a ragdoll, body against the ground making a sound that even a shithead like Jarvis can't ignore - so as the impact of unconscious weight is still thumping against the walls between barracks, Frank's boot is against Jarvis's ass with more than enough force to send him sprawling.
Truth is? He's gonna enjoy this.
The Marines, they let shit fester.
That injustice, that splinter, they don't pry it out. Shit, that infection? It roots out the weak. They burn up don't they? Can't shake it, that itch, that fever, that need. Marines don't need. So those who know, who have shaken the fever, they come up good. The ones who never get sick and tend to themselves, they come up good. But those who look the fever in the eyes and walk away? Well, those are the ones who come up the best.
Seems like Smith isn't walking away. Ah, sure, the guy tried. Sorta. The brass, they tell Frank there's something about this kid but him? Frank just sees a skinny shitheel with a tongue too big for his mouth. He can set to, he can hup, but he can't keep his dick in his pants. Still, bottom line is Marines don't need.
Frank has heavy boots, but he is a quiet motherfucker. The third of this little gangbang sits down without a sound. Shit, he'll wake up fine. Maybe a headache. Certainly not worse then the extra duty they'll assign him. Digging latrines is archaic shit - no pun intended. It's the needless duties that hurt the most. Maybe they'll straight BCD him, then he'll have to go back to whatever slum he crawled out of just to break his back making less than minimum wage. Frank turns from the shadow of the barracks to watch.
Jarvis grabs Smith's jaw as the other sits on his legs. Christ, this shit. Some of these assholes don't realize they're not in high school anymore. This is the fester. Jarvis. He's just burning up. And the fever has reach, even Frank can see that. One rabid dog with fangs. Frank breathes in, and out.
Brass says get a pet so Frank, Frank grabs a leash.
He lets the spit fall though.
Bingo, fuckwad. Nice shot.
And Frank is quiet, for a hundred and eighty pounds of muscle. Jarvis is still looking at Smith's mouth when his second is lifted off the ground and smashed into the wall behind them. No more schoolyard shit, that's not how it's done around here. Truth is that violence against corps is general anathema; but there are appropriate allowance made. They've all got leashes; Frank's is long. The recruit in his hands drops like a ragdoll, body against the ground making a sound that even a shithead like Jarvis can't ignore - so as the impact of unconscious weight is still thumping against the walls between barracks, Frank's boot is against Jarvis's ass with more than enough force to send him sprawling.
Truth is? He's gonna enjoy this.
20 days to decide if q stays or runs, then to write 25% of another book about it
pharmacy
- 2025-07-29 02:38 (UTC) - ExpandI think I'm still trying to remember how to relax enough to have fun. I haven't been great at it.
thank you for your patience, i'm traveling this month and will be! SLOW
pharmacy
- 2025-08-02 20:37 (UTC) - Expandno worries! I'm always kinda slow, take as long as you need
canyousaveme
- 2025-08-02 21:43 (UTC) - Expand Who is the master here, the pirate lady or the zombie cop.
[ cont. ]
[ Special shoutout to Quentin's ability to clock that the place has been missing its grouchy primary resident--and to his ability to break and enter and slip some boobytraps with...let's say more physical harm than is ideal, but not enough to make him regret it. Yet. ]
and I'll bring the notebook back, just as soon as we finish looking at these designs
haven't you been busy anyway? you should be resting, getting in some self care, not going back to the old grind
[ Special shoutout to Quentin's ability to clock that the place has been missing its grouchy primary resident--and to his ability to break and enter and slip some boobytraps with...let's say more physical harm than is ideal, but not enough to make him regret it. Yet. ]
and I'll bring the notebook back, just as soon as we finish looking at these designs
haven't you been busy anyway? you should be resting, getting in some self care, not going back to the old grind
[ the reply has him clenching his jaw, the ensuing pain barely noticed in the blaze of anger that not even the sight of the splatters of blood on the workshop's door ( unlocked, open ) managed to quench. And that note—
If Quentin had taken anything else, he still would've been furious at the intrusion, but maybe a very small part of him would've admired the audacity in leaving behind a calling card, as it were. The notebook is a different matter entirely. The pages upon pages of potential improvements on the Redeemer, concepts for new devices made from materials and machines scavenged from realms strange and new to him in the fog, and even sketches of his old inventions from before, done out of nostalgia and necessity to ward against the Entity's insidious meddling with his memory—it's precious to Caleb in the way that few things are here. The thought of the survivors idly flipping through it—likely to amuse themselves or while away the endless time between trials, because how could any of them understand?—makes his blood boil. ]
well thank you kindly for your concern
but i aint feeling too inclined to lay down my gun now
if you dont want a spear splitting open all your friends skulls in my next trial youll bring it back right after reading this
If Quentin had taken anything else, he still would've been furious at the intrusion, but maybe a very small part of him would've admired the audacity in leaving behind a calling card, as it were. The notebook is a different matter entirely. The pages upon pages of potential improvements on the Redeemer, concepts for new devices made from materials and machines scavenged from realms strange and new to him in the fog, and even sketches of his old inventions from before, done out of nostalgia and necessity to ward against the Entity's insidious meddling with his memory—it's precious to Caleb in the way that few things are here. The thought of the survivors idly flipping through it—likely to amuse themselves or while away the endless time between trials, because how could any of them understand?—makes his blood boil. ]
well thank you kindly for your concern
but i aint feeling too inclined to lay down my gun now
if you dont want a spear splitting open all your friends skulls in my next trial youll bring it back right after reading this
[ cont. ]
Okay--too drunk for dick jokes. [ Groaned, both from all the ruing and the effort of making sure they don't topple over. Quentin's cheeks puff up with a sigh, palm braces Curly's belly as he throws a look around. Honestly, he expected a little bit of a different scene. A party, or at least a crowd angled more decisively towards the guy that everyone seems to be avoiding. For Curly to be this sauced, shouldn't there be an occasion. ]
Hey, does he have a tab open? Can I get like a--do you have bottled water? [ Something to focus on as much as a balm for his stomach. He reaches for the lukewarm nothing-brand battle clumsily, shakes it under Curly's nose. ] Let's go, man. I got you, just keep one foot in front of the other, little sips.
How long have you been here?
Okay--too drunk for dick jokes. [ Groaned, both from all the ruing and the effort of making sure they don't topple over. Quentin's cheeks puff up with a sigh, palm braces Curly's belly as he throws a look around. Honestly, he expected a little bit of a different scene. A party, or at least a crowd angled more decisively towards the guy that everyone seems to be avoiding. For Curly to be this sauced, shouldn't there be an occasion. ]
Hey, does he have a tab open? Can I get like a--do you have bottled water? [ Something to focus on as much as a balm for his stomach. He reaches for the lukewarm nothing-brand battle clumsily, shakes it under Curly's nose. ] Let's go, man. I got you, just keep one foot in front of the other, little sips.
How long have you been here?
In his younger, more formative years, being an alpha was something to be praised for. The strength and prowess that alphas possess made them worthy of protecting those around them — family, friends, mates, children. Breeding capabilities aside, alphas are stronger, larger. They're better. Omegas are weaker, creatures easily won over by a strong scent, parting their legs for the smallest showing of aptitude. That delicate nature made them easy prey. While only the most heinous of alphas would dare to defile those beneath them, the atrocities of the few created a societal shift. In the decades since Eddie's childhood, omegas have remained weak in stature, but strong in policy. They learned to advocate for themselves, subdue their so-called 'tyrants,' emasculate the masses and reduce them to caged animals.
It's only natural that Eddie would find a few persnickety omegas, women who find themselves above him in station, and take back his power. He introduced his victims to a simpler time, showed them the joys of submission — as is their biology. When those women failed to get with the program, he gutted them and moved on.
Don't scorn his actions, pray you. Anyone who spent a lifetime watching society transform around them, watched themselves lose more value with each passing day, would do the same. The natural order has been unheaved, and Edward Gluskin only sought to right it once more.
Which is what lands him in foster care, like a little boy again, like a child being removed from his family home for charges far beyond his understanding. Even now, Eddie can't grasp what occurred in his childhood. He can understand what's occurring now, though: punishment. Prototypical alpha-pattern aggression [nature], disorderly and disobedience [as if an alpha should ever obey an omega], reproductive coercion and sexual violence [again, one's proper nature], murder(s) in the second degree [hobby].
He's meant to be rehabilitated, brought onto Quentin's doorstep in cuffs, muzzled by protocol. It's stupid; he wouldn't think of sinking his teeth into one of these hideous Alpha Control Unit agents.
Paperwork is signed, hands are shaken, and Eddie's left alone with his new guardian. He gives it a week, tops, before he's free once more. Unable to speak, his narrow eyes and flat cheeks express how unimpressed with the one he's meant to bow before.
In the last couple weeks as Quentin has reviewed files, he's debated whether he's getting the assignment because he's just that good, or because someone is trying to get him out of the system. With the rap sheet he was given for Gluskin, getting him out could look like simple quitting or something decidedly more permanent. The county already subsidized getting his house outfitted for security; the window bars are ugly, but they let plenty of light in, and he can't say that the alarm system was unwelcome in the least. He's got the kind of wifi support he needs for emergencies, and he enjoys the smart house set up even when he doesn't have a resident alpha.
If he'd know that accepting those upgrades would lead to this, he might have been less amenable. Tapping Dad's lawyer to keep agency cameras out of every room in his house was more than a little humbling, and he's still horrified that they had to concede to the electric fence in order to get even that. Maybe it's all safer (and the chip is already installed in the alpha, it's perfectly humane, and it's required by town code, Mr. Smith), but it gets to the eternal struggle: how the fuck is he supposed to do anything meaningful if he can't make a show of trust?
This is just a cage, Quentin worries as he watches the ACU escort his latest ward inside. Not an opportunity, not an educational experience, and certainly not a home. He always feels this way on first arrival--but he's never felt it as strongly as he does watching Eddie's jaw work under the muzzle. Nearly twice his size, nearly twice his age, and many times over a more grievous offender than any of his previous alphas--even if those as well as it can possibly go, Quentin might take a hiatus after this one.
They can always see through a pandering attention while law enforcement is in the house, so Quentin doesn't give Eddie more than a nod in greeting and the expected visual onceover before ignoring him in favor of the ACU agents. They do the walk through, test the connectivity of his chip, sign the papers--all the motions of a customer having an appliance installed. When he closes the door, he takes a long moment of quiet to watch the trucks go, to assure that they are as alone as they can be in this wired house.
Then, turning from the window, he takes steps (as loose as he can manage, as casual as he can manufacture) towards Eddie, waves for him to come over. "So, I'm Quentin. You can call me Quentin, that's what I like. C'mere, let's take that thing off." The muzzle. He doesn't motion for Eddie to kneel--just to turn around so Quentin can reach up for the clasp. "What do you want me to call you?"
If he'd know that accepting those upgrades would lead to this, he might have been less amenable. Tapping Dad's lawyer to keep agency cameras out of every room in his house was more than a little humbling, and he's still horrified that they had to concede to the electric fence in order to get even that. Maybe it's all safer (and the chip is already installed in the alpha, it's perfectly humane, and it's required by town code, Mr. Smith), but it gets to the eternal struggle: how the fuck is he supposed to do anything meaningful if he can't make a show of trust?
This is just a cage, Quentin worries as he watches the ACU escort his latest ward inside. Not an opportunity, not an educational experience, and certainly not a home. He always feels this way on first arrival--but he's never felt it as strongly as he does watching Eddie's jaw work under the muzzle. Nearly twice his size, nearly twice his age, and many times over a more grievous offender than any of his previous alphas--even if those as well as it can possibly go, Quentin might take a hiatus after this one.
They can always see through a pandering attention while law enforcement is in the house, so Quentin doesn't give Eddie more than a nod in greeting and the expected visual onceover before ignoring him in favor of the ACU agents. They do the walk through, test the connectivity of his chip, sign the papers--all the motions of a customer having an appliance installed. When he closes the door, he takes a long moment of quiet to watch the trucks go, to assure that they are as alone as they can be in this wired house.
Then, turning from the window, he takes steps (as loose as he can manage, as casual as he can manufacture) towards Eddie, waves for him to come over. "So, I'm Quentin. You can call me Quentin, that's what I like. C'mere, let's take that thing off." The muzzle. He doesn't motion for Eddie to kneel--just to turn around so Quentin can reach up for the clasp. "What do you want me to call you?"
🏠🏠🏠up on the housetop reindeer COCKS 🐴🐴🐴🍆🍆out whips Santa’s 🎅🏿🎅🏿 big ol DICK🍆🍆🍆ready to shower all his thotties 💦💦💦🙆🏼🙆🏼🙆🏼 with some REAL Christmas cheer 🎄🎄🎁🎁🎁🎁 open that chimney wide for old saint DICK♨️♨️♨️🆘🆘🚿🚿🚿🎅🏿🎅🏿🎅🏿🎅🏿🎅🏿 so he can give u some milk 🍼🍼🍼🍼 for those cookies 🍪🍪🍪🍪🍆🍆send to 5️⃣ of ur thottiest elf HOES 🙆🏼🙆🏼🙆🏼👯👯 or santas DICK will NOT b happy 🎅🏿🍆🙅🏼🙅🏼🍆send to 🔟 slutty gingerbread men🍪🍒🍆 and receive ➡️➡️ a REAL gift in that stocking ⛸⛸⛸🎄🎄 like a big 🍆 ol 🎄 DICK🍆🍆🍒🍒🙆🏼 send to 1️⃣5️⃣ and santa’s christmas pole 💈💈💈 will unload 💦💦 allll over your tree🎄🎄🎄🍆🍆🍆💦💦💦🙆🏼🎅🏿🎅🏿🎅🏿
Page 2 of 2