writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia

yabamena

If there was one thing everyone knew about Reid Garwin it was that he was a reckless skirt-chaser. He took chances none of the other sons of Ipswich would -- not even Pogue -- and flirted with every attractive girl who passed by. He went through relationships like he went through tissues and considering he was a young man with a healthy sex drive, he went through a lot of both.

( Your Breath Fills My Lungs )

The streets of Ipswich were imprinted in Caleb’s mind, with a definitiveness shared by all four sons of Ipswich. It was their home, the place made theirs - not just their whole lives, but their ancestors’ as well, for generations. They played out like a rural map in Caleb’s mind, and if it wouldn’t lead to Pogue insisting he watch the road, Caleb could drive them with his eyes closed. Barring the occasional semi.

The streets of Cambridge were new, needed to be learned. It wasn’t far from Ipswich, but it was far enough that it wasn’t quite home. Maybe not yet, maybe not ever. But they were new, and it would take time to learn them even half as well as they knew Ipswich.

But it was neither the streets of Ipswich nor of Cambridge that held Caleb’s focus. It was the map of Pogue’s body, lines and roads he both knew so well and not at all that he strove to drive now. He mapped them with his eyes, his hands, his fingers, his tongue. He tasted the remains of chlorine on mostly dry skin. He felt tight muscles under that smooth and taut skin. He saw every turn, curve, angle, and line that made Pogue’s body a city to discover all on its own.

His mouth covered Pogue’s when he finally drove home, the sounds he made swallowed whole, and more satisfying than a thousand nights’ driving in Ipswich or Cambridge combined. The power in him rose to meet Pogue’s when legs wrapped around his waist and he knew it didn’t matter where he was, where he drove.

Pogue’s body held the streets that would always lead him home.

fandom_stocking

jengeorge

Seamus is still in the laughing stage of his drinking when Dean joins him. Small as he is, Seamus's tolerance is incredible and Dean doesn't really drink much so it doesn't take him long at all to catch up, especially not when Seamus is plying him with wine.

Seamus gets giggly when he's drunk but Dean gets handsy when he's had wine, so it's a good thing they decided to leave when Dean can't keep his hands off Seamus's rear. It makes a difference how bold Dean gets, based on what he drinks. Seamus prefers whiskey, obviously, but wine goes right to Dean's head. Heads, maybe, and that thought makes Seamus giggle again.

It was an accident, the first time. Seamus had heard somewhere that a drink of alcohol was supposed to help boost creativity and Dean was in a bit of an artistic slump. Seamus didn't know much about wines and he picked at random. Dean received a rich, full-bodied cabernet and the only canvas he wound up painting on that night was Seamus's skin.

Tonight's even better though because Dean's had more than a few drinks and Seamus is right there with him. Neither of them attempts the smallest bit of magic to help them get home and once they're there, it's giggles, fumbling fingers, and sloppy kisses. After tonight, Seamus decides he's keeping wine in the house, just in case Dean needs some more inspiration.

Blaise watched Draco sleep and he knew it was only his years of cultivated silence and stealthiness that allowed him to go undetected. Even so, Draco had become such a light sleeper that Blaise didn't stand a chance watching him for long.

If he'd known everything, all that Draco faced in sixth year and beyond, things might have gone differently. Blaise considered it his greatest intellectual failure that he didn't know Draco's wasn't making his own decisions then, that he hadn't chosen his path. It was his own greatest failure, a bitterness on his lips, his tongue, his mind. He failed to know and Draco paid the price.

If he'd known, he wouldn't have stayed impassive, withdrawn, uninvested. As it was, it was difficult enough to watch Draco go down a path Blaise didn't want for him, not realizing Draco didn't want that path himself. Draco hadn't wanted to be a Death Eater, not once that he knew what it was like. But he was paying for his father's failure, and there was no way out.

A string of failures surrounded the mess, and as Blaise exhaled slowly, Draco stirred. He didn't wake, not yet, and Blaise frowned. Draco's skin was finally regaining its healthy pallor, the porcelain Malfoy skin he so longed to mark and claim. It wasn't the sickly, prison-induce paleness inflicted on him by Azkaban, but that was only on the surface. Remnants, scars, and memories of Azkaban ran deep and Draco would remember them for many years to come.

Blaise spent years of his own cultivating a plan, one that could not be traced back to him, one that freed Draco, and one that would get him his revenge. Soon, he thought. Not soon enough.

If he'd known, things would be different, he was certain. But he had no idea if they would be any better.

( It all changed when Chase showed up. )

yabamena

Christmas in the Finnigan-Thomas household meant several things: Dean was cooking, his dark brown artistic hands creating a masterpiece on a plate instead of on a canvas. It also meant Seamus was singing loudly and off-key as he finished hanging ornaments, one too many whiskeys under his belt. "'S bollocks," he replied loudly, when Dean mildly mentioned that fact, and Dean laughed because Seamus wasn't arguing that he'd been drinking quite a bit; he was arguing the fact that there was any such thing as one too many.

Tomorrow they'd be at the Thomas's first, Dean wincing at the teasing his sisters dished out, and Seamus telling jokes that made Dean's stepfather laugh until he choked, slapping Seamus on the back as he did. Then later at Seamus's mum's place for another large meal, a lot of alcohol and Dean wondering which Finnigan could out drink the other.

But they say Christmas Eve is for lovers and that meant tonight was for them alone. Their first Christmas together had been nerves and awkwardness, trying to transition from best mates to lovers. Every one thereafter had been easy in comparison.

Dean set the pudding down on the table and watched as Seamus placed a bell as high as he could reach, singing in Gaelic and shaking his rear as he hit the chorus. Dean's heart swelled so big he thought it might just burst and his tone was loving and fond as he called Seamus over to eat.

Tomorrow they'd be surrounded by family, but tonight all they had and wanted was each other.