[mr. meeseeks]
Peter is a fucking mess. No, really. Like, Peter's not going to pretend he's ever in a put-together state since he spends about 90% of the time floating along whatever bullshit train his mind takes him down, but it's also not a lie that, as of now, he's just well and truly out of his loving mind.
He's spent the last five minutes - no, probably ten - staring at Garrett's hands. It's not like Garrett is even sitting by him, he's on the other side of the conference table by Masen, operating the laptop connected to the screen projector while Masen lectures them on some wild feat of programming he's determined to include in the Volturi demo. Peter is only half-listening because his eyes caught on Garrett's hands and it's like the single brain cell he owns just decided to stop working.
Garrett's hands are - well. Larger than Peter's, although not by much; his fingers are slender and strong-looking, nails trimmed nearly to the quick; the veins and tendons on the back of his hand flex with each stroke of the keyboard, drawing his attention to the jut of Garrett's wrist bone and the dusting of dark hair that crawls up his forearms and - and - Like. What the fuck. They're just hands, not that Peter's brain cell gives a fuck about that. Peter feels like dying a little bit when, right in the middle of the meeting, he imagines what those hands might feel like on his body, coughing like he's trying to hack up a lung and drawing the attention of the entire room to him.
Peter blusters out some bullshit excuse and flees the fucking room. He can't be trusted to share the same space as Garrett right now - he's just spent way, way too long objectifying the man's hands, for fucks sake!
They're, like, very attractive hands, but still.
Peter needs to get a grip. Needs to get back to normal - or, well, not normal, because internalized homophobia is not about to be his skit, but some kind of normal where he can actually look Garrett in the eye and not feel the urge boil out of his own skin. Or actually speak the words on his mind, which mostly amount to something like, "You know that stupid no-homo thing everyone said back in middle school? Yeah, turns out that, for you, all the homo is intended. Yes-homo, please, and thank you."
Even if Garrett was coming on to him in the food truck - he probably was right? It felt like he was! - Peter still doesn't need to be so obvious. He's a classy boy, mostly.
He does wonder what those hands would feel like, though, and it keeps him up all night. Literally. His dick has never been so sore, and some perverse part of him - fuck it, he's definitely more pervert than not - enjoys it. It's like all his chafing is worth it because it means he's growing as a person. It's a growing pain! And it kind of feels good, too? He didn't know he'd be into that, either. Is Garrett into that? He looks like he would be, looks like he'd be down for a little kink, looks like he'd love to hold Peter down with those strong, broad hands, sometimes, and wouldn't that be something? Peter would definitely -
Stop! Peter groans into his hands, turns over in his bed, pulls his pillow over his head, and tries to fill away the interest growing between his legs.
"You look like shit, dude," Emmett says to him the next morning. "Spend all night fapping again? You're going to get carpal tunnel."
Peter grunts, elbowing his way to their stupidly expensive coffee machine that he can only operate half the time.
Alistair raises a judgemental brow and leans away. "Did you even shower?"
Peter rinsed off. Soap might not have been involved, but he doesn't smell bad, he's pretty sure. Alistair is just British and prissy about shit like that. He says as much, even adding, "Some of us don't want to smell like whatever you use. What's the scent? Earl Grey Asshole?"
Emmett snorts, then pretends that he didn't when Alistair glares at him. "Peter said it, not me!" he defends himself.
Peter ignores their argument and tries to remember if today is one of Garrett's food-truck only days, or if he's going to be half in the office. It's not exactly the best thought to have, because his mind supplies him with a well-known image of Garrett in that tiny kitchen. Peter knows exactly what Garrett looks like when he's cooking, his flat expression softened by the way his shoulders relax and his mouth loosens, the way sweat will dot his forehead and he'll have to wipe it away with the back of his wrist and how sometimes that'll make his shirt climb up to show off his solid hips and that dark trail of hair Peter has a visceral need to follow - and maybe lick? - and -
Peter spills coffee all over the fucking counter, completely missing the cup. "Shit! Motherfucking monkey balls of fire!" he shouts, jerking back before the hot coffee can drip onto him, nearly dropping the carafe at the same time. Thank fuck its metal and not glass.
"Oh, good going Pete," Emmett drolls.
"Mop's in the closet," Alistair says helpfully, or it might have been helpful if the asshole didn't look completely amused by the scene.
Peter almost flings the nearly-empty carafe at them both, because fuck them a whole lot!
The day doesn't get better from there. Like, it doesn't get worse, exactly, but Peter isn't putting it on the list of best days of his life. It's relatively normal, except for the humiliating way he trips over his damn tongue when he winds up talking to Garrett. It had been going fine, mostly because Peter had been excited about a new line of code that melted two tricky parts of programming together and he'd been super eager to show it off to Garrett, who always appreciated Peter's progress like nobody else. So, that part had been normal, but then Garrett had taken a drink of water and Peter's eyes had been drawn helplessly to the bob of his throat as he swallowed and it had all gone downhill from there.
Why? Because Peter's dumb mouth had actually said, "You make swallowing look good."
Then Garrett's eyes had gone all dark and heated and he'd actually said, "Make it feel good, too."
And then between the heavy glug of his heart spreading a flash of heat through his body and Alistair happening to pass by at that exact moment with a not in the office comment, Peter had the horrifying realization that he can't act normal around Garrett at all anymore. It's just not possible. He just can't do it. Not when Peter's saying things and not when Garrett is saying things back - and meaning the things he says.
Fortunately - maybe? - Masen ends up calling Garrett to the back office to work on their special project, so Peter kind of gets a reprieve for the rest of the day. But that doesn't mean he gets to live any of it down, because apparently there's some kind of bet going on and Emmett doesn't want to lose, so he corners Peter in the laundry closet at the end of the day and completely gives up the ghost, apparently having had enough of being patient.
"Look, man. As funny as it is watching you be so whipped and stupid, I've got money on the line," Emmett starts.
"Huh?" Peter's holding his underwear and hastily stuffs them in the washer. Emmett doesn't need to see evidence of Peter's shame. "What're you talking about?"
"Can you get your gay together, already? It's been long enough!"
Peter thinks it's maybe been two weeks. He squints at Emmett, trying to decide if he should be upset.
"I'm bi, probably," he says instead.
Emmett gives him a skeptical look. "You make too many sausage jokes for that to be true."
It's a fair point. But also not the point. "What bet are you talking about?"
"The one where your homoerotic romance happens sooner rather than later," Emmett says bluntly. "My time frame is up in two days and I'm sick of Allistair winning bets off me. So, what's the hold-up?"
Peter opens and closes his mouth several times. He thinks maybe he should be more bothered about his friends betting on his sexual identity crisis, but he just can't be bothered. He's literally washing sheets and underwear that were - ahem - part of that realization, most of it featuring various parts of Garrett's body that he hadn't thought were sexy but really, really are. He's so far past denial and, honestly, he's getting miffed at his own lack of cool.
Which is why he unloads on Emmett without a single ounce of shame.
"I feel like when Mr. Meseeks couldn't get two strokes off Jerry's golf game!" Peter bursts out.
Emmett startles, falters. "Uh, what-"
"Oh, my God, I can't even look at him without bad 70s porno bass-drops happening in my head!"
Emmett makes a face. "Well, that's-"
"I want to die! But just like Mr. Meeseeks, I can't die until I finish my job, and my only job right now seems to be getting Garrett's di-"
"Okay!" Emmett raises his voice, holding his hands up in the air and taking a wide step backward. "I get it! That's enough sharing!"
"Don't judge me!" Peter spits, shaking his finger at Emmett, unreasonably pissed and emotional. "I'm in the middle of my gay panic and you're betting on me! I'm vulnerable right now!"
"For fuck's sake," Emmett mutters. He rubs at the back of his head and tries not to look too awkward when he speaks. "Look, man. It was funny at first watching you realize all the flirting you've been doing for months, but now it's just kind of painful. You should just...I don't know, talk to the dude. He's terrifying to everyone except you and honestly, it kind of seems to me like he's waiting on you."
"You make it sound easy," Peter mutters, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away. He's absolutely not pouting, except he kind of is.
"Pete, you're being shy for the first time in your life and it's freaking everyone out. The only one making it hard is you," Emmett points out, almost gently. And then he makes a face and warns, "If you make a dick joke about that, I'm going to throttle you."
The dick joke is admittedly right there, just waiting to be made, but Peter manfully and maturely avoids it. He can be serious if he wants to be, thank you very fucking much.
Still. Emmett makes a kind of good point, proving once and for all that he does have an actual brain hidden underneath all that dumb curly hair, and Peter actually spends the rest of the night thinking about it. Like. Okay, yeah, it is kind of his fault for being so awkward - but it's not because he wants to be! He just doesn't know how to act now! And it hadn't really occurred to him that he could just, like, act normally because the Big Gay (Or Maybe Bi) Revelation had felt to life-altering.
But, damn. He hasn't actually changed, other than coming to the realization that he's almost definitely got a hand kink. And maybe also a pain kink, potentially. He's still Peter. And Garrett is still Garrett. Like, fundamentally they are both the same.
They just also happen to want to be in each other's pants. Or at least Peter for sure wants to be in Garrett's and Garrett almost definitely wants to be in Peter's, but probably they should talk about that first before anything happens because consent is always important, even between two dudes!
Right? Right. They should talk. With actual words and a minimal amount of accidental innuendos.
Second-hand - and extremely belated - embarrassment hits him out of nowhere as he realizes he'd been making innuendos for months without realizing it. God only knows the kind of shit he said to Garrett without realizing it. No wonder Garrett snapped! Peter accidentally pushed him too far! It would be funny if Peter had done it on purpose, but the fact that he'd been unconsciously flirting (to use Emmett's word) with a man he only now realizes he's 100% interested in is just - it's -
Not even he has the words for it!
Peter groans and once again tries to suffocate himself with his pillow.
By the time the next morning rolls out, Peter has mostly made peace with being an embarrassing gremlin, because that is his lot in life and he will accept it. He's spent the entire night psyching himself out for talking to Garrett today about the whole thing - like, to clear the air, right? To get everyone on the same page, homoeroticism, and all.
Which is why Peter's first task of the day is to get his ass to Garrett's food truck for breakfast.
"You can do this, Pete," he psyches himself up, standing across the street from the food truck. He can see Garrett moving around, opening up the steel serving window, putting out the tables and chairs, effortlessly using those soul-crushing muscles to wreck Peter from 50 feet away. Peter licks his lips. "You can do this. You can totally do this."
By the time Peter is already standing in front of the food truck, waiting at the service window with his mouth clicking shut in the face of Garrett's early-morning scruff, it's already too late to realize he can't do this. He doesn't even know what he's supposed to do. He doesn't have a plan. He should have had a plan! A prepared speech or a joke or even the best way to say Hi!
But here he is and there Garrett is and all Peter can do is blurt, "Breakfast burrito! Share! With me!"
Garrett stares at him, then tilts his chin down. And maybe it's just Peter's dumb eyes, but he thinks he can maybe see a smirk tilting at Garrett's lips as he turns away and starts preparing Peter's order.
Peter collapses onto the nearest chair and quietly waits to die. Why is he like this?
Soon enough, Garrett comes out of the food truck with two spicy breakfast burritos, his stupidly handsome face once more like a stone as he hands Peter his share and settles on the chair beside Peter. Not the one across the table, but the one right beside him, close enough that their thighs are touching.
Peter swallows nervously, cramming a bit of the burrito in his mouth. Okay. Okay, he can do this. He chews and swallows and eyes Garrett out of the corner of his eye - and promptly zeros in on a splotch of salsa verde resting on Garrett's bottom lip.
Peter's mouth goes dry and his mouth, predictably, starts moving without any input from his brain. "You've, uh, you've got something. On your mouth."
Garrett's dark eyes flicker over Peter's face as he slowly, deliberately licks at his lip, clearing away the salsa.
Peter feels his face burn and Garrett, the utter stone-wall asshole he is, actually looks a little smug about it.
Peter hastily looks away and crams another bite into his mouth. Maybe if his mouth is full, he'll stop saying stupid shit, and then he'll be able to gather his head enough to figure out how he should actually go about this whole thing. Yeah. Yeah, that could work. Peter swallows and prepares to take another bite, but before he can, there's a warm hand on his face, calloused fingers curled under his jaw, turning his head toward Garrett.
And Garrett has this heavy sort of expression, one bathed in heat as he shifts his grip, tracing a thumb just under Peter's lip. "Something on your mouth," Garrett parrots, voice a low rasp.
Peter's heart is all over the place, a jackhammer between the ribs, as his mouth drops open. "Huh? Oh, I-"
Peter has no idea what he was going to say, but it doesn't really matter. He has a feeling Garrett is making it up, has a feeling there wasn't anything on his mouth, and that saying there was was just an excuse, an opportunity, to absolutely ruin Peter for anyone else for the rest of his life.
Because Peter doesn't get to finish his sentence.
Peter doesn't even get to draw in a breath.
All Peter can do is frantically try to match the demanding pace of the kiss Garrett steals from him and try not to lose his ever-loving mind about it.
The kiss is better, more electrifying, than any of his harebrained fantasies.
A/N: First off, thanks to everyone for your patience! I *should* be done with my work projects for a while, so updates will go on as normal every Saturday unless something else comes up. Fingers crossed!
It's nice to get back into the swing of things with Peter, but because it's Peter, there may be a few culture notes to be aware of. So, without further ado:
- No-homo was the dumbest thing boys in 2010+ said to declare that their friendships with other boys were not, in fact, homosexual in nature. Saying "no-homo" would come in the context of hugging your bro, being in the same room as your bro when one (or both) are not fully clothed, or even being remotely emotional with your bro. It's a very frat-boy view of the world, so not all teenage boys have done it, but I've heard it being used by teenagers in my neighborhood so I am horrified to know it was passed down from Millenials to the Gen Z kids.
- Fapping is slang for masturbating. Some dirty memes from the golden age reference fapping a lot - you might see it as "fap-fap-fap" as a sound action, or as a reference. It just means jerking off.
- Mr. Meeseeks, aka the best character/episode from Rick & Morty and I will 100% fight anyone who says otherwise. Basically, Mr. Meeseeks is "born" into existence with the goal to accomplish one task, and if that task cannot be accomplished, Mr. Meeseeks goes crazy (and also homicidal lol). Despite the apparent controversy around Rick & Morty right now (Google it, it's weird and brow-raising), it's still very relevant to current pop culture. Like, the show might have been made for incels, but it's also so clever and combines every sub-genre of sci-fi into one show - and riffs off the cliches. Even the theme song heavily references Dr. Who. There's no way these characters, especially Peter, don't watch Rick & Morty. Also, Masen is definitely a Rick, and Peter is totally a Morty. I said what I said.
Onto other things! Number one, absolutely do not use any vaccine pushed out by the FDA for, at the very least, another 6 to 8 months, which is when the safety validity tests should be coming to a close. There's a whole history about why presidents rushing vaccines is a stupid idea and why that should never be trusted no matter who is in office (see: Gerald Ford and that Epic Fuck Up). If you get any vaccine, make sure it's the flu shot ASAP; if you are immunocompromised or you have an elderly relative, make sure that relative is getting a pneumonia shot this year (this is usually reserved for people over 50). Call your local pharmacy to check.
Number two, the situation with the ICE facilities and the whistleblower outing them for mass hysterectomies of immigrant detainees without these detainees understanding what they are having gynecological surgeries for is a huge, massive, earth-shattering deal and it should be getting more attention than it is. This is not a political issue - it's a human rights issue. As in, these actions are a direct violation of Geneva Convention laws against eugenics and genocide (and make no mistake about it, ordering mass medically-unnecessary hysterectomies falls under the category of both these crimes). This shit needs to be investigated, pronto. Not only am I livid as a woman understanding that, once again, the right of women to make medical decisions about their own bodies has been arbitrarily taken away, but I'm livid as a human being witnessing actual crimes against humanity. People coming to start a better life shouldn't be detained and they definitely shouldn't be sent to a doctor called the "uterus collector". It makes me physically sick to think about it. But of course, it isn't surprising, either - the guy in charge of ICE actually tried to stop a rape victim, a 17-year old immigrant, from getting an abortion (because she didn't want to give birth to her rapist's baby), and FOIA documents also show this same guy literally tracking the menstrual cycles of detained women. And that's not even touching the alleged sexual abuse (women and children) that's happening in these facilities. Once again, America has concentration camps in our country and diddly-squat is being done about it from the international community. The United Nations has an obligation to investigate all of this and I just do not understand what's stopping them, because like I said, this isn't political - it's about human rights.
Lastly, given the day, it must be said: rest in peace, Ruth Bader Ginsberg. This woman had an astoundingly impressive career and was a feminist icon that gave hope to many. It's a sad day to know she's gone. I worry about what comes next.
As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.
~Rae
