this sport is very homoerotic and violent

"You're not Sharpy," a husky voice breathes out in surprise. Jonny looks up from where he’s drinking his whisky and does a double-take.

'Angel' is a vision in pastel-pink lace and cotton thigh-highs, hand-combed curls tumbling down to his nape and a diamond Chanel choker on his neck. His clothes are not meant to conceal what he is—the silk lies flat on his chest, and the sheer lace of his panties outline what is definitely a man's penis. But the boy's milk-soft skin and his glossy, plush pout is confusing Jonny.

Sharpy said Patrick Kane was nineteen, going on twenty. Angel, his brothel alter-ego—with his baby-doll curls and long-lashed, china-blue eyes—looks like the dangerous side of sixteen.

Snap out of it, he reminds himself, you're not here to look.

Jonny composes himself and says "Sharpy won't be coming here anymore." tone meaningful.

Angel, mercifully, catches on quickly and nods. He knows they're being watched.

"I'll miss Sharpy," he murmurs, reaching for Jonny's tumbler of whisky. He sets it down and arranges Jonny's hands so that they're encircling his waist. From this close, Jonny could smell him, a heady combination of clean skin, talc and some airy, indistinguishable perfume. He leans in and whispers, eyes glinting, breath warm on Jonny's cheek "But you can be my new Daddy."

“Tomorrow,” Jonny whispers, “I’ll see you again,”

“Okay,” Pat whispers back dumbly, “But can I, can I just—“

“Yeah,” Jonny smiles shyly at Patrick, as if reading his mind, “You can.”

And that’s how his boss, Jeremy, catches him, planting smooches on the face of a mannequin. Behind him, the new management intern—Kirby—goggles at the scene in front of him.

“If you need some time off for a mental health break,” Jeremy frowns, clearly displeased with Patrick’s... canoodling... with the department store equipment, “You just need to say so Patrick.”

(The Mannequin AU. Where Pat’s life takes a strange turn when the mannequin that he talks to every night suddenly talks back to him.

Manhattan, New York The nightclub was too upscale for the likes of Jonny and his boys, but their pressed uniforms and the spit-shined bars on their shoulders nevertheless opened the doors for them. They were heroes, and no door in Manhattan would say no to the brave soldiers who fought Hitler. When they came in, waiters gave them the best seats, while men clapped their backs and women looked at them shyly beneath their blackened lashes. “Are we here for a dame Jonny?” Dach asked as they sat on their table, eyes darting excitedly at all the well-heeled women immaculately turned out in diamonds and smoking thin Russian cigarettes. “Strome, make sure Dach doesn’t do anything to embarrass the colors,” Jonny said drily. Dach was the youngest, turning up at the tail-end of the war. One of the fortunate ones, Jonny thought sadly. The lights dimmed and a blinding spotlight shone on the stage. The laughter and the noise died down as a man in a well-cut navy suit came up to the microphone. After the man introduced himself, he quickly launched to his first song, saying, “This one’s for all you lonely hearts waiting,” In their table, Jonny looked up and smiled. 

On the stage, the man’s singing, blue eyes soulful while staring at Jonny, “Are you still mine?” Courseulles-sur-Mer, Normandy Sharpy’s the first one to hear the noise and he signals Jonny silently, finger pointing to their left. “Qui est là?” Jonny asked, his grave voice steady. He impatiently repeated it one more time in English before switching to a firmer “Hände hoch! Sprichst du Englisch?” when none replied. “How about 'fuck you'?” a man irately hissed. He cautiously emerged from the undergrowth, his Colt pointed steadily at Jonny. After a beat, he noticed the unfamiliar uniforms, and looked around suspiciously “Am I anywhere near Sainte-Mère-Église?” Jonny noticed the man didn’t have his helmet and there was no gear strapped to his back. His fatigues proclaimed he was American and with his question, Jonny surmised that he most likely a paratrooper. “No this is Courseulles,” Duncs piped up and mangled the pronunciation so badly that Jonny had to repeat it when the American squinted his eyes in confusion. “Sainte-Mère-Église is an hour away, two hours if on foot,” Jonny lowered his gun, but only slightly. One can never be too sure. “You’re a long way from your drop zone soldier.” “Fuck,” the man cursed loudly, lowering his Colt. A dull boom sounded in the unknown distance, followed by the rapid-fire of anti-air guns. He looked at Jonny shrewdly before deciding, “Well, I guess I’m hitching a ride with you then.” Manhattan, New York Except for an errant patron who was drunkenly sleeping on a table and some tired waitstaff, Jonny was the only one left in the club. The rest of his men had earlier dispersed with their own companions for the night, leaving him to drink alone. His cognac was now replaced by a tall glass of water. He nervously fiddled with a button on his sleeve while waiting, before a waiter came up to him and politely asked, “Captain Toews? Follow me, sir,” He led Jonny to the back of the stage, where the dressing rooms were, the narrow corridors littered with band instruments and stage props. The waiter knocked softly on an unmarked dressing room door, opening it and ushering Jonny inside. Jonny slid him a dollar tip for the trouble, before closing the door and locking it behind him. Patrick was waiting for him, dinner jacket off and bowtie loosened. “Did you like my song Captain?” Pat smiled, spreading his arms. Jonny carefully placed his dress cap on a side table before stepping inside of them. “Lonely rivers sigh,” Jonny sang, his voice a tuneless imitation of Pat’s throaty baritone earlier “Wait for me, wait for me.” He dragged Pat closer with a palm on his back, other hand reaching for Patrick’s own. He rested his cheek close to Patrick’s while still singing, ”I’ll be coming home.” Patrick huffed a gentle laugh as they danced in the middle of his dressing room, two men finding each other again at the end of a cruel war “Wait for me.”

now a soft kiss (complete, 70,948 words)

chapter 1. a marriage most convenient

chapter 2. unus finis 

chapter 3. a love most inconvenient

chapter 4. the house of blackburg-hawke 

chapter 5. departures

epilogue i. letters

epilogue ii. arrivals 

appendix and full character list 

spotify playlist: strung out on your love (77 songs, 4 hours 44 minutes)

“What do you know about the Chicago Blackhawks?”

“I know you have the Great 88.” (X)

Patrick Kane | LOOKBOOK

Shirt | Lanvin Grosgrain Collar Polo

Sweater | Lanvin Grey Crewneck Sweater

Suit | Tom Ford Windsor Base Peak-Lapel Black Two-Piece Suit

Watch | Rolex Cosmograph Daytona Oyster 40 mm Oystersteel

Belt | Louis Vuitton Damier Print 40 mm Reversible

Thank you so much nonny! Looking at Pattycakes here, I think it might not be an LV one? The LV ones (at least that I know of) have Damier prints or Monograms. The varsity lettering looks like it spells Moncler or Gucci, but I also DO know that Moncler or Gucci has not used varsity-style fonts in any of their headwear (they use all-caps serif fonts).

The good news though is that I can definitely tell you that his shirt is a Tom Ford Windowpane-Pattern Silk Dress Shirt in Black/White and his tie is a gray-black variant of the Tom Ford Black & White Blurred Spot Tie. (Which, thanks to you, I will now add to Patty’s LOOKBOOK.)

Alex was nervous. The League’s High Command was patched in, their faces daunting in the blue-gray screens. He didn’t really know why he was called in with the Captain and Kaner. He’s just a grunt—a specialized grunt, sure—but like everyone else, he just shoots and kills the bad guys so that he could live for another day.

“Captain, we’ve been advising you, repeatedly, to pull your men out of C60601-6,”

“And your counsel is noted, Commander,” the Captain responded with an edge to his tone, clearly having rehashed this conversation repeatedly with High Command and getting fucking tired of it. “But we have enough offensive firepower to hold C60601-6—”

“—but not enough defensive capabilities. For chrissakes’ Toews, get your head out of your ass. You are vastly outnumbered and at a tactical disadvantage. You have no way of keeping those xenosoldiers out. Get out of there before we lose more men.”

Maybe it was the bond or the fatigue of pulling so many shifts with the Captain, but Kaner—polite, quiet, easy-going Kaner—finally snapped. “That is not on us, you fucking trumped-up asshole. You sent us here with nothing. No preparations, no direction, no backup. Our rations were limited, our men green recruits, our ammunition stocks dwindling by the day. Jonny and I are doing our best to keep everyone alive but what can you expect when we’re down to using knives against 600-pound xenosoldiers? Do not for a minute even think you can pin the blame on Jonny when you sent us here to die.”

Alex could practically see the High Command collectively taking a sharp breath. It was true. Their company was ill-equipped to fight. 

“You are a trained soldier, Lieutenant Kane. Giving you a gun and a knife is preparation enough,” one of the generals said frostily. “Be glad that you’re a well-decorated and invaluable member of the Corps and we, in gratitude to your years of excellent service, will choose to let this misdemeanor slide. If we weren’t at war and your skills so highly in demand, you’d be facing the business end of a firing squad.”

Kaner fumed, silent. The Captain was still standing in attention, ramrod-straight, but he knew he was furiously communicating with Kaner to back down. For all of the Captain’s derision against the League, he was still a stickler for the chain of command. After a beat, Kaner nodded to the Captain, a small tilt of the head that was almost imperceptible to everyone except for Alex’s sharp sniper eyes. 

The general, thinking that he’d won, sat back smugly. Major General Bowman spoke up, using the lull in the conversation to divert the topic that wouldn’t get the Captain or his lieutenant court-martialed. 

“Sargent DeBrincat,” Bowman called. 

“Sir,” Alex stepped forward and saluted smartly. 

“You have 28 confirmed xenosoldier kills, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. And rising.” Alex said proudly, looking at Kaner. Kaner nodded approvingly.

“Individual missions?”

“Yes, sir. All of them.”

“And who’s working with you as your spotter?”

Alex frowned. He could hold his own just fine. He didn’t have a spotter, nor did he need to. He hadn’t had one, not since—

Bowman didn’t wait for him to respond. “The USS Arizona has been in orbit since 0700 hours. They’ve sent down two of their men.”

Alex knew. He’d been praying that one of them wasn’t him. He’d taken extra shifts to make sure that he’d be out of sight and doubled up on the bond suppressants, to quash the tell-tale thrum of the connection.

“Your file says you’re bond-positive, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that you were in simpatico with one of the men in Fort Erie during your training, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir but—” Alex felt nauseous. 

“This man, Lieutenant Strome, is one of the two that have been sent down by the USS Arizona. Your file says he was the one you were in simpatico with. It also shows that during the last year of your training, you suddenly filed for bond termination and was granted permission by the Corps to get bond suppressants.”

Alex nodded, mind racing to those last few days in Fort Erie. Dylan was already being touted for a future as an officer in the Corps. Alex didn’t know if the Corps would even select him, his mind already resigned to a dreary future of piloting supply ships or mechanical work in the spaceyards. Letting Dylan go so he wouldn’t be saddled with a nobody while he rose up in the Corps’ ranks was painful but Alex knew he was doing the right thing.

“You might have personal reasons for breaking your bond, but as you know, we are at war. USS Arizona has reported that Lieutenant Strome has been having problems with other bond-positives. A pity, since he was one of the most promising in his officer training class. He’ll be assigned to you as your spotter and you will rekindle that bond,” Bowman commanded, matter-of-factly. “Is that understood?”

Please see below.

Patrick Kane | LOOKBOOK

Shirt | Lanvin Grosgrain Collar Polo

Sweater | Lanvin Grey Crewneck Sweater

Suit | Tom Ford Windsor Base Peak-Lapel Black Two-Piece Suit

Watch | Rolex Cosmograph Daytona Oyster 40 mm Oystersteel

Patrick Kane | LOOKBOOK

Shirt | Lanvin Grosgrain Collar Polo

Sweater | Lanvin Grey Crewneck Sweater

Suit | Tom Ford Windsor Base Peak-Lapel Black Two-Piece Suit

Patrick Kane | LOOKBOOK

Shirt | Lanvin Grosgrain Collar Polo

Suit | Tom Ford Windsor Base Peak-Lapel Black Two-Piece Suit

Patrick Kane | LOOKBOOK

Shirt | Lanvin Grosgrain Collar Polo

Patrick Kane | LOOKBOOK