#I like when there are small or petty rivalries between the counterparts

[forgetful-nerd]

Rise! Donnie and 2012! Donnie don’t get along because of both are insecure about being overshadowed by the other’s skills/intelligence/resources: Broken, Tired, and Repetitive

Rise! Donnie and 2012! Donnie don’t get along because 2012! Donnie has impeccable aim which therefore makes him a great basketball player and he is NOT humble about it at all: New, Innovative, and Super Petty.

[disparition]

 FREYAM DREAMS OF DUST - https://disparition.bandcamp.com/album/3-freyam-dreams-of-dust

I.

How much do you remember? Temple under the mountain Limetree in a shaft of light Gray robe on the edge of shadow Bare forearm dragging a branch along the floor The river of stones, the sound of their shells clicking together

II.

I remember. It was the same day they were captured out near Anchorstore. I was in my office, deep in the corridors of the High Marengo’s palacia. We didn’t know, of course, we couldn’t have and yet, all the same, there was a shift in the light, in the weight of the air.

My office was windowless, lit by two candles, but there were times in between Bells when I could move quietly along the outer edges of fasing departments and make my way to a forgotten balcony facing the arroyo. I had never seen anyone on or near this balcony except for the occasional fellow low ranking shirker from down the hall. I knew and was on good terms with all of my counterparts.

But that day there was someone else. I don’t. I still don’t know who.  Couldn’t see them, but their voice was close. The only word they said was “Freyam” – a name I had not heard in decades and was forbidden from using myself. An old trap – and yet I nodded. And then nothing, and then nothing. And then that shift in the air again, a breeze trapped on the balcony, a piece of paper trapped in the breeze.

Like my ancient name, I had not seen or felt a piece of paper in a very long time. I still wonder what might have seent me out there, frantically chasing and flailing my arms. Luckily this scene was short lived. I stuffed the thing into my robes.

I backed into the maze of corridors, disoriented. Faces turned towards me, anonymous colleagues who’d ignored my passage all these years wore masks of suspicion, my gait altered by their weight of their eyes on me. By the time I was back within my own domains I was limping, my robe stuck to me with sweat.

Watcer stood in my door frame, long arm reaching inward, spindle fingers just beginning to wrap around one of my candles.  Turning without moving, wearing my face – stale tricks – watchers finger retracted, grin wider than I’ve ever worn it, now limping to mimic my own movement.

I couldn’t take it. And before I knew it in my conscious mind was undoing the watcher. Pulling back into myself and unmaking.

Watchers, you know, they’re just us. That’s no secret. We’re conditioned to forget, but some part of me didn’t forget – I fell back in my mind to the making of my watcher and I pulled and pulled at the threads until the whole process had been undone, and there was nothing left to darken my door frame except remnants of my own doubts and guilt, pooling on the floor, streaming back into my toes.

This act, while not a violation of any written law, was all the same a breech – and one that would leave unwanted resonance far and wide. I could not linger in the office.

I took an old shirt out of a drawer and quickly wove a half vial of dust into it. Propping it over the desk with light finger and shadow work - cheap but it would last a few hours - I backed into the corridors and began my descent. We were pressing up against the Bell of Pink Light, and the air was already orange.

On top of everything else, I was behind in my work. In those days the Auric Coast was coated with a thick film of overlapping microempires, petty kingdoms, experimental societies, agricultural collectives, nomadic bands, and other forms of human organization to ephemeral to be contained by any terminology. The majority of these entities armed themselves with the usual aray of symbol, sign, and anthem. The realm of Pasaedian was no exception and in my days of relevance I worked directly under the High Marengo; for seven years I wove anthems of gilded synthesis and vast ambient cloud at the behest of the crown, performing far across this valley and the next for purposes of solace, sport, and war.

But that was years and years ago – we all fade. My work had become clerical in nature.  Cataloging, analyzing, decoding the anthems, chants, and worksongs of our hundreds of neighbors. In this capacity I had memorized everything from the churning dances of Neomassilia to the piercing wail of Astoria, the plastic shining anthem of the Mouselands, the whispered hopesongs of the mountain witches.

So, I was behind in my work. These were the days of bitter rivalry between Pasaedian and Citadel, the High Marengo and High Priestess in constant skirmishes over scraps of the valley. The Ziggurat employed weavers and singers not only from the coast but from all across the rim, and I was barely able to keep up. Now I was thinking this encounter on the balcony – did it even happen? Yes I could still feel the paper within my robes – I was thinking it seemed more and more a trap, some Commersean snare. It would not be the first time I had fallen under suspicion.

Amid shifting tides of colleagues anticipating the next Bell I threaded my way through corridors and courtyards of marble, out into the Marengo’s garden. A green and violet iris in the ojo of the palacia, this garden contained the last living jacaranda trees on the coast. It was the middle of Sivan and they were in the full of their brightness, the ground thickly carpeted in purple and buzzing with sacred travellers. Stepping carefully to avoid them, looking down, I almost missed the clearing until I was at its edge, and then stopped. At the center, in a column of salmon light, lay Dmina, fourth under the name, High Marengo of Pasaedian, motionless, naked, and closeyed under a sheer gold cloth. Upon the cloth crawled sacred travellers, at least fifty, more than I had seen in this lifeline. It is.. difficult to think now of the age of paper, when they numbered in the millions, when one might see a hundred or two on any summer afternoon. In this garden the travellers were named and numbered, carefully tracked, each lived in its own glass. But their keeper was nowhere to be found. Three of the Marengian guard stood on the far edge of the clearing, intently seeing nothing.

I felt a pull, I felt it coming from beneath the ground, I felt the coldness in my tailbone and the heels of my feet, and the sense of forceful, patient inevitability – it was the pull of watersource. I shifted back into the trees, sinking deeper into the soft earth with each step.  The little travellers were everywhere, their hum filled my ears.

The sky was darkening, streaked with lavender, and the Bell would be upon me soon. The gardens ran up against the southwestern gates of Pasaedian. I was out and among the free buildings before the ring reached me.

In those fractured days the formal sovereignty and firstlayr powers of a petty realm like Pasaedian would extend only so far as the physical walls of the palacia itself. The majority of the valley’s residents lived in freestanding apartment blocks and houses. Their legience – to Pasaedian, to Citadel, to Mouse or to Rome – marked by a small shield affixed to the right side of the doorframe. This shield could be scanned, the level of one’s legiency determining everything from their healthcare and conflict resolution to their business rights and miliia duties and the sources of their water and light.

Almost all of the doors in my building bore the same crest on their shield as mine – the dark horse forcene of the Marengo adorned with the rose of Pasaedian.  But when I reached my door, it was gone. Nothing but a shield-shaped spot of unbleached paint on the frame.

When I was a child I had recurring dreams in which I was struck by lightning. I would die but I would not wake up; changed, I would drift through a photonegative world. In middle age, watcher over a corner of the valley, my dreams were stalked by columns of smoke steadily encroaching, inexplicable formations of machines overhead. Now in old age it was this cutting of lines that haunted my dreamlife, this sudden statelessness – even though I’d dreamed of statelessness all throughout the age of paper, argued for it, pulled for it. This was different. Living in this sea of shifting states, in this age they were no more a part of one’s identity than what used to be called brand loyalty – in fact they were the same thing. But in this valley of no particular consequence there were only two, and they took and took back, block by block by block. This was not the desert nor the vale of Joaquin – to be unlined in this place was death.

I did not touch the door. The lights in the hallway were already dimming. Out on the street I stayed under leafshadow, robes pulled close and matching the tone of the darkening air. Only then did I remember the paper, folded and curled in one of my pockets.

I kept moving until I was south enough and west enough that I could slip into a small park far from sound and light. Unseen, hopefully unfelt, I threw myself beneath a young pepper tree and drew a circle around myself in the rich soil. The velvet sky was lowering itself onto all of us. I pulled the paper from my robe.

It was an airplane ticket. Made not of paper after all, but a very thin plastic. A kind no one had seen for forty years, and the two ports noted on the ticket were less than half an hour apart by car – even in the days when flights existed, this flight did not exist. Even in the thin light of this moment the aged ink – suddenly exposed to it – began to run. In spite of my care, my hands were soon smudged with indigo.

Looking out from under the branches, I realized the ground had begun to tilt. Leaves and pebbles rolled down the street, followed by a pair of Commersean guard, yelling and chasing after some lost piece of equipment. Then, nearly silent and just against the edge of the park, a smooth and darkglassed van, door sliding open, driver unseen. A concentrated light shown suddenly on me, focused on the paper, or the stains on my hands, or both. The pull, when it came, was around the wrists and gently on the back of the neck, with a sense of urgent departure. This time, I let it take me, found myself lowered gently onto ancient cushioned seats. It felt as though the van never stopped moving during this process, and there was no sound of machine within it. Rather, I fell into it, and it fell down the street, along with everything else, as though the world had been wrapped into the shape of a funnel.

III.

A simple square of asphalt, wide and clear A ring of structures, facades of towers A defensible inheritance from an earlier time Fill in the gaps with cargo containers, trailers, and soil Dig up the center and plant

In our fear of each other and our pasts we will put up walls, Only to become restless, bound too close together, fractuous and Uncontainable.

Awake to the flows, these are days of liquid light Symbols of the previous age still wrapped around us in confusing patterns, False eyes to ward off predators As the old state falls apart, the hands of gold that owned it remain strong and grasping, seperated and naked, ever pulling, pulling through blood or tear, carving sigils into the raw stone

But Others, Others take to the mountains and the sands to undo their work, unthread their branding fromt the minds it holds.

The walled cities glow in the night, hundreds of different colours fill our hills and valleys, their webs reaching into the darkness in between

Beyond the reach of their light we still have ink and paper – and so into those bright spaces where we dare not show ourselves, we can still toss messages that will be delivered by the wind.

IV.

With concentration, the feeling subsided, and my internal tides regained their balance. With even greater concentration, the tint on the window began to clear, and I could see that we were rolling into Subcontractor City.

Already, low towers of glass and pale blue light surrounded us. Subcontractor City was an exclave of the Bubblestate hundreds of miles to the north. In this place, emotion was muted, the churning flows of life and death were distant, inaccessible. Somewhere inside the ancient walls of the van an engine sputtered to life and the whole thing shook, only to come to a stop minutes later.

The door was pulled open as if by human hands but when I stepped out there was no one. The nearest glass tower was identical to the others except the door was open, the sigil 3172A6 marked in clearscript on the glass panel above. On my way to the entrance I passed through a sort of courtyard - benches on which no one had ever sat ringed around a sculpture – three arcing, unpainted pieces of metal spanned by a tensionless spring. Whatever feeling it might have held for its creator had been stripped, it stood now as a monument to nonmeaning, a warning to all who passed.

Inside, the age of the place filled my nostrils. Very little had changed inside this structure for nearly a hundred years except for the accumulation of dust as the automated filters died one by one. A low ceiling of dirty white squares, occasionally out of place revealing darkness and clutter above. Outside and in the van I had felt alone, but in here I was increasingly accompanied by some unseen presence, a group of figures walking just behind me and in the periphery, heavy, moving fast, burdened with gear – and then the feeling of a finger pressed hard into the center of my back. In this manner I was escorted through warrens of cubicle walls, snaking cables, caved in CRT monitors, all sporadically seen under distant flickering tubelights, past darkened conference rooms and up several broad staircases. It was in these kinds of places the secret work of the valley was done. While there were no longer custodians or air purifiers, the stilling remained in place. Sympathy and resonance fell dead here. Only ambition and bitterness were allowed through the seive, in dull and muted form. Nothing here could take hold or pull and so tracking became difficult, remembering a near impossibility. The walls were covered with notes, details of the most insignifigant kind. I looked down and my hands were still covered in the ink.

As we approached a glowing door I was reminded of the other reason secret work was done here. A large conference table was covered in devices shining under the blue light. Portals to oceans of madness, full of the eyes of manufacturers in the rim states. Long since banned in the valley realms and most of the rest of the coast besides, we had rendered them dysfunctional. If you tried to bring one within the walls of the palacia it would turn to ash in your hand. But in Subcontractor City, they still worked.

One entire wall was covered in a screen, all the imagery in shades of blue, the room was drowning. A dizzying succession of scenes overlapped – singers of the mountain havens, lost in their visions, faces twitching and fingers wrapped chaotically but artfully around their instruments, a spinning map of the city of Avalon and the temple of salt below, the famous scene of the General Mia Marisol smashing through the fascist barricade on the Bridge of Mateo, the subject of thousands of murals and tapestries along the coast, her column of delivery trucks converted into tanks, chariots, once even a dragon, the face of the general herself fifteen years ago and now in her exile, a diagram of the old Grapevine wall, the coats of arms of realms and familias known and unknown, all colours stripped but shades of blue.

I was so entranced by this wall of shifting images that I didn’t see the shadowed figures seated around the table. As soon as I did, the wall went dark and the white tublights in the ceiling shifted into fullness. There were twelve others in the room. I recognized the High Marengo, two of the crowns of Neomassilia, an ambassador from the collective of Joaquin as well as one of their healers and, surprisingly, the High Priestess of Citadel. As far as I knew, the rulers of Pasaedian and Citadel had not been in the same room in a generation, but clearly I didn’t know what went on in Subcontractor City.  

In the center of the table was a broad area cleared of all the devices – in it’s center, an empty glass, a small jar holding a tiny sacred traveller, and a translucent pitcher filled halfway with a clear viscous fluid. Voices came from everywhere but from none of them: “we just want you to taste”

From the centers of my feet through my fingertips, the pull was a creature of pure lines within me, a burning wire bent into the shape of my core, drove me as I poured the liquid into the glass, the glass to my self – a slow process, and then slower again – the lights began to fade, as did the presence of my observors. Only the little sacred traveller remained, buzzing in their jar, until the droning of the wings became all there was of reality – my self a loose knot of vibrations held together by pure feeling, falling further apart. The spaces in between the fragments filled with petal and vine, fractal windows into possible worlds. And I could feel all those eyes in the room again, pouring through me, tracking branches, looking for patterns, faces, signs. Cloud formations over the Sea of Cortez. Marisol, a general again, older, returned from exile on the Island of Qatal. Page after page of of flowing prophetic script from the Thinkers under the rock of Morro. A vine, thick and implausible, growing on the outside of the Bubblestate, living on the glass and radiation beneath. The sign of three moons glowing deep beneath the waters of the central Pacific, their light coming up from the depths and shining through blue wave after blue wave, flooding into the room.

The table was empty except for an old coffestain and broken telephone. The wall a loop of static. The corridors and rooms had filled with a pale gray light, subcontractors sat at their terminals, eyes half closed, processing. The scratchings on the wall were no longer visible. In silence, amid a world of machines, I made my way out into the natural light. When I held up my hand to see if the ink remained, it was on fire.

V.

All these years later I still carry a vial of dust That dust

In my memory, dust waiting to fall took the form of vast rectangular structures clustured on the edges of ivers and the junctions of arteries, sparkling with hours

O it waited and waited And you know, what we called, opening the eye

For a lot of people, really just a matter of knowing what was made of dust.  A matter of tasting it. Feeling it.

[after-skies-ananthology]

I'm an astronaut in the President's new space force, something isn't right

BLACK SKY WARS

the first part

approximately 5 years After Skies Event

You’ve probably read the description of a guy like me before. I graduated from the Air Force Academy top of my class. Got my choice of slots for undergrad pilot training. Ran track and field at the Academy. Boxed. 4.0 GPA. AM-490 course. Father was VCSAF. Uncle and grandpa were both MAJCOM commanders. President’s Hundred. Et cetera. Et cetera. Et cetera. Long story short, after flying Strike Eagles and Raptors for seven years, I was selected to become an American astronaut. But before my training was over, things began to change.

About half a decade ago, a Homelander-controlled Congress passed the New Space National Security Act in the face of severe disapproval from the Department of the Air Force, the Alliancers, YPP, and FPML. The Space Corps created by the bill was from the outset designed to have a Marine Corps-like relationship with the Air Force. It would be formed over a five year period as a staggered merger between the Army’s SMDC, Air Force Space Command, and the Navy’s SPAWAR while eventually absorbing the Naval Satellite Operations Center, the U.S. Reconnaissance Office (which in turn pissed off the Alliancers even more), and NASA’s Astronaut Corps. This is where I come in.

It was no secret among my class of prospective astronauts that the final neutering of the nation’s storied space agency was just around the corner, creeping like a wild fox in a house of sleeping hens. The expectation was that we would be rolled into the Space Corps either after graduation from training or just before its completion. Even after the Homeland Party lost control of both houses to a coalition of its rivals, the constant inability of that coalition to agree on terms when it came to most issues meant that they would be no threat to the space service’s existence. The fact that, at the same time, the Homeland Party was able to secure the presidency cemented the inevitability of its ascendance. Our new commander-in-chief - “Mad” Frank Monterrey, the man famous for his fierce public championing of loathed defense projects like the F-35, ASAT development, absolute national missile defense, and countless others, had been a major investor in NASA’s 21st century rival. Expanded Resources and Aerospace Services, also known as ERAS. The company responsible for initial human moon basing efforts, hand in hand in “coopetition”  with the China National Space Administration.

The establishment of the Armstrong and Sea of Tranquility settlements was a source of renewed hope and lust for the future on the planet’s surface. Although things were certainly tense at times, and while both nations were most definitely not friends, the Sino-American rivalry was seen by most in the middle at the time as fundamentally different from the Cold War. Monterrey couldn’t have disagreed with this sentiment more. Although he hated them, and even campaigned on anti-Chinese sentiment, he understood what the initial partnership ERAS had created with the Chinese meant for the future of America in space.

     He also knew, when the time was right, that he would crush the proverbial throat of the Chinese space presence. As our class completed our required training, me and a few of my peers had been invited to a seminar held in wine country put on by the International Air Combat Study that would cover the future of space development and militarization. Attendees would include NASA officials, their Chinese and Japanese counterparts, senior officers and NCOs from the U.S. Air Force, Space Corps, and Navy, representatives of the People’s Liberation Army, and most significantly - the President of the United States. It would be here that President Monterrey would attempt to humiliate and infuriate the Chinese delegation by announcing the American policy primer on Astropolitik on the last day of the seminar.

In his closed door statement, with PLA officers watching on in steely anger, the President made clear that the United States viewed itself as the arbiter of space and would only be at peace with purely civilian developments and endeavors by foreign nations. The message was now clear, the United States would no longer accept or tolerate the militarization of space by any nation other than itself. “A Monroe Doctrine in orbit.” One headline called it that same evening. The anger felt by this announcement within China, and even in Japan which hadn’t expected such an announcement, was compounded by the events of the day before.

The chief executive of ERAS, and good friend of the President, had announced in an interview with Slice Weekly World the successful completion of humanity’s first asteroid mining operation. About an hour later, a different ERAS spokesperson would quietly confirm over email with a reporter that the company would begin to gradually limit its cooperation with the CNSA with the eventual goal of cutting them off completely. This would most assuredly put the future of the Sea of Tranquility into question. A month before, the Chinese had openly condemned being abruptly left out of the New America habitation project (the colonization of the Kordylewski Dust Satellites via the relocation of hollowed out/previously mined asteroids to Lagrange point 5). The entire situation, when taking Earthly geopolitics into account, was like throwing salt onto an open wound. In an acid shower.

The seminar was over. The damage, or progress made, was done. I stepped out of the back of my ride and into the hotel entrance where I was staying, giving the driver an extra tip before he left. The hotel was a nice one by government travel card standards. All rooms featured a view of one of the two courtyards, one sporting a fire pit, a picturesque grassy couple of acres in the back adjacent to the pool (presumably for weddings), a small creek further back from that with numerous sidewalks for strolls and even a bridge over the stream to a small park. Plenty of statues as well, the attempted style of which I couldn’t discern. Perhaps they were going for an ancient Greek, sophisticated style to everything but I don’t possess the class or taste to reliably provide an answer.

Behind the reception desk sat a young girl, likely in her early 20s. Raven hair, brown eyes. Some of the most doe-like I’ve ever seen. She was quite distracting, actually. Those porcelain legs of hers crossed and presented so minxily to those passing by her workspace didn’t help either. She looked up from her desktop monitor, saw me through her bespectacled gaze, smiled slightly and called out to me. “Mr. Connolley?” I looked behind and around me for a second, I knew she was talking to me but for some reason this little girl managed to slightly intimidate me. “M-Mr. Connolley? Right?” She asked again.

“Yes!” I responded happily. She smiled brighter now, comforting me somewhat, as if she melted my insides with her grin. My guard was down now, and I somehow detected hers was too as I smiled back. “Sorry I have real bad hearing sometimes, being around jet engines all the time can do that.”

“No problem sir! I apologize for calling you out like that.” She said sheepishly.

“Not at all gorgeous.“ I complimented her, the girl’s cheeks turning red. “...did you have something for me?” I asked.

“Yes sir, some of your friends wanted me to notify you that the briefing will be within the next hour in room 241.”

I looked at her, puzzled. “Briefing? Friends? What, was it Lt. Jacob or Lt. Giser? Why wouldn’t they just tell me?”

Now she was confused. “No sir, not those two, umm...“ The lovely girl fiddled with her post-it notes. “...A Sergeant Horace and a Petty Officer Gregory. Two women.” She stated to me.

“Two women? I don’t... Hmm, alright then. Thank you.”

She smiled again, “Of course, I hope all goes well.”

I turned as if to walk away, but caught myself and asked - “Mind if I know your name? Don’t mean to impose or anything, but I leave tomorrow and I’d regret never learning it considering how gorgeous you are.”

Now her face was completely flushed, and her smile now nervous. “�� Poinsettia.” She said quietly at first, but then clearing her throat and stating it again. “Poinsettia.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Poinsettia? That’s definitely unique. But lovely all the same, as you are.”

She laughed. “Thank you. You can call me Setty though, that’s what my friends call me. My mom was a florist and loves Christmas, so to her it made sense. I always thought it was kind of a gyp though, my sister got a normal name like Constance.” I noticed the nervousness in her laugh as she said that.

I reassured her, “Well, I’d rather be talking to a Poinsettia than a Constance right now.”

She looked down, flattered. “Thank you.“ And looked back up. “Hope we see each other again.”

I responded back, “Maybe we will. Have a good night. Setty.” And let her be. 

A little bit later I had finally gotten out of my Blues and had a few drinks, and asked Jakey and Giser if they had heard about this ‘briefing’. They said they had, but were told it wasn’t until tomorrow. Also, the people who were going to be briefing them were two other females with completely different names. Zero warning. Zero explanation. Something bizarre was going on, which put me on edge for the rest of the hour. The both of them came with me to 241, just to be safe due to how weird it was. I knocked on the door. No answer. Knocked once more. No answer again. Just as we were about to turn to the left and back down the hall, a smokey but soothing feminine voice interrupted us from our right. “Lieutenant.” I looked. Two tall women in what seemed to be Class B uniforms, both in skirts, which was becoming a rare sight in the military these days. The one in front was Navy with Petty Officer 1st Class rank. The one behind her was wearing the new preliminary uniform of the Space Corps.

The Navy girl stuck her hand out, “I’m Petty Officer Gregory, this is Space Systems Sergeant Horace. We were sent by the Strike Division to brief you.“ I looked at her with a thousand yard stare for a minute.

She persisted. “This is about the transition. And other issues.”

She looked at Jakey and Giser. “You two don’t need to be here sirs. This is just for Lt. Connolley.”

They looked at each other, and looked at me. “We’ll see you Mike.” They said hesitantly.

“A-...alright.” I said back, uncomfortable.

The room wasn’t very well lit. Just a single lamp in the far left corner providing the space with orange tinted illumination. The redhead, Sergeant Horace, turned another one on near the table next to the bed. The Petty Officer motioned me to sit down as the Sergeant collected some vanilla folders. The Petty Officer kicked her heels off by the corner of the bed and sat down next to me.

She said to her companion, “Jess you mind stirring us up something?”

“Yes ma’am. Don’t mind if I do.” The Sergeant affirmed.

“Get the Lieutenant something as well.” She further instructed. “He’ll need it.”

I loosened my shoulders up a bit, staring at the documents enclosed on the table top. “Just what is this about exactly? If it’s about the transition, where are the Space Corps people I usually talk to? And why a ‘briefing’?” I demanded.

She rolled her eyes slightly and drew some breath in. “Look sir. Let me ask you this. Did your OIC over at the 50th give you any idea what this may be about?”

“No, not at all. He just said we had been invited to this seminar.” The Sergeant placed a drink in front of me along with the Sodaco can she used to make it.

“In case you need a chaser.” I became somewhat offended at that implication. She laughed, “Sorry sir, it’s not like I know if you’re a lightweight or not.” I groaned at her.

“He hasn’t told me jack shit.” I reiterated.

“I see. I knew he’d puss out of telling you.“ This just keeps getting more and more curious, I thought.

“Jess, you mind?” She pointed at the stacks of folders on the table.

“Mmhmm” the redhead replied.

She began to open them, carefully taking out what they wanted me to see and nothing more. Schematics, technical information, old Polaroid photographs, engineer’s notes, performance evaluations, all referencing Detachment 3 of the Air Force Flight Test Center. “Dreamland.” I said under my breath as my eyes were allowed to soak these images into my brain. All of them featuring a spade-like spacecraft (or what I assumed to be a spacecraft) and its mothership, which noticeably resembled the ill-fated XB-70 as if it were its forgotten love child from another continent. The former was referred to in these documents as the “Blackstar, Experimental Orbital Vehicle”, while the latter was labeled as “Brilliant Buzzard, SR-3”. I felt like a little kid who found his dad’s Playboys under the bed. I had to forcefully break my gaze from it in order to ask her, “Why are you showing me this, and why are you showing me this here of all places? Shouldn’t we be in a SCIF right now?”

She took one of the photos out of my hand. “Sir, if you even tried to think about this vehicle outside of this location without permission, you’d be halfway to Guantanamo before the neurons and synapses in your brain even knew what happened.”

The redhead piped in, “You’ve been under careful watch since you left Cape Canaveral. We’re both assigned to the Air Force Special Activities Center as its token Space Corpsmen. Same goes for certain people at the seminar, waiters and baristas you’ve interacted with, drivers...”

Petty Officer Gregory finished her sentence, “Cute hotel receptionists with long legs and funny names. This situation is under our control Sir.”

This was a startling implication to say the least. I felt like something was crawling beneath my skin.

She put her hand on my forearm to reassure me and said “It’s nothing to worry about sir. We don’t suspect you of anything. What we’re about to ask of you is of grave importance to the national security and power of the United States going forward.”

I asked  her, “Then just explain to me what the hell it is you want me to do. I take it you want me to fly this thing?”

She pulled back and took a swig of her mix as I spoke - “Essentially. You and the other two are getting rolled into the Corps sooner than the rest of your class for the mission you’ll be undertaking. I’m sure you’re already familiar with the upgraded, manned version of the Mystery already?” She asked.

I said, “Yes, the MS-1B. The OIC has been quite excited about what we’re going to be able to do with it once me and the guys are assigned to the Leopards.”

She cut me off before I could finish saying the name of the squadron. “Lt. Jacob and Lt. Giser will be going to the 54th, where they’ll be working with the B. You however, will be going to the 7th Orbital Operations Squadron in order to directly cooperate with the Special Projects Division in the employment of the XOV.”

She took another sip of her drink as her compatriot finished her sentence for her with the word - “Major.”

“Excuse me? I just made the list for Captain barely a few weeks ago.” I explained, the Sergeant shook her head and reiterated.

“And you’ll be a Major when you enter the Corps. Similarly, Jacob and Giser will be promoted early to Captain as well. Consider it a compensation bonus for all three of you, in light of the risk you’ll be undertaking when you’re up there.”

“Risk? I mean other than the usual considerations, what’s so uniquely risky about flying this thing.” I asked, unsettled again. Things were simply getting more and more bizarre.

“Nothing in particular”, the Petty Officer added, “It’s actually quite old, never went into full production, just a curious Blackbird replacement the Groom Lake people didn’t get much utility out of. They got tired of fucking around with it, so as one of our first hurrahs into orbit, our young service is going to get to decommission it. Under fire. That’s why we’re promoting you, as incentive to take on the mission. We weren’t considering it before the last couple of days, but due to exigent circumstances it was found to be the most prudent option to offer it to you.”

“What the fuck do you mean under fire? Are you talking about combat? We’ve only simulated space-to-space so far. Hell we’ve only simulated counterspace for that matter.” I was beginning to raise my voice.

She flattened her hand and gestured for me to calm down. “Well, yes and no.“ She said softly, beginning to sound a bit more raspy in her voice. She tossed a few photographs of a Chinese spaceplane my way. These were taken more recently, as I inferred that they must have been shot with a digital camera. However, they were still incredibly grainy. I could make out a small spaceplane in the middle of a flurry of space debris and large rocky objects. The craft resembled the MS-1A but it was too hard to tell.

Sergeant Horace interrupted my concentration, “That’s a PLA Shenlong about 30 hours ago.”

“What’s wrong with it? Did we shoot at it or something?” I asked.

“Yes,” PO Gregory informed me, “the 668th was directing a pair of F-15s out of California on a short notice ASAT mission.“

My mind began racing, were we trying to go to war already? “So... you guys shot at it? Why before the President announced his new policy?” I asked.

She shook her head again, implying my assumption was wrong. “We weren’t trying to shoot at it. We were shooting at something else entirely.” She tapped on an amorphous object barely visible in the background of one of the photos. I looked up from the enigma, my eyes meeting her piercing gaze as she spoke as if she were a cold-blooded python consuming a small mammal.

“Sir, let’s just cut to the chase - you’re going to take this promotion, you’re going to escort Jacob and Giser to New America, and you three are going to kill the sole survivor stuck on that Shenlong - and, you’re going to do it all before that ‘thing’ decides to kill you.”

I'm an astronaut in the President's new space force, something isn't right

[dragonfics]

Thanks (again) to @itsladykit I was inspired to write some silly rom-com style TwistedHoneyMoney. The exact words that started it were “Twist/Rus, Cash/Rus, Twist/Cash love triangle (the kind that ends in polyamory, but starts with a rivalry between Twist and Cash)”. How was I to say no to a good old-fashioned love triangle? (Especially one with a Tale-verse monster sandwiched between to Fell-verse idiots).

Relationships: TwistedHoneyMoney (Twistfell Papyrus/Underswap Papyrus/Purple Swapfell Papyrus) (The poly relationship is not yet established in this chapter)

Summary:  Fell-verse monsters have a strange method of courtship—one some might deem a little unorthodox (or, in the words of certain monsters—undignified). Then again, it takes a fool (or two) to underestimate the duplicity of a Tale-verse monster. After all, isn’t it always the ones you least expect?

Tags: Non-explicit sexual content (this chapter), flirting, teasing, unconventional courtship

Warnings: Nothing serious, but this may come across as a sort of “cheating” (though no one is in an established relationship). Everything is consensual however, and the rivalry is in good-spirits (for the most part). But... they are assholes. I’m not even going to try and deny it.

Just two chapters for this one! It was meant to be a one-shot, but I went completely overboard with the “courtship”. (I would also like to apologise to anyone waiting on the next chapter of Argent Night. Unfortunately, I’ve been a bit swamped with uni stuff, so I’ve had to delay the update. I’m hoping to get the next chapter out by next weekend.)

With that all out of the way, I hope you enjoy!

~Beneath the cut~

When the Barrier had broken, and monsters had reached the Surface, it had soon become apparent that certain members of their race were more suited to life among humans than others. While many monsters settled comfortably into their new lifestyle, some found themselves struggling to adapt to the everyday norms of human society.

“Public transport? What a concept! Why on earth would I travel out in the open where anyone could attack me without warning?”

These more ill-fitted monsters were dubbed ‘Fell-verse’ by the gentler portion of their cohort, given the widespread notion that they were merely ‘fallen’ versions of the average monster.

Naturally, the Fell-verse monsters were not pleased with this distinction, and chose to name the softer members of their species ‘Tale-verse’—as an act of petty revenge (in their own eyes, at least).

“Utter airheads, the lot of them! Waltzing around as if life is some sort of fairy-tale.”

But despite a few initial disagreements, the Tale-verse and Fell-verse monsters soon came to develop a sort of fondness of each other (though neither would ever admit it openly). Though they still butted heads occasionally, their fascination with each other took over many early misgivings.

Compassion, joy, and zest were all fairly foreign concepts to many Fell-verse monsters. So it came as quite a shock to them when the Tale-verse monsters displayed such things so openly. Words like ‘naivety’, ‘absent-mindedness’, and even ‘stupidity’ were thrown around by some. Others, however, found themselves quite enthralled by the sweeter monsters, and many Fell-verse monsters were soon to be seen wandering the streets in the company of Tale-verse monsters.

And indeed, the Fell monsters weren’t the only ones intrigued by their counterparts. Many Tale-verse monsters derived amusement from the brash behaviour of Fell-verse monsters. More than once, a Tale-verse monster would have to explain the common social etiquettes of human society to a Fell-verse monster.

“He wasn’t trying to kill you, he was just offering you a drink.”

And, as time took its course, the question of Tale-verse and Fell-verse monsters entering ‘intimate relationships’ with each other arose. At first, the mere suggestion was met with utter indignance.

On the Tale-verse end, one often heard comments such as: “Utterly absurd! Can you imagine actually trying to tame one of those creatures long enough to have relations with it? I, for one, am content to let them ravage each other instead of those of us with a little dignity!”

And, on the Fell-verse side of things: “yeah, i guess i’d fuck a—heh—tail-verse or two. but, like, do they even know what they’re doin’? … do they know what fuckin’ is?”

Yet for all the doubts and naysaying, nature inevitably took its course, and soon, relationships between Fell-verse and Tale-verse monsters came to be—rare, though they were.

It soon came to the attention of the Tale-verse monsters however, that their Fell-verse counterparts had a fairly… abnormal method of courtship. Many seemed to lack the charisma acquired to ‘woo’ the Tale-verse monsters—a fact they made up for in blunt, unashamed forwardness. And though this approach had its benefits (most Fell monsters weren’t overly fond of small-talk), its success rate was fairly laughable. As it turned out, Tale-verse monsters tended to expect a little more decorum from their suitors.

Another trait which seemed prominent among Fell-verse monsters, was the (sometimes mildly aggressive) tendency towards competitiveness. And in the case of seduction, this often led to the unabashed art of bragging of one’s conquests. It soon became a point of pride, for one to be able to say that they had been intimate with a Tale-verse monster. After all, what sort of social prowess must one possess to be able to seduce such an enigmatic creature?

 Twist, a skeleton monster (and one of very few, at that), could make no claim to possessing any degree of subtlety or finesse when faced with social encounters. What he didn’t lack however—was confidence. While he’d never been one to brag (at least, not explicitly), his list of Tale-verse conquests was to be admired. Whether it was his words or his reputation—few could be sure—but Twist seemed to possess a knack for charming his way into the beds of Tale-verse monsters.

Cash, another Fell-verse skeleton, could make similar proclamations about his sex-life—and he did. Though a little shy of Twist’s level of confidence, Cash was a very proud monster, and took great strides to ensure the word of his prowess spread as far as was possible. Though he lacked Twist’s charm (and for Twist, ‘charm’ was probably a generous descriptor), he certainly had no shortage of affluence. When his wits failed him, he always had his wealth to fall back on (and it served him well).

But, as it stood, neither Twist nor Cash were quite satisfied with the list of successful Tale-verse endeavours to their names. There was one they would have liked to add—a monster they’d both had in interest in for quite some time.

Rus was a Tale-verse skeleton—and a rather fascinating one at that (in the shared opinion of Twist and Cash, in any case). Though Tale-verse through and through, Rus was rather a curiosity for the two Fell skeletons. He smiled—a lot—yet there was something behind his smile that left the mind wondering. The smile was by no means false, but it held a certain degree of ambiguity, which stirred an element of uncertainty—and intrigue—in the Fell-verse skeletons.

Being of the same ilk, Twist and Cash saw in each other a competitor for Rus’s affections. While both had yet to make a move on him, the tension between them had been present for a long time. And it was on a warm Friday night—at one of the skeletons’ weekly gatherings—that these tensions rose to a head.

****

Twist was a monster who made it his mission to spend as much time in public as his schedule allowed. So when the Tale-verse skeletons had proposed a weekly ‘pub night’—a visit to their neighbourhood’s local watering hole—Twist had been one of the first to speak up in favour of the idea (in spite of many of the other Fell-verse skeletons’ protests to the ‘Tale-verse nonsense’). And once the tradition had begun, Twist had become one of the few (if not the only) to attend every single gathering.

And this week was no different. He sat at the bar, sipping his drink and observing the other patrons (monsters and humans alike) chatting and laughing away. It was a relatively quiet night, and only a few of the skeletons had deigned to show up. Rus and Cash were both in attendance, and as it stood—very much occupied by each other.

Twist watched, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement, as Cash made his very best effort to hold Rus’s attentions. They were seated in a booth along with two of the other skeletons—Red, and Blackberry (Twist’s brother). But neither Rus nor Cash were paying much heed to the other two, sitting a little closer to each other than was perhaps necessary for an ordinary conversation.

But Twist knew it would be a while still before Cash was ready to make his move. The set of his shoulders was tense and anxious, and he barely seemed able to maintain eye contact with Rus for more than a few seconds. Twist would have been more than eager to indulge himself in the entertaining activity of watching Cash squander each passing opportunity to seduce Rus for the entire night—but, Twist wasn’t known for his patience, so after downing the remainder of his drink, he stood and crossed the bar.

As he approached the booth, Rus and Cash both looked up (the latter appearing a little less than pleased at the intrusion). “Heya, Tale-verse,” Twist addressed Rus, grinning.

“twisted,” Rus greeted in response.

Cash was giving Twist an apathetic glare, and Twist lifted a challenging brow-bone before returning his attentions to Rus. “Y’know, ‘m feelin’ a little pent up—ya wanna head back ta my place fer a couple a’ hours?”

Twist knew he was taking a risk; though this very direct method of enticement had worked in the past, Rus was difficult to read. Cash, on the other hand, made no effort to hide his bewilderment. “for goodness sake, twist, ya can’t just—”

“sure,” Rus responded, standing. Cash blinked, clearly stunned (in truth, Twist couldn’t claim to be any less surprised, but he refrained from revealing as much). Rus shot Cash a smile. “i’ll see you later, moneybags.”

Cash seemed to be struggling to find words, looking crestfallen as Twist slung an arm over Rus’s shoulders, pulling him against his side. “Don’ worry, Patches, I’ll take good care a’ him,” Twist said, knowing full well that the nickname embarrassed Cash to no end.

True to his nature, Cash blushed a pale shade of violet, ducking his head and turning his covered eye away. Twist chuckled, and pressed his teeth to the crown of Rus’s skull. “Ready ta head off then, sweetheart? I’m as good as they say, promise,” he added, with a wink.

“oh, i don’t doubt it,” Rus said. “and if you prove to be better—maybe i’ll even consider fucking you again.” Twist took no small amount of delight in the smug grin he was able to cast in Cash’s direction as he led Rus from the bar.

Needless to say, he’d won.

 And, as it turned out, Rus was just as profound a partner as Twist had been hoping (more so, even). His stamina was surprising for someone of his HP, and he made very little effort to keep himself quiet (which Twist appreciated immensely). He was also astoundingly more attentive than Twist had been expecting—leaving Twist more satisfied than he could have hoped for.

As they lay beside each other on Twist’s mattress, Twist couldn’t help but grin to himself. “Gotta say, Tale-verse, I’m impressed,” he said, a little breathlessly.

“i’d be offended if you weren’t,” Rus replied, smirking. He rolled over, pressing himself against Twist’s side and resting his head on his shoulder. “you weren’t half bad yourself.”

Twist was somewhat startled by the gentle display of affection—and had to remind himself for a moment that Rus was a Tale-verse monster. Well, though unfamiliar, it certainly wasn’t anything Twist was opposed to. After a moment’s hesitation, he returned the gesture, wrapping an arm around Rus. It felt… nice.

The pleasant haze of their afterglow was broken by the dull buzz of Rus’s cell phone. Casting Twist a sheepish grin, he untangled himself from his arms, turning over and answering the call. “heya, cash. what’s up?”

Twist froze in disbelief. Why would Patches be calling now…?

“what am i doing…?” Rus turned to cast Twist a wink. “something unfathomably stupid.” Twist stifled a snort, but watched Rus carefully. There was no chance Cash was simply calling for a friendly chat; his motivations were undoubtedly less than honest. “hmm, your place?” Rus’s response to whatever Cash had said confirmed Twist’s suspicions. “tell you what—why don’t you give me an hour? that work?” Rus stifled a snort, his gaze flickering to Twist. “yeah, i’ll shower first, you asshole. see you soon.”

For a moment, Twist had to remind himself not to gape. He stared at Rus as he hung up, struggling to hide his bewilderment. “Yer… meetin’ up with Patches?” he asked cautiously, ensuring he hadn’t misunderstood the phone call.

Rus flushed slightly, but smiled, his eyes darting away from Twist. “yeah… something wrong with that?”

Twist blinked, trying to comprehend the situation. While Cash’s intrusion was not unexpected—Rus’s agreement to his offer certainly was. Still, Twist wasn’t one to back down so easily—though he couldn’t stop Rus from engaging with Cash tonight… he could certainly delay him. “We still go ‘n hour, don’ we?”

Rus shrugged. “i suppose.”

“Good.” Grinning, Twist rolled them over, straddling Rus’s hips. He leaned down, kissing the surprised look off Rus’s face. “’Cause I’ve got a few more things I’d like ta do ta ya before ya go.”

Twist considered it a victory that Rus didn’t have time to shower before he left.

 Twist made sure to awake before sunrise the next morning. His bones ached pleasantly from the previous night’s activities, and his magic felt considerably warm and settled. After a quick breakfast, he made his way to the nearest bus stop. He was at Cash’s house before seven. Not bothering to ring the bell of the ridiculously pricy penthouse, Twist waltzed inside—noting that Cash seemed to have forgotten to lock the front door. He certainly must have been eager.

To Twist’s surprise, Rus was sprawled out on one of the lavish sofas in the living room, fast asleep. Cash was nowhere in sight. Shooting a cautious glance at the staircase, Twist approached Rus, placing a light hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Tale-verse,” he whispered, as Rus blearily opened his eye sockets. He blinked at Twist in surprise, a hint of amusement in his features.

“twisted… couldn’t stay away, could you?” Rus murmured through a yawn.

“Nah.” Twist grinned, climbing onto the sofa beside Rus. “Patches made ya sleep on the couch?” he questioned, lifting a brow bone.

“who says we were sleeping?” Rus asked, smirking.

Twist chuckled, leaning in. “Wanna not sleep some more?”

Rus snorted. “you sure have a way with words, twisted. do you want me to suck you off or eat you out?”

Twist grinned, feeling victorious. Leaning in, he pressed their teeth together, satisfied by Rus’s soft hum of appreciation. “How ‘bout both?” he murmured, nipping at Rus’s jaw.

Rus drew away to regard him with dubiety. “now you’re just being greedy.”

“Why waste a mouth as exquisite as yers on jus’ one form of oral?”

“well now, how can i say no to such a sweet-talker?”

Twist couldn’t decide if he was more satisfied by Rus’s performance, or the look on Cash’s face when he emerged at the top of the stairs to find Rus with his head between Twist’s legs.

 A week passed without incident (sexual or otherwise), and it wasn’t until the skeletons’ next gathering that Twist saw Rus and Cash again. The day was hot, and Twist was thankful for the cool air-conditioning inside the bar. What he was not so thankful for however, was the sight of Cash and Rus huddled beside each other in one of the corner booths.

By all appearances, things seemed fairly normal (but, perhaps, for their proximity to each other). But as Twist drew closer, he came to notice a rather strange expression on Rus’s face. He looked almost pained, and light beads of sweat dotted his skull. It was only when Twist caught Cash’s expression—an almost vindictive grin—that he realised something more was at play.

Any other monster would have shied away the moment they caught whim of what was going on between the two skeletons—but Twist wasn’t just any monster. Shame was something relatively foreign to him, and without qualm, he sat down beside them, shooting Cash a broad grin. “Heya, Tale-verse—Patches—what’re ya up to?”

Rus’s eyes went wide, a heavy blush sinking into his features. But when he opened his mouth to speak, Cash cut in, leaning over to regard Twist with a challenging tilt of his head. “not much. i was just givin’ rus a hand with somethin’. isn’t that right, sweetheart?” Rus blushed deeper as Cash’s teeth grazed his neck, but he nodded (a little breathlessly), remaining silent.

Twist observed them, projecting unfazed amusement despite the frustration Cash was igniting within him. “Well,” he said, shrugging with casual indifference and leaning back, “don’ stop on my account.”

“we weren’t,” Cash growled, and Rus whimpered softly, turning to bury his face in Cash’s chest. But Cash stopped him, holding him at bay with his free hand (the other was currently… occupied). “nah, love. i want ya ta look at him. go on. turn around.”

Rus stared at Cash for a few seconds, tears leaking from the corners of his eye sockets, before turning hesitantly to look at Twist. Cash pressed his teeth to Rus’s acoustic meatus, whispering something too quiet for Twist to hear. But given the sudden heated look that crossed Rus’s features—it wasn’t difficult to guess the nature of Cash’s words.

Twist knew walking away would be admitting defeat, but he still felt thoroughly put on the spot. Embarrassment wasn’t really an emotion he was familiar with, yet he could feel magic tingling beneath the surface of his bones. Rus’s expression was an enticing mixture of bliss and discomposure, his eyes straying from Twist’s face, and his cheeks glowing. Though Twist would normally be more than inclined to enjoy the display, Cash’s complacent smirk was very off-putting.

He relinquished to sit and watch, forcing his features to appear neutral, until at last Cash pressed his hand over Rus’s mouth to muffle his cries, and pulled away. “you were perfect, darlin’,” Cash murmured, running his tongue over Rus’s neck, while keeping his gaze firmly locked on Twist. “gonna go wash my hands,” he said, sliding out of the booth and casting Twist a triumphant smirk. “don’t worry, love, i took good care of ‘im.”

Twist watched Cash go, pressing back the retorts he itched to speak. When Cash was out of sight, Twist turned to Rus, who still looked a little flushed. Shuffling over, Twist traced his fingers over the back of Rus’s hand playfully, leaning in to murmur, “Need me ta take ya home, Tale-verse? I can give y’a ride.”

Rus glanced at him, lifting a brow-bone. “you don’t drive,” he pointed out.

“Not that kinda ride, sweetheart.”

By some miracle, Rus agreed. Twist was more than obliged to continue his rivalry with Cash—indeed, he was rather delighted. The competition was thrilling—seeing the mix of outrage and frustration on Cash’s face every time Twist gained the upper hand was immensely satisfying. Not to mention, Rus was a damn good fuck.

****

Cash had never been one for socialising. He tended to avoid human (and monster) interaction as much as physically possible, and spending time in the presence of crowds was a peeve of his. He had been one of the first to reject the bullshit Tale-verse suggestion for a ‘weekly hang-out’. In fact, the first time he had attended had only been at Twist’s unrelenting insistence.

He had attended every one since.

Cash liked Rus. He liked talking to him, being around him, touching him. He was all sweet smiles and soft whispers and subtle glances that made Cash feel wanted. So on that warm Friday night, Cash’s soul had leapt a little when Rus had chosen to sit beside him. Him—and not that Twisted asshole who kept shooting them glances from across the bar. Cash made sure to establish the fact that Rus’s attentions were his for the night. He shuffled close to him, leaned in, and did his best to smile and engage.

But for the life of him, he couldn’t seem to get the right words out—hell, he could barely look at Rus without blushing. And before long, Twist was standing beside their booth, his body angled in such a way that flaunted the sharp curve of his hip and displayed just a sliver of his clavicle. His eyes were on Rus, but Cash caught the brief smug glances in his direction.

When Rus left with Twist, it felt as if a dagger had embedded itself in Cash’s chest. His fists trembled at his sides, and he could do little but stare at the hard oak of the table as his magic boiled. He caught a glimpse of Blackberry’s smug half-smile across the table, and snapped his head up, teeth gritted. “somethin’ to say, berry?”

Blackberry sighed, sounding almost pitying. “You’re not going to win against him, Cash,” he stated simply.

Irritated, Cash cast a glance at Red, who merely shrugged in concession. “yeah, uh, sorry bud. the twisted’s got ya beat by a mile an’ a half.”

Cash stared at both of them for half a minute before standing abruptly, marching for the door without so much as a ‘goodbye’. He seldom bothered mustering the energy for petty competitions—but Twist somehow seemed to know just which of his buttons to push, and Cash was nothing if not stubborn. He would not be losing this.

 Relief flooded Cash when Rus picked up on the other end of the line around an hour later (a very small part of him entertained the idea that Rus had been hoping Cash would call). And Rus’s unfaltering agreement to come over sent Cash’s soul aflutter. He couldn’t help but grin to himself as he hung up, wishing more than anything that he could see the look on the Twisted bastard’s face.

When Rus arrived an hour later, he was looking a little dishevelled. “you smell like sex,” Cash remarked, letting him in.

Rus hummed in agreement, crossing the room and flopping onto one of the plush sofas. “uh… yeah. that’s normally what happens when you have sex.” Cash felt a sick pit settling in his chest, and he grimaced. Seeming to sense his discomfort, Rus quickly shook his head, smiling. “but… feel free to try and prove me wrong.” His tongue danced over his teeth, and Cash felt warmth pooling in his groin.

After pouring them both a glass of his most expensive champagne, he sat beside Rus, who seemed more than grateful for the drink. “are you trying to get me drunk, cash?” he asked, lifting a brow-bone in teasing.

“i’m trying to give you the treatment you deserve,” Cash told him, smoothly. His breath stuttered as Rus’s hand glided slowly up his femur, settling just beneath his pelvic inlet.

“fuck me on this sofa, and i’ll consider myself treated,” Rus purred, pressing his teeth against Cash’s neck. Though Cash normally turn his nose up at the thought of sullying his pristine couches—he decided to make an exception for Rus.

And oh, was he glad he did. Though fucking Rus was sweet and gentle, it was nothing like Cash had imagined it to be. Though Rus was soft and considerate—he was by no means submissive. Even as Cash pounded into him, he could feel Rus guiding his movements, encouraging him, whispering words of praise and adoration.

When Cash came, it was with tears in his eyes, and Rus’s name falling from his mouth. He flushed at how embarrassingly quickly he had reached his climax, but Rus seemed unconcerned, almost immediately curling up against him and falling asleep.

A little startled at the unreserved display of trust, Cash carefully pried himself out of Rus’s arms, gathering a blanket and draping it over him before hurrying upstairs, his cheeks burning. A small bloom of pride unfurled inside him—where Rus had only remained with Twist for a mere hour, he had chosen to stay with Cash for an entire night (even if he was only sleeping on his sofa). Cash almost considered joining him, but decided against it, the thought a little daunting.

Needless to say, the fury and despair he felt at finding Twist in his living room the next morning with Rus’s face buried in his crotch—was unfathomable. Cash vowed nothing short of bitter revenge in return.

 A week later, he delivered on his promise.

The blistering heat of the day did nothing to quell the heady agitation of Cash’s magic, and he was more than grateful when he found Rus sitting in their usual booth alone at the bar. Sliding in beside him, he pushed his misgivings to the back of his mind, and slung his arm over Rus’s shoulders, leaning into him. “bit warm today, isn’ it?” he remarked, satisfied by the look of surprise on Rus’s face.

“i—i suppose it is,” Rus said, seeming a little taken off guard by the physical gesture. This delighted Cash, and he tugged Rus closer. He could feel the heat radiating from his body, and dared to indulge the idea that Rus might be just as horny as he was.

He turned his head to press his teeth to the angle of Rus’s jaw, feeling a shudder go through Rus as he scraped his teeth over the bone. “hmm… you smell delicious, y’know that?”

Rus’s breath hitched as Cash’s fingers found the waistband of his pants, teasing at the base of his spine and iliac crest. “i—the others might be here soon,” he murmured, his breathing beginning to quicken.

“do you want me ta stop?” Cash asked, pausing.

“i don’t… n-no.”

“good,” Cash breathed, his fingers finding the pool of magic which had settled at Rus’s pelvic inlet. “because i really don’t want ta stop… and besides, pretty sure the twisted asshole is the only one showin’ up today.”

Rus pulled away slightly to glance at him, a brow-bone lifted in skeptical amusement. Cash flushed a little, suddenly wishing he hadn’t spoken. But to his surprise, Rus only grinned and leaned close to whisper, “well then, we’d better put on a damn good show.”

By the time Twist arrived, Rus was barely short of a mess of sweat and magic in Cash’s hands (or, hand, rather). The sudden expansion of Twist’s eye-light didn’t surprise Cash, and he smirked as he caught Twist’s gaze. He was a little surprised when Twist sat down beside them—even more so when he remained where he was after it became obvious that Cash wasn’t stopping.

Cash heaved Rus closer, wrapping his free arm around his chest possessively, and whispering obscene words against his skull. Throughout the encounter, he refused to release Twist’s gaze—the bastard needed to learn that Cash wasn’t one to accept defeat so easily. For once, Cash found himself struggling to read Twist’s expression. His eye would occasionally stray to Rus’s face, but for the most part, he seemed to be having difficulty keeping it off Cash.

When Rus came, Cash pressed his hand over his mouth to silence him, despite the rowdy chatter that filled the bar. He allowed Rus barely a moment to catch his breath before leaning in to smooth his tongue over Rus’s neck. “you were perfect, darlin’,” he breathed, softly, carefully gauging Twist’s response. To his disappointment, Twist appeared (for the most part) unaffected by the display, but for the pale flush of magic around the spiderweb cracks of his eye socket. Giving Rus’s femur a gentle squeeze, Cash stood. “gonna go wash my hands.” He glanced at Twist, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “don’t worry, love, i took good care of ‘im.”

As he walked away, Cash preened at the way Twist’s jaw clenched—just a little. Though he knew this competition of theirs was far from over, he couldn’t help but revel in his small victory. While he was more than enjoying the pleasure of Rus’s company, he was beginning to find himself quite thrilled by Twist’s small slips in composure. The idea of seeing him fall apart completely was… more than intriguing.

****

The feud between Twist and Cash continued for weeks. With Rus as their weapon of choice, they tormented each other to no end—going so far as to interrupt one another in the midst of their ‘revenge schemes’. One positive at least, was that Rus seemed to have no complaints in regards to the arrangement. If he had any reservations about his role in Twist and Cash’s rivalry, he made no mention of them. Truth be told, he appeared a rather enthusiastic participant.

But, one Friday night at the bar, their antics were brought to a rather abrupt end.

Twist’s hand had somehow found its way up the back of Rus’s shirt, and he had his fingers curled around Rus’s spine—a predicament Rus seemed quite satisfied with. Particularly when coupled with the feeling of Cash’s sharp fingers on his ribs. The look on his face was something akin to deep bliss—though the same could not be said for Twist and Cash. Over Rus, they shared a piercing glare, each determined to outdo the other.

It was only when Edge (who had been observing the endeavour in silent distaste after being quite forgotten by the other three skeletons) loudly declared, “Oh for fuck’s sake, Rus—would you just pick one of them?”—that Twist, Cash, and Rus all came to a simultaneous halt, looking up at Edge in surprise.

Immediately, Twist and Cash exchanged a frantic glance. In the midst of all their attempts to best each other, not once had it occurred to them to simply ask Rus which of them he preferred. And suddenly, all attention was on the Tale-verse skeleton, who faltered beneath the gazes of the other three. “w-well…” he stammered, averting his gaze.

“… well?” Cash was quite literally sitting on the edge of his seat, his fingers clenched around the corner of the table. “which of us is it?”

Rus shook his head, releasing a quiet, humourless laugh. “look—it’s not that easy. i—”

“C’mon, Patches,” Twist interjected, shooting Cash a dubious grin. “It’s obviously me. Ya can’ even last more than a couple a’ minutes.”

Fuming, Cash opened his mouth to snap back at Twist—but Edge quickly cut in, sighing. “Aggrandising your own sexual prowess isn’t going to achieve anything, Twist,” he said, sharply, silencing Twist. “It’s precisely how the two of you landed yourselves in this dilemma in the first place… Rus?” Something unspoken seemed to pass between Rus and Edge—an understanding beyond what Twist or Cash had the capacity to comprehend in that moment.

Rus glanced between Twist and Cash anxiously, resting a hand on each of their arms. But their surprise at the unexpected gentle contact was nothing compared to when Rus quietly confessed, “i… i want both of you.”

[yahoo-shutdown-corner-blog]

Welcome to the era of NFL parity. Is this good for football?

It’s time for the War Room, where Yahoo Sports’ football minds kick around the key topics of the day. Today, we’re talking parity and walk-out music. Got an idea for a future question? Email us here. Now, onward!

1. Welcome to the modern NFL. We have a couple very good teams, a couple very bad teams and everybody else … eh? You could pick anybody this side of Cleveland to make a run into the playoffs and nobody would be surprised. So … is parity good for the NFL? Or should we have super-teams like the NBA? Your thoughts, please.

Frank Schwab The echo chamber of NFL negativity is out of control. If the New England Patriots were undefeated, people would complain there wasn’t any suspense. We’ve never seen the NFL be this competitive, and people complain about that. I guess there are too many good teams for people. But no matter what it is, people will find a way to complain. Two-thirds of the NFL is set up pretty well at quarterback, but all you hear about is how bad quarterbacking is because one-third of the league is still figuring it out, sometimes with promising rookies (think about this: people are already complaining about how bad it will be when Tom Brady, Drew Brees et al. retire … while they’re still playing great football). Just because there are a lot of teams that have similar records doesn’t mean they are bad. I’ve never seen the league more balanced from top to almost bottom (sorry, Cleveland Browns). The 0-8 San Francisco 49ers had a stretch in which they lost five straight games by 13 points, which has never happened before. This is what it looks like when many capable franchises are competing for finite resources. This is what it looks like when there are a lot of very good coaching staffs trying to out-do each other. It’s really hard to build super-teams in an intensely competitive league. When the NFL has a full schedule, 16 teams will lose. It doesn’t mean those 16 teams are terrible. But if there was a way for 30 teams to win and two to lose, people would fixate on the two losing teams and say the league was awful because of them. The difference between the teams with the best records in the NFL and the teams with the worst records is quite small, and I don’t know how that’s a bad thing. The intense negativity is unique to the NFL – people don’t watch Russell Westbrook, John Wall, Chris Paul, Kyrie Irving but still whine that the NBA is screwed because there are five bad point guards – and I can’t say I understand it.

Shalise Manza Young Isn’t this exactly how the NFL is set up? For parity? We’re at the start of Week 9 and 17 teams are at .500 or better, meaning over half of the teams in the league – and their fan bases – have a chance of making the playoffs. Another six teams are 3-4, and not yet out of the picture. Shouldn’t this be what we want? That we’re midway through the season and a good number of clubs still have a chance? If there is an NFL super-team, it’s the Patriots, and everyone hates them that isn’t a Patriots fan (yes, Bill Belichick and the “-gates” play a role in that). Besides, given the league salary cap and the sheer number of players on a roster and number of roles, it’s almost impossible to have NBA-style super-teams. Just sit back and enjoy the last nine weeks of the regular season.

Anthony Sulla-Heffinger As Shalise wrote, with the sheer size of an NFL roster, the hard salary cap, and the unpredictability of injuries, there’s really no way to have a football super-team – and that’s a good thing. While the NBA may have a few marquee teams and matchups throughout the increasingly meaningless regular season, there are also teams that openly tank to set themselves up for better draft picks which, despite what Sixers fans will tell you, is a problem. I’d rather have a bunch of competitive games with higher stakes week-in and week-out than only a handful I truly care about while I wait for the playoffs to come, which is what happens in the NBA in the super-team era.

Brandon Velaski While I think the NBA playoffs benefits from having the super-teams, their regular season is very watered down because of it. Not to mention the fact that their regular season is 82 games rendering each of them less meaningful than the 16 for its NFL counterpart. The parity in the NFL breeds hope and hope later into the season breeds more eyeballs. While a super-team is good in terms of being a villain for all to root against, the NFL is fine where it’s at right now.

Blake Schuster Parity in the NFL is kind of boring. There, I said it. I don’t believe super-teams can be manufactured in football in the same way we see it work in the NBA (sup, 2011 Eagles?), but that doesn’t mean dominant teams are a bad thing. Last week featured just one division matchup in Panthers-Buccaneers, two competitive teams that didn’t really put on an exciting performance, and both squads were playoff contenders. Maybe it’s that so many teams are banged up this year that the game has lost a level of intrigue, but I love the David and Goliath matchup — with the exception of any game Cleveland plays in. Give me the 2007 Patriots against the field, show me a clear line between good and bad teams. And let’s not forget how much more fun the game day experience is when we can collectively make fun of horrible teams and root against great ones. Show me the heroes and villains and don’t try to tell me that isn’t good for the game.

Jay Busbee I don’t want one super-team. I want at least two, preferably in the same conference, beating the hell out of each other. The Cowboys-49ers rivalry of the early ’90s remains one of my absolute favorite duels in all of sports; it was like a family reunion and an arms race all at once. Let ’em challenge a would-be contender from the other conference, but two matchups a year between beasts, a Monday night game and a late-January playoff, would suit me just fine. As for parity … well, it allows more teams a chance to get in the mix, but it also means that nobody outside of the Patriots sticks around for very long. Good for the short term, not so much for the long.

Jordan Schultz One of the best parts about the NFL is its annual barrage of parity. Teams we think are really good often underachieve and teams we sleep on are often far better than we projected. The NBA, to be sure, is as healthy as its ever been, and the so-called super-team era is a key reason why. But the NBA is also a superstar driven league. The NFL has superstars, but they aren’t the driving force. Part of that stems from the hard salary cap and part of it stems from the sheer volume of players. And for football fans, that is just fine.

Zach Pereles One of the things I like most about the NFL is that you don’t get any super-teams per se, but you do get plenty of teams you can pencil into the playoffs year after year: teams such as the Patriots, Steelers, Seahawks and, before Aaron Rodgers got hurt, the Packers. And then all of the other teams set out to unseat those prohibitive favorites. How awesome would it be for the Bills, who haven’t made the playoffs in 17 years, to win the AFC East over the Patriots? Or the Rams snapping a 12-year playoff drought by beating the Seahawks in the NFC West? Both could happen this year. I love parity because it prevents stagnation, and the NFL brings just enough parity.

Alex Smith brings the heat, but he could use some personalized music, too. (Getty)

2. Baseball players get their own walk-up music. Why shouldn’t football players? Pick a player (or a team) and identify which music would best represent them. As always, Rob “Yeti Cooler In Human Form” Gronkowski is off the table for this exercise.

The Browns should just enter to the Benny Hill theme song, or “Yakety Sax” as it’s better known. Do I really need to explain why? –Velaski

The Oakland Raiders have to walk in to “Back in Black” by AC/DC. The road white uniforms just aren’t getting it done. The Raiders are 1-3 on the road this year with an abysmal loss to Washington in primetime earlier this year, a loss in Denver in which Derek Carr got hurt and another poor effort in Buffalo just this last weekend. Meanwhile, back home they’re 2-2 with a win over their division rival Chiefs and the not-so-terrible Jets. The black unis are a fear-striking classic. The white unis? Uh, not so much. –Pereles

Some of the song choices are obvious. Forget Springsteen; Tom Petty’s “Free Falling” ought to be playing to start every Giants game. The Chargers would own Los Angeles if they just started playing Tupac’s “California Love” during intros. Martavis Bryant could walk onto Heinz Field to the strains of “We Are Never Getting Back Together.” And the fact that the Falcons don’t storm Mercedes-Benz Stadium to the beat of Outkast’s “B.O.B.” is damn near a felony. –Busbee

Marshawn Lynch needs intro music. I mean he’s just perfect! I love Drake’s “Started From The Bottom.” The song personifies Beast Mode’s humble beginnings and endless loyalty toward his friends and teammates. For example, Lynch bought a local restaurant that was about to go under all because the owner fed him meals as a young boy when he couldn’t afford to pay. –Schultz

Despite the fact that I’d probably have to sit 20-year-old JuJu Smith-Schuster down and explain to him that Queen was a phenomenal band from the ‘70s with arguably the greatest mustachioed lead singer of all-time in Freddie Mercury, there’s no better song for the young Steelers star than “Bicycle Race.” Considering the recent events surrounding JuJu’s preferred method of transportation, there’s no more perfect song than the 1978 classic that repeatedly states “I want to ride my bicycle,” and, as a bonus, he’d get a little music history lesson in the process. –Sulla

Let’s find something good for Deshaun Watson, who might be the best story in the NFL this season. How about “I’m the One” by DJ Khaled? Because I’m not sure we’ve ever seen a rookie quarterback play quite like this. It does seem like he’s the NFL’s next superstar. He’s the one, though it seems like he’d never tout himself that way (maybe “HUMBLE.” by Kendrick Lamar would fit better).  –Schwab

Since Jay said we can’t use Rob Gronkowski, whose entry music would of course be “Sexy and I Know It” by LMFAO, let’s go with DJ Khaled’s “Shining” for Carson Wentz and the 7-1 Philadelphia Eagles, who made themselves even stronger on Tuesday with the trade for Jay Ajayi. As an aside, Tom Brady does have entrance music, and it’s pretty hot – at every home game, when Brady comes onto the field for warmups, the PA immediately starts playing “Public Service Announcement,” an interlude on Jay Z’s “The Black Album.” –Young

Tom Brady walking out to Jay-Z’s “Public Service Announcement” is great, but let’s not act like the Patriots shouldn’t all be introduced with Mobb Deep’s “Shook Ones Pt. II.” As far as individual players, and the use of Nine Inch Nails’ “Hurt” for Andrew Luck notwithstanding, play Kanye West’s “Flashing Lights” for Deshaun Watson already. The bigger the stage, the better this dude performs. His entrance music should at least reflect that. –Schuster

That’ll do it for this week. Got a topic for us to kick around? Hit us up at jay.busbee@yahoo.com and get your question answered by the crew. Enjoy the games! ____ Jay Busbee is a writer for Yahoo Sports. Got a tip, comment, or question for a future NFL mailbag? Contact him at jay.busbee@yahoo.com or find him on Twitter or on Facebook.

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