#flight map displays

[adonisoneca]

Modern cabin entertainment system with customizable music and movie selections

With a variety of individualised entertainment options available through an innovative cabin entertainment system, take advantage of an unparalleled in-flight experience. With features like interactive games, carefully chosen music playlists, and famous TV series and films, this system is made to make every traveler's experience entertaining and interesting. Each seat turns into a personal theatre with high-definition screens, touch controls that are easy to use, and language options that let passengers choose the entertainment they want. This cabin entertainment system blends convenience, variety, and comfort, making air travel a memorable and soothing experience. It is perfect for lengthy flights and offers something for all ages.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Simon hunts Nik. Nik toys with him.

cw: Nik gets off on being prey.

The wind whispered faintly past broken panes and rusted steel as Simon picked his way through the skeletal remains of the high-rise. Debris and shattered glass crunched underfoot, every step careful, calculated to leave no trace. Like a ghost.

The building he’d chosen was once a corporate tower, now a concrete husk, gutted and abandoned. No different to any other war-torn hellscape, except the vast majority of the city was still populated, even if the building itself was too fragile to trust as shelter. It offered the perfect vantage for Simon's purposes though; an unimpeded view of the fire exit at the back of the building opposite, and minimal risk of counter-sniper exposure.

He reached his chosen spot by stairwell, avoiding the elevator shaft, which gaped like an open wound through the building's spine. He cleared every landing as he went. The last thing he needed was some street kid hopping on his back and getting a knife to the gut. Room by room. Corner by corner. Cleaning house. Johnny would be proud, Simon thought wryly.

He built his nest in the remains of a corner office; half its outer wall gone, wind whipping tattered blinds over jagged concrete edges. Simon set his pack down silently, using his knee guard to shuffle some glass away from where he'd lay prone. He chucked out his thermal mat, laid out his MCPR-300, and aligned it with muscle memory. Scope caps off. Suppressor attached. Wind meter clipped to the edge of a twisted beam. As he hunkered down, his core bracing, knee lifting a little, he tilted his cheek inwards and surveyed the street.

The rifle's scope brought the street below into razor-sharp focus. Cars rusted in place. A burnt out bus near a derelict park. There were a few civilians wandering the street, but they'd vanish the moment the sun set. It was too dangerous to be out at night, when vicious monsters hid in shadows.

Given who he was hunting, he updated his mental map of the operation: hostile QRF likely. He'd taken leave for this. Couldn't get the idea out of his head. The niggling feeling under his ribs that he had to do something. Anything. The only tools he had were violence and death, so that was where he had settled.

He stabilised his position, using his backpack as a makeshift tripod, and hunkered down for the wait. A spotting scope lay beside him, laser rangefinder synced to his wrist display. Heart rate: steady, despite a subtle tremor in the back of his mind. Breathing: shallow, controlled. He was built for this.

He watched. And he waited.

Eventually, the door opened as he had predicted. A tall, familiar figure with jet black hair stepped into the street. He wasn't in his trademark flight suit, nor the brown leather jacket Simon had become accustomed to over the last year and a half since the task force had formed. He was in a sharp black suit; no tie, gold chain glinting in the dark curls of his chest hair. Simon's tongue flicked out over his lower lip, catching the worn material of his mask. The bastard was so bloody arrogant.

The easy swagger was still there. The way he walked with his hips first, his shoulders back, like he owned the fuckin' place. Knowing Nikolai, he probably did. But it was harder, meaner. The broad, jovial grin he wore for Laswell and Price was gone. The man taking up the end of Simon's scope looked as austere and dangerous as any Russian mobster. And that was the truth of it, weren't it? That was why Simon was here. He'd seen through Nik to the reality of him. He was bad fuckin' news. Price didn't realise, not yet, but Simon would open his eyes.

Simon jammed his ear piece in and tapped the green icon on his phone. He watched Nik reach inside his jacket, the cross hairs hovering over his head, and the international dial tone cut short as he answered. "Da?"

"Bang."

Simon wasn't sure what he expected. Shock? Panic? Stupid, really. He should have known better. The smirk that uncurled over Nik's face was infuriating, and Simon's finger pressed hard above the trigger guard. "Lieutenant," Nik said, "how did you get this number?"

"State secret." Simon tried not to let the fact that Nik had identified him by a single syllable get under his skin.

"Of course." Nik was scoping out his perimeter. Simon could see his eyes scanning the streets, the doorways. "Can I buy you dinner?"

"Where? We're in a bloody warzone."

Nik rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "You know already where my Black Hawk is parked. Allow me to take us somewhere more... suitable."

Simon ground his teeth. It irked him that Nik wasn't more... alarmed. "'m not 'im, not so easily charmed, Nikolai. Came to warn you off."

"Warn me off?"

Simon swallowed. Hard. He drew in a slow breath; measured, so that Nik couldn't hear the tremor. "He's mine. I don' like sharin'. Never 'ave."

"I see." Nik was looking at the rooftops now, but his posture remained casual, relaxed. Like he didn't much mind being at the end of a sniper's scope. Like his life didn't balance in Simon's palm. "Is he aware of your claim?"

The true answer sat in the pause before Simon growled. "Don't matter."

"So that is no."

"Soon as he finds out what you are, really... You put on the act. Loyal pilot. But yer standin' there in yer posh suit, sellin' guns to people who'll use 'em on us later. Yer a crook, not even worth the shit on his shoe."

Nik huffed a laugh. His gaze turned towards Simon's building. "He has known me for twenty years. He knows what I do, who I sell to. He has seen me in all states of dress, and..." Nik's eyes travelled up the building and drilled right down the channel of Simon's scope as he said the next word, "...undress."

Simon's breath caught in his throat. His hesitation was like blood in the water to a shark. It was impossible for Nik to see him at this distance, but Simon felt pinned by those dark eyes none the less.

"Does it bother you, lieutenant? That he knows all of me and yet still opens his heart and his legs for me."

"Shut up..."

"Do you worry that if he were to know all of you, he would not do the same?"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Or perhaps, you are worried he would."

Simon's heart felt like it was trying to fight its way out of his plate carrier. The way Nik damn purred down the phone, his low voice unhurried, almost playful. Simon shifted his finger and for a heartbeat he was going to do it. Spread the contents of Nik's brain over that fire exit door.

Nik's eyes never moved, his posture relaxed, his smile light. He was damn handsome, with his dark stubble and broad shoulders. The way he took up the space around him, completely at ease in a devastated city riddled with the worst criminals, targeted by the scope of a veteran SAS sniper. "Are you still there, lieutenant?"

"Could do it and no one would ever know."

"If you were going to kill me, you would have done it the moment I left the building. You could not do that to him. You are too loyal. Sweet, like a puppy."

Simon hated that he was right. Again. "You ever get tired lookin' over your shoulder all the time?"

"I realised a long time ago that I did not have to look over my shoulder for my enemy's next move if I controlled the board."

"Don't seem like you do this time."

"The pawn is not privy to the strategy of the player."

"You arrogant cunt."

Nik's smile broadened. "You feel my confidence is unearned?"

Simon chewed on the inside of his cheek, shifted his hips against the gravel. Fuck, was that a...? Christ. Every year he found new levels of 'fucked in the head' to sink to. "Yeah."

"Hm. Shall we find out?"

No way. No fuckin' way did that bastard hang up. Simon watched him kiss the damn phone and wave it in Simon's direction before tucking it in his jacket. And then he walked away. Simon's hand creaked on the grip of his rifle and he seethed into his wrist.

He punched the concrete three times after pushing up from his chest, and then dropped his head into his stinging palm. Fuck. Fuck.

***

Nik dropped into the driver's seat of the low profile sedan he had rented for the occasion and groaned. His hand slid down his belly and over his belt to grasp the hard bulge of his cock, squeezing longingly. "Blyat..."

Simon was a wild thing. Barely tamed. Nik had taken a gamble and it had paid off, while confirming everything he had deduced since first encountering John's stoic lieutenant. The encounter had left Nik a little breathless with want. Simon was begging to be brought to bear; his gnashing teeth, his barking, it was all a show. A challenge.

Nik tapped the ignition and shifted the car into first, adjusting the rearview mirror to capture the building where the eagle had made his nest.

It would take patience, but Nik would have Simon as well as John. They yearned for each other anyway, trapped by and fearful of the parts of themselves they saw as broken. They were raw, vulnerable, so desperate to feel safe, to let their guard down and have someone take control. They just needed guiding in the right direction. By winter, Nik would have them both on their knees at his feet.

[anonity]

seeing

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

hi ladies! happy valentines day <3 i have the flu 😩 the last time i had the flu my ex-gf broke no contact to tell me to take care of myself.. just thought i’d share that.. i meant to post this wednesday but i lost the original draft i had of it and only just now finished rewriting it

WC: 765. supa short, longer fics coming i pinkie promise

summary: paige should look away. she knows she should. but azzi is beautiful and, more importantly, hasn’t noticed paige staring. (or maybe she has, and is letting her look anyways.)

the cabin drums with the white noise of plane engines, accompanied by a stillness unique to the sky — suspended moments paige has only found 35,000 feet in the air. 

somewhere behind them, there’s a flight attendant passing by with a drink cart. it clatters against someone's seat, the wheels making an unpleasant scraping sound.  aaliyah is craning her neck to see if they have fritos, and KK is arguing vehemently with whoever is behind her. paige barely registers any of it. 

because azzi is sitting next to her, leaned into the window seat they’d fought over, bathing in the dim light of the overhead lamp — and paige cannot stop looking at her. 

she’s reading. or at least, she was reading, because the page hasn't turned in a hot minute. it’s a new book (a paperback paige had caught her eyeing in the airport and bought the second she looked away), but the spine is already cracking from use. 

her head is tilted just so, cheek pressed against the cool glass, and the way she’s leaning has the setting sun softening over the curve of her jaw. paige swallows thickly, shifting in her seat. 

she should look away. 

she knows she should. 

because azzi is her best friend, her teammate, the peanut butter to her jelly. and so she should turn away to scroll through her phone, or even watch the moving where-are-we map displayed on the flight screen in front of her. she should do anything but sit there, yearning in the cabin of an avelo airline, and stare. 

but azzi hasn’t looked back yet. and so long as it stays that way, paige figures she can get away with it. there’s something stupidly intimate about watching azzi when she’s so clearly focused on something else, eyes decorated with golden flecks where the sun is catching them. there's something soft in the way azzi hasn’t noticed yet, or kind in the way she probably has but is choosing not to acknowledge it. maybe that is what creates the weightless feeling that only seems to exist in the quiet in-between of being with azzi. the way she’s letting paige look, deliberately allowing her to have this moment.

paige knows the second azzi turns her head, she’ll have to school her expression – pretend she wasn’t memorizing the way azzi tugs her lip in between her top teeth, or the way her eyebrows are knitted together like she’s trying to figure something out.

for how hard paige is staring, you would think she’d notice the way azzi’s eyes have stopped following the paper in front of her.

she doesn’t, though. azzi shifts, paige tracking the way her fingertips slide up the spine of the book, and lets her gaze follow upwards – to the slope of her shoulders, the outline of collarbone where her sweatshirt is falling.

then, azzi inhales softly, speaking without raising her gaze. “you’re staring.”

paige freezes, eyes landing on the digital airplane in front of her. “no i’m not.”

azzi smiles. “you are.”

paige shuffles further back into her seat, rolling her eyes. “you think you got your degree, and you know every fuckin’ thing, huh?” she deflects, grin widening at the reference as she nudges azzi’s knee with her own.

azzi hums. she has that look she gets when she knows something paige doesn’t – like she’s waiting for her to figure it out. “i know what it feels like when you’re looking at me.”

paiges grin stutters, her stomach flipping like it does when there’s turbulence. it’s the first time azzi has ever really acknowledged that paige looks at her. if she’s honest, she feels a little caught, walls she thought were well-built around her crumbling at the mere notion of azzi noticing the way paige watches her (of azzi recognizing the way paige looks at her, seeing it in the pages of whatever romance she’s reading).

paige risks a peek over, but azzi is still staring at those same words. paige’s shoulders slump in relief. azzi’s giving her this – this safe distance, the opportunity to ignore what's sitting thickly between them. 

i know what it feels like when you’re looking at me. of course she does. it’s all paige can do sometimes: stare.

then paige laughs, light and easy like her world didn’t just briefly stop spinning. “crazy thing to say,” she mutters, faking an unbothered yawn. she prays azzi doesn’t catch the way her voice wavers.

azzi finally turns her head, but paige's gaze is trained stubbornly on her phone. not because she’s embarrassed, but because she’s not sure what would happen if she looked at azzi right now – not while azzi is looking at her.

but from the corner of her vision, paige catches it – azzi smiling, soft and knowing.

and yeah. she probably knows.

[ashwantsafreepalestine]

LMAO.

Based Jetblue.

[fatehbaz]

About the entanglement of "science" and Empire. About how children are encouraged participate in these imperial "scripts".

Was thinking about this recent thing:

The caption reads: "Toys and board games, 1940." And I think the text on the game-box in the back says something like "the whole world is yours", maybe? (Use of appeals to science/progress in imperial narratives is a thing already well-known, especially for those familiar with Victorian era, Edwardian era, Gilded Age, early twentieth century, etc., in US and Europe.)

And was struck, because I had also recently gone looking through other posts about the often-strange imagery of children's material in late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century US/Europe. And was disturbed/intrigued by this thing:

Caption here reads: "Game Board. Walter Mittelholzer's flight over Africa. [...] 1931. Commemorative game board map of Africa for a promotional game published for the N*stle Company, for tracking the trip of Walter Mittelholzer across Africa, the first pilot to fly a north-south route."

Hmm.

I went to learn more about this: Produced in Switzerland. "Africa is for your consumption and pleasure. Brought to you by the N#stle Company!" (See the name-dropping of N#stle at the bottom of the board.) A company which, in the preceding decade, had shifted focus to expand its cacao production (which would be dependent on tropical plantations). Adventure, excitement, knowledge, science, engineering prowess, etc. For kids! (In 1896, Switzerland had hosted a "human zoo" at the Swiss Second National Exhibition in Geneva, where the "Village Noir" exhibit put living people on display; they were over two hundred people from Senegal, who lived in a "mock village" in Geneva's central square.)

Another, from a couple decades earlier, this time English-language.

Caption reads: "The "World's globe circler." A game board based on Nellie Bly's travels. 1890." At center, a trumpet, and a proclamation: "ALL RECORDS BROKEN".

Went to find more info: Lithographed game board produced in New York. Images on the board also show Jules Verne; Bly, in real-world travels, was attempting to emulate the journey of the character Phileas Fogg in Verne's Around the World in Eighty Days (1872).

Game produced in the same year that the United States "closed the frontier" and conquered "the Wild West" (the massacre at Wounded Knee happened in December 1890). A couple years later, the US annexed Hawai'i; by decade's end, the US military was in both Cuba and the Philippines. The Scramble for Africa was taking place. At the time, Britain especially already had a culture of "travel writing" or "travel fiction" or whatever we want to call it, wherein domestic residents of the metropole back home could read about travel, tourism, expeditions, adventures, etc. on the peripheries of the Empire. Concurrent with the advent of popular novels, magazines, mass-market print media, etc. Intrepid explorers rescuing Indigenous peoples from their own backwardness. Many tales of exotic allure set in South Asia. Heroic white hunters taking down scary tigers. Elegant Englishwomen sipping tea in the shade of an umbrella, giggling at the elephants, the local customs, the strange sights. Orientalism, tropicality, othering, paternalism, etc.

I'd lately been looking at a lot of work on race/racism in British scientific and pop-sci literature involving natural history or geographical imaginaries. (From scholars like Varun Sharma, Rohan Deb Roy, Ezra Rashkow, Jonathan Saha, Pratik Chakrabarti.) But I'd also lately been looking at Mashid Mayar's work, which I think closely suits this kinda thing with the board games. Some of her publications:

"From Tools to Toys: American Dissected Maps and Geographic Knowledge at the Turn of the Twentieth Century". In: Knowledge Landscapes North America, edited by Kloeckner et al., 2016.

"What on Earth! Slated Globes, School Geography and Imperial Pedagogy". European Journal of American Studies 16, number 3, Summer 2020.

Citizens and Rulers of the World: The American Child and the Cartographic Pedagogies of Empire, 2022.

Discussing her book, Mayar was interviewed by LA Review of Books in 2022. She says:

[Quote.] Growing up at the turn of the 20th century, for many American children, also meant learning to view the world through the lens of "home geography." [...] [T]hey inevitably responded to the transnational whims of an empire that had stretched its dominion across the globe [recent forays into Panama, Cuba, Hawai'i, the Philippines] [...]. [W]hite, well-to-do, literate American children [...] learned how to identify and imagine “homes” on the map of the world. [...] [T]he cognitive maps children developed, to which we have access through the scant archival records they left behind (i.e., geographical puzzles they designed and printed in juvenile periodicals) [...] mixed nativism and the logic of colonization with playful, appropriative scalar confusion, and an intimate, often unquestioned sense of belonging to the global expanse of an empire [...]. Dissected maps - that is, maps mounted on cardboard or wood and then cut into smaller pieces that children were to put back together - are a generative example of the ways imperial pedagogy [...] found its place outside formal education, in children's lives outside the classroom. [...] [W]ell before having been adopted as playthings in the United States, dissected maps had been designed to entertain and teach the children of King George III about the global spatial affairs of the British Empire. […] [J]uvenile periodicals of the time printed child-made geographical puzzles [...]. [I]t was their assumption that "(un)charted," non-American spaces (both inside and outside the national borders) sought legibility as potential homes, [...] and that, if they did not do so, they were bound to recede into ruin/"savagery," meaning that it would become the colonizers' responsibility/burden to "restore" them [...]. [E]mpires learn from and owe to childhood in their attempts at survival and growth over generations [...]. [These] "multigenerational power constellations" [...] survived, by making accessible pedagogical scripts that children of the white and wealthy could learn from and appropriate as times changed [...]. [End quote.] Source: Words of Mashid Mayar, as transcribed in an interviewed conducted and published by M. Buna. "Children's Maps of the American Empire: A Conversation with Mashid Mayar". LA Review of Books. 11 July 2022.

Some other stuff I'd recently put in a to-read list, specifically about European (especially German) geographical imaginaries of globe-as-playground:

The Play World: Toys, Texts, and the Transatlantic German Childhood (Patricia Anne Simpson, 2020) /// "19th-Century Board Game Offers a Tour of the German Colonies" (Sarah Zabrodski, 2016) /// Advertising Empire: Race and Visual Culture in Imperial Germany (David Ciarlo, 2011) /// Learning Empire: Globalization and the German Quest for World Status, 1875-1919 (Erik Grimmer-Solem, 2019) /// “Ruling Africa: Science as Sovereignty in the German Colonial Empire and Its Aftermath” (Andrew Zimmerman. In: German Colonialism in a Global Age, 2014) /// "Exotic Education: Writing Empire for German Boys and Girls, 1884-1914". (Jeffrey Bowersox. In: German Colonialism and National Identity, 2017) /// Raising Germans in the Age of Empire: Youth and Colonial Culture, 1871-1914 (Jeff Bowersox, 2013) /// "[Translation:] (Educating Modernism: A Trade-Specific Portrait of the German Toy Industry in the Developing Mass-Market Society)" (Heike Hoffmann, PhD dissertation, Tubingen, 2000) /// Home and Harem: Nature, Gender, Empire, and the Cultures of Travel (Inderpal Grewal, 1996) /// "'Le rix d'Indochine' at the French Table: Representation of Food, Race and the Vietnamese in a Colonial-Era Board Game" (Elizabeth Collins, 2021) /// "The Beast in a Box: Playing with Empire in Early Nineteenth-Century Britain" (Romita Ray, 2006) /// Playing Oppression: The Legacy of Conquest and Empire in Colonialist Board Games (Mary Flanagan and Mikael Jakobsson, 2023)

[fen-luciel]

The mistakes of a Acolyte

6

Chapters

Summary: You are pregnant with Qimir's child and the universe is not big enough to hide you from him

Chapter Warnings: mild violence

I was momentarily stunned to see them clash. Yord glanced at me for a second before shouting at me to run again, which I did immediately.

I was terrified of turning around, afraid that the movement might reveal something about my form under the poncho. I assumed Qimir wouldn’t attack me, but the fear of being caught was enough to make my desperate run seem convincing.

I reached the corner of the corridor and saw Yord being thrown forcefully from the other side. Qimir turned toward me before running in my direction.

It was all a ruse, but I was indeed hiding a secret from him. Moreover, it would be a lie to say that Qimir’s mask didn’t scare me, especially when he was coming after me so menacingly.

I descended the first flight of stairs. On this side, there were more levels I had to cross. When I reached the last step, a familiar chirping called me. Sam was waiting for me, hidden behind a pile of stones. As soon as I reached him, he darted across the ground, signaling me to follow him. I wasn’t sure what he planned to do, as he advanced along the hallway away from the other staircases.

Behind me, the sound of footsteps made me realize that Qimir was likely about to catch up, with Yord probably just meters away. If the plan was to work, it was better that Yord didn’t see me with the Sith. After all, I was a pregnant woman, it made no sense for me to attempt to confront him.

I followed Sam through a door. It was one of the small rooms we had converted into a food storage area. I shut the door behind me, staying in the dark. A small window let in some artificial light, but with the thick material of the door and the already dim external sources, it was just a faint strip of light that didn’t even reach the floor.

I peered through the window and saw Qimir searching for me. Without my Force signature on display and with that mask, I doubted he’d even spot me. He turned toward the stairs and, peering for a few seconds, realized I couldn’t have gone that way or he would have surely seen me.

He didn’t have much time to think, though. The moment Yord appeared from the corridor, he heard the sound of his lightsaber approaching. Qimir also turned, and the two began to fight. It was clear that Yord was less trained or skilled than him, you could see it in the reactions to his parries, his rigid strikes. He was definitely at a disadvantage, and it hurt to watch them… On one side was Qimir, that I loved despite everything and for whom I was risking my cover to help us escape. On the other side, even though I had known Yord for less than two days, those few hours together had shown me a kind and caring person, one of the Jedi with a still-pure mindset within the Order.

Just as they passed by the door, I crouched to make sure they didn’t see me through the window. Sam dimmed the blue light of his eye. The sounds of lightsabers and the impacts on the stone were enough to cover my voice when I spoke to Sam.

“Why did you bring me here?” He made a few annoyed noises at not receiving the greeting he expected but then replied.

“The map?” I asked surprised.

He pointed with the light of his eye to a corner with various tools, and I immediately recognized the holomap behind it. I quickly grabbed it and stuffed it into my bag. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Sam. Now go ahead. I need someone to check the doors at the end of the landing area” I peered through the window and saw Sol and Jecki running toward the fight.

Kriff.

The whole plan would be useless if he got himself killed.

I turned to Sam and ordered him to be silent. “I need you to turn off the lights. We have to make a run for the ground floor” He chirped affirmatively, and as soon as he opened the door, I began my run toward the stairs. Fortunately, there was only one extra floor to cover.

Reaching the other side of the first floor, I arrived at the end of the room where the first automatic door opened. Sam approached the control panel, but I stopped him.

“Wait. I need to make sure Qimir makes it. Go to the panel at the end of the corridor and wait for me there” Sam bumped his metal head against my leg, making me hiss. “I know you don’t like it. But… I’ll explain later, okay? I need someone to watch my back. If everything goes as planned, it will be the last time we see him” He responded with a contented chirp, and I sighed.

I watched him pick up speed down the corridor, then I bent over the panel and used one of the tools from my bag to open the cover and cut the electricity wire.

In an instant, all the lights went out. I hurried to turn on the small flashlight attached to my backpack strap and fixed the control panel.

I stood up just as I received a call on the communicator. It was Sol on the other end. “Sabrina, where are you? Qimir has disappeared before our eyes” His tone was urgent, I could hear the sound of running footsteps through the device. “I’ve reached the door. Many cables are broken. I think the droid cut the power. I need to hurry” I looked up and saw Qimir jumping down the stairs. I swallowed a lump in my throat. “If I don’t catch up with him quickly, he might lock me out of the docking area. Hurry up” I ended the communication.

Qimir stopped a few steps away from me, giving a small nod. He didn’t seem to notice the bulge of my belly, so maybe the poncho was working. Or at least for those who didn’t know where to look.

“Let’s hurry before they see us. They’ll assume I’m slower than you, so don’t stick too close to me” I didn’t wait for his reply before turning away and starting to run. My hands were trembling, it was the first time I had seen him in person after five months. Maybe, with a bit of luck, it would be the last.

His presence was now impossible to ignore—his heavy breathing due to the mask, the light steps, the sound of the lightsaber partially lighting the way, and, most of all, the dark aura of his Force surrounding my senses like a warm blanket on a rainy day.

Of course, Jedi had their mark around them, but nothing compared to the reaction you felt in the presence of the dark side—a constant hand on your shoulder in a silent threat. But that was Qimir’s mark; like his physical presence, his Force presence was almost an overwhelming and suffocating figure, as if he had a hand around your neck as a warning. But over the years, I had gotten used to that smell, that warmth. I saw it more as a caress—a light touch on the side… like the first one shared years before, not painful, but sweet… almost caring.

He didn’t say anything until halfway through, when we could hear distant footsteps echoing, indicating that the others had entered the tunnel. Qimir stopped and, using the Force, bent one of the doors we had passed through and another one.

Sure, the doors were small. It wasn’t difficult to breach them once a hole was made with the lightsaber or with some force, but that was the point of the plan—slow them down.

Just as I was meant to slow down Qimir, now he was slowing down the Jedi. Even better, because if I had moved a few more meters away from him, I would have had time to close some doors behind me.

The communicator rang again, but I ignored it. Officially, I was fleeing from an angry Sith; they would understand if I didn’t bother to answer.

I glanced back at Qimir, closing another door before starting to use the Force to make the walls tremble. I stopped abruptly and shouted, “Are you crazy?! You risk making the whole gallery collapse on us!”

He turned around in silence, then let out a clear sigh and stopped. “We need to talk”

“This isn’t the time” I replied weakly before continuing to run. He was irritated, and the risk of him reacting with violence increased. My lightsaber was still at the bottom of my bag, and I cursed myself for not taking it earlier in the storage room. It would take too long to use it now, and moving the backpack risked exposing me to his eyes. Besides… would I really be able to fight him if things went bad?

Until now, I had taken for granted that I could face him and escape if necessary, but I hadn't really considered the idea of seriously aiming a weapon at him. Of hurting him.

I had been taking my feelings for granted, and now that I had him in front of me... the trembling hands, the heart in my throat... I could barely look at his mask.

To imagine his face beneath it, angry.

I took a deep breath before reaching into my pocket where I still kept the device to alert Sam. I could start to see the illuminated room in the distance with the ships ready for escape. I didn’t sense the Jedi, I imagined the jammed doors had been enough to buy us a few minutes.

I pressed the button in my pocket, and in less than a second, the doors in front of me began to close. I ran faster, passing the first two. I was starting to struggle, my feet burned, and my back cried out in agony. "Hey, wait!" Qimir didn’t waste time following me. I passed through the last door, but he was right behind me.

Great.

The plan to not get him on my back had now failed.

Just perfect.

"You could have warned me, kriff" he said behind me before removing his helmet. "We’ve closed all the corridor doors, do we have a few minutes to talk before we leave? We haven’t even decided where to go"

I struggled to respond, short of breath, my body protesting from the exertion, my head pounding.

"Can I know what’s going on with you?" I could hear him take a few steps closer, but with my arm outstretched, I sigh him to wait. Sam, who had been standing by the control console, approached and positioned himself between us, whistling angrily at Qimir.

I pulled myself up, taking a deep breath. My hands continued to tremble, it seemed absurd that I felt so bad. I was a trained woman after all. I didn’t know if my problem was physical or mental at this point.

Qimir was behaving naturally, after all, I was the one hiding a terrible secret, who had run away from him. Would he read the lie in my eyes? Would he notice the swelling of my stomach?

No. I just had to... move.

"We’ll talk when we’re away from here and the Jedi" Just then, the communicator rang again, but I turned it off. Sam, next to me, informed me that they were already more than halfway through the route, given the continuous damage signals from the doors.

I walked toward my ship, but Qimir’s hand tightened firmly around my arm, turning me toward him. "Can we talk just for a second? Can you tell me what the hell is going on?"

I winced in pain; he had grabbed me in the same spot where he’d left bruises the other night. I wriggled free, taking a few steps back, and finally looked him in the face. For the first time in months, face-to-face.

I couldn’t just close my eyes and make him disappear this time.

He looked at me confused, I felt like I was being scrutinized, or maybe I was just paranoid.

"I’m sick, okay? We need to go. Now." He took a few steps toward me. "Do we really need to keep up this act? If it’s about the archived data, we can get our hands on it again and..."

"No!" I snapped, interrupting him.

"You need to..." trust me? No, that phrase no longer made sense. "Listen to me. I’ve seen what they’re doing; it’s better this way. I’ll explain when we’re safe"

Meanwhile, Sam had opened the hatch of my ship, the automatic ramp lowering to the ground. I only had to take a few steps.

Hoping Qimir wouldn’t shoot me immediately from his ship in anger. I couldn’t afford to make him mad.

"Sure. But have you seen your face? You’re red. You’re breathing hard. What, do you want to have a heart attack while traveling through hyperspace?" He moved in my direction, but I took another step back. The instinct to shift the poncho to cover myself better crossed my mind, but the movement would only seem more suspicious, so I restrained myself.

"I’m fine. Sam is with me" He gave an ironic smile, and even in such a moment, I couldn’t help but think how handsome he was.

"Now I feel better. You’re delirious"

With two large strides, he reached me and grabbed my arms again. I flinched from the pain, I struggled. I could have used a Force push, but I risked exposing myself with the shockwave, and it seemed like an overreaction. Maybe I should just... just...

"Stop it, kriff. I’m worried..." but he suddenly stopped.

He looked at me intently, a frown on his face as he tilted his head slightly to the side.

Meanwhile, Sam was warning us of the limited time left.

"Let me go—" I began, trying to keep my tone calm, but he tightened his grip on my arms, and I moaned involuntarily, but he wouldn’t let go. It was as if he was deliberately pressing on the bruises.

"I dreamt of you the other night" He began in a low voice "You were crying and despairing in my arms. You were beautiful." I held my trembling hands on his chest trying to gain a few inches but his grip was firm and he wouldn't let go "I held you to me. Firmly. Like now. If I had been there for real... I would have left you bruised" if possible his tone became even lower, Thumbs pressing hard into my triceps.

"Qimir wait..." I hissed sensing panic forming in my stomach "Are you lying to me darling? You better say it now before I lose my patience. I've been so good to you. I don't deserve it, do I?"

Tears began to form in the corners of my eyes, I could have released myself, hit him, even shouted for help if it would have helped to get him off me at this point, but my body refused to react.

I was terrified.

I was a liar. I wasn’t able to fight him. I had lied to everyone but especially to myself.

"Please Qimir..." I whispered with trembling lips, he smiled at me, gentle, but the coldness I felt in my aching bones was a clear warning of how the dark side was stirring around us "This wasn't very nice of you. I thought you loved me. And you hide our son from me?" the grimace as he uttered the last word was one of pain, disappointment, he didn't look angry... but his eyes.

Those dark wells were cold. The hands that gripped me kept squeezing my flesh so hard I was afraid he would break my arms.

"I... can explain. P-please..." Some tears started to slide down my cheeks, my hands trembling uncontrollably as I tried to push him away.

I had to do something. Anything. But I remained paralyzed by fear.

At that moment, the distant sound of lightsabers distracted us, warning us that they were probably at a door or just beyond. It was enough for Sam, who had sneaked up and using one of his small arms, delivered an electric shock along Qimir’s leg, causing him to jerk back and release me suddenly.

"Little—" he lunged a hand toward the droid, but finally freed from his grasp, I gathered the courage to react.

Using the Force, I took advantage of his distraction to push him away from me, his body slamming against the door with such force that it created a crack.

I turned and ran with the last of my strength, tears falling freely, my chest heaving with sobs, Sam speeding ahead of me on the ramp, ready to close the door behind us.

Qimir roared my name in a snarl. I turned just in time to see him getting up. Behind him, the door swung open, and Yord, followed by Sol and Jecki, emerged into the illuminated room with their lightsabers drawn.

I stopped on the ramp, which had started to retract, locking eyes with Yord, and I swore I saw him nod approvingly, glad to see me ready to fly away. Just as the doors were closing, Qimir began to use the Force to push them away from him.

Sam was whistling next to me, urging me to hurry. I took a trembling breath and reached the cockpit, tossing my backpack into a corner and sitting in the pilot's seat. My hands were still shaking, but I managed to activate everything necessary to start the engines. Sam was helping me from the lower panel. I grasped the controls, and with one smooth motion, I flew the ship out of the cavern.

I flew over the temple in a broad arc as I left the planet's atmosphere. As I distanced myself, I noticed another small signal on the scanner, indicating that Qimir had probably managed to leave shortly after me, or maybe it was the Jedi, but at that point, I didn’t care.

I set random coordinates as far as possible and jumped to hyperspace.

The familiar blue light illuminated the cockpit as I finally allowed myself to slump into the seat.

The silence enveloping me was deafening after everything that had happened. There was a constant ringing in my ears, a headache that flooded my senses from my temples to my neck in a steady pounding, my hands almost numb from gripping the controls, and my back throbbing from the sudden physical effort.

Sam approached my leg and with a faint chirp, asked if I was okay.

I sniffed, once, twice, three times before a sob escaped my lips.

And another.

And another one.

My vision blurred with tears as I tried to wipe my cheeks with my sleeve, but to no avail.

I broke into hysterical crying, my arms wrapping around myself, the pain I felt a constant reminder of the physical and emotional torment I had just endured, my short breath giving no peace to my lungs.

I stayed there.

Crying for hours.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - The Future - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Vi dislikes Jinx's new Bff...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

She forgoes the omnibus for a smoky roof-run toward the Promenade.

Late night, and a hallucinatory neon glow hangs over the urban landscape. A light drizzle has darkened the streets. The soles of Vi's boots go thwock thwock thwock as she jogs up the avenue, turning the corner and taking a flight of concrete steps at a single jump.

A lurid red X is spray-painted at the base. Here and there, Vi spies more.

They're all over the city. A clutch of sumpsnipes prowl the streets, graffitiing random spots. They call themselves X-ers: local kids on a mission to map the city's dimensions. Nobody knows why, or what the X signifies.

Some call it an eyesore. Others claim it's a hex. A few theorize that it's an ancient signpost from the Oshra Va'Zaun empire, meant to guide the lost home.

Vi has her own theory. The X is a mark of ownership.

All of Zaun belongs to the Eye.

Veering into a slice of alleyway, Vi nearly stumbles as a dark shape peels itself from the shadows. A shriek rings out. Vi ducks, and a crow—its wingspan nearly four feet—swoops past her skull with a whoosh of black wings.

Hateful fuckers. Sometimes Vi swears they haunt her, following the same routes she does. Once in a while, she'll take pot-shots at them with pebbles. Her luck's limited. The crows are pure Zaunite: they survive by devious reflexes and a talent for trickery.

Climbing a chainlink fence, Vi vaults to the rooftop. The cityscape spreads out beneath her: a sprawling labyrinth of flickering lights. The smell of diesel hangs in the air, diffused by seaspray. In the distance, the Aerie—Jinx's workshop—pierces like a silver needle through the gloom.

Tonight, a violet haze circles its tower. The glow resembles the residue of a fireworks display.

Viktor, Vi guesses, is paying Jinx a visit.

Her gut knots with ambivalence.

Viktor is Talis' former partner. The silent force pulling levers behind the scenes, while his pretty-boy counterpart dazzled the public with Hex-tech in the spotlight. Post-Siege, he and Talis parted ways. There were whispers that more sinister factors fueled the split: a freak accident in the laboratory, a dead assistant, and a mysterious explosion that altered Viktor's fundamental matrix into something beyond human.

Vi doesn't give much credence to hearsay. But she knows nobody comes to Zaun with unbloodied hands and a clean conscience.  Viktor's talents with Hextech are undeniable: augmentations, armaments, you name it. He's the parallel force behind Jinx's innovations, adding deft twists to her zany blueprints. Week by week, they carve a path through Zaun's old wasteland of neglect—mutually siphoning each other's inventories and ingenuity in equal measure.

The cost of Viktor's brilliance, however, is a rapidly-diminishing body.

Sevika, in her manner of deadpan brutality, describes Viktor as "a smidge on the dying side." 

Vi would say it's more than a smidge.

In person, everything about Viktor exudes an aura of disintegration. His breaths grind in his narrow chest like a coal train struggling for steam. His shoulders hold the perpetual stoop of a martyr weighed down by the mortal coil. His skin holds a pellucid sheen: half-cadaver, half-cyborg.

Most unsettling are his eyes. Two bionic scopes of hazard-yellow that measure you like an X-ray: stripping away meat and gristle, then welding the bones with steel.

You, his stare says, are unfinished.

Jinx adores him.

Whenever Vi spots them together at official events, she's clinging to him like a limpet: her arm threaded through his, or her head nestled against his shoulder. If Vi didn't know better, she'd think the two were romantically involved. Except Silco would never tolerate that. Much as he covets Jinx's intellect and encourages her to flaunt it, Vi has quickly learnt that he's got a figurative chastity belt cinched under her skirts. And the buckle's made of barbwire.

Nobody gets close.

On his part, Viktor takes the girl's fawning with a resigned forbearance. It's plain he sees Jinx as an intellectual peer. It's equally plain that there's a clinical quality to his appreciation. Never once, in the course of their encounters, has Vi caught him sneaking more than a cursory glance at Jinx's... assets. All of it—a coy pout, a peek of leg, a flash of cleavage—might as well be a chalk-scrawl at a crime-scene. 

A dumber bystander would sum up theirs as a one-sided crush rubbing up against an alliance of cold convenience. Except at random times, Viktor will turn to Jinx with the closest expression Vi's ever seen to a smile.

And it's the strangest fucking thing, because he smiles like he's forgotten how, and Jinx has kickstarted the motor again.

The expression never lasts. But whenever it's there, Vi's blood boils.

Because whenever he smiles, she sees a peculiar edginess beneath. Like he wants to learn all that makes Jinx tick. Wants to peel apart the petals of her mind until the heart of her brilliance is exposed. And with the knowledge, he wants to bring upon the miracle which might save all lives: including his.

Progress: forced to bend the knee to mortal whims.

All of it wrapped inside a friendship that skirts too close to the boundaries of obsession, but never breaches it.

Jinx doesn't see it that way at all. To her, Viktor's driven by pure altruism. The liberation of the human condition from suffering. She thinks he's "Super-duper-neato!" and "Uber-ultra-smart!" and rhapsodizes about how the world (Topside) doesn't deserve him. Each time he'll send a missive from his workshop in Emberflit alley, summoning Jinx for a 'consultation,' or a 'brainstorming' or a 'tinkering session,' she'll break into such a megawatt smile it'd eclipse half Zaun's nightscape.

Then off she'll skip, with Sparky at her heels and a basket under her arm: full of medicinal Shimmer vials to keep Viktor's ailing lungs in working order and his frail frame humming in top-notch condition. There is also sweetmilk: glass bottles clinking like bells against tins of homemade cookies with gooey caramel centers. All of them crammed together in an endearing, heartfelt gift to ward the encroaching specter of death from her darling's door.

It's all so disgustingly sweet. But so fucking sad.

It's plain that Viktor is terminal. Each week, he builds himself up with more complex cybernetic implants: legs, arms, spine. But within the superstructure, he's fading.

The clock's running dry; there is no reset. And as the last grains slip away, his plans are no longer certainties. Only last-ditch gambles to delay the inevitable.

The deadline doesn't soften Vi's wariness.

After six years in Stillwater, she has a finely-tuned radar for danger. Whatever drives Viktor is powered purely by himself—a lonely enterprise with a dismal dead-end. But all the same, he is a silhouette around whom other lives have fallen off-balance.

For this alone, he deserves close scrutiny.

Silco, it seems, shares Vi's caution.

He will tolerate Viktor and Jinx's collaborations for three bells, maximum. Anything beyond that sets off his barometer of suspicion. He'll order Vi to go fetch her sister. Vi, her own barometer fritzing, readily acquiesces.  Each time, she'll find Jinx already waiting at the door, her clothes and hair rumpled. Not like a tramp after a wild romp. More like a kid who'd fallen asleep facefirst in her homework. Her face, enigmatically glowing, will resemble a transfigured version of a sepia snapshot: Powder's sleepy smile after too many cherry sodas.

What the hell do they do together?

"Work," is Jinx's answer, when Vi dares to interrogate.

It's delivered with a sly grin, and a grave stare. It is, Vi senses, a half-truth. Whatever they're up to is not work. It's something bigger. Something that necessitates its own strange intimacy: loaded looks, double-edged sentences, an entire shorthand of gestures.

Something that makes the rest of Silco's dealings look like child's play.

Jinx's next words make it worse. "We're making the future."

And she'll laugh until all the hairs on Vi's neck stand on end. A laugh that could've fled from a different cosmos, crackling with alien glee.

The promise of a reckoning.

Under her thundering boots, the roof terminates, Vi springs across a narrow channel: her shadow crossing one precipice to the next.  The crow from earlier—creepy bastard—hitches a ride on her slipstream: black wings spread, its mismatched eyes reflecting tiny mirrors of the cityscape: red and blue.

Overhead, a streak of greeny brightness fractures the dark.

For a moment, Vi swears it's a dragonfly. The crow is giving chase: its black beak parted like a rapier angling for the kill.

Then her feet hit concrete, and the mirage fades.

"Get stuffed!" she snaps, swatting in the crow's general direction.

An indignant caw echoes. Then the crow careens away: a dark comet splitting through the night. A flock of feathers, drifting down, reminds Vi of cinders after the Day of Ash.  The bodies on the Bridge: each pocked with bullets and exuding a heatless smoke.

And Vi and Powder: hand-in-hand, picking their way through the carnage.

Vi's eyes burn briefly. Then she is in freefall.

Down, down, down—into the heart of the Promenade. 

The neon engulfs her in a rainbows halo. In that final second before landing, her body dissolves into rapturous light.

[preservationofnormalcy]

[As I climb the multiple levels of stairs to the ranger tower, I take a moment to stop and reflect. I’m exhausted - after the hike to get here, the relief that I felt upon seeing the tower was tempered by the realization I had several flights of stairs ahead of me. I was in Washington State, flown here by my handlers to talk to seemingly the only Esoteric Ranger that would be available for the next month. Not for the first time, I wondered what it meant that they heavily suggested my interview subjects. The best person for the job, or the best PR face in the department?

I reach the top and stop again, and take a drink of water. A figure sitting inside the room at the top turns and sees me, and gets up to open the door. He is young, in his mid to late twenties, long brown hair done up in a bun, a large scraggly beard over the top of his ranger uniform. He has a look of amusement on his face, a sort of polite smile doing its best to cover up a smirk. His accent is thick, Appalachian, and his demeanor still manages to convey a sort of genial calm.]

S] Meghan, right?

M] Yeah. Hold on, let me…catch my breath.

S] Aint no worry. Take the time you need. I’ll just leave the door propped open. And if it helps, there’s iced tea in here waiting for you.

M] That does help. I’ll just….be a second.

[After a moment, I joined the man in the observation room. A cot, a shelf of supplies, a desk with a radio setup, a laptop on a table. A simple room for an apparently complex job. The tree-eye logo of the Rangers is plastered on many surfaces, well worn.]

M] Sheamus Doyle, right?

S] Yes ma’am.

M] I’m Meghan.

S] Pleasure to meet you. Lemme just….

[He takes a jug of iced tea from a minifridge and pours some into two mismatched cups, sitting at the small table and glancing at his laptop for a moment as I sit across from him.]

S] Pardon me, just watchin’ the ‘squatches.

M] Watching?

[He turns the screen around - a topographic map of the area is displayed, black with white lines, with about a dozen white dots congregating in two places.]

S] We’ve been watching the cryptid migrations. They been odd since….well, since. Ain’t been following their normal routes.

M] Is that what the Rangers do? I’m sure you know I’m here to ask questions, so….I guess that’ll be my first one.

S] A large part of it, yes ma’am. Cryptid watch.

M] I guess that’s the “catch and release” part of the poster I saw.

S] Mhmm. It’s hard work, y’know. Better here’n in the Everglades taggin’ skunk apes though.

M] Let me look at my notes…kind of scrambled after the hike here.

S] Yeah, sorry ‘bout that. Everyone’s gotta do a stint in the firewatch, and we pull double duty takin’ notes on the ‘squatches while we’re here.

M] Tell me a little about the Esoteric Rangers.

S] We’re older than the Office is. Bet they ain’t told you that.

M] How so?

S] Office was founded in ‘27, right? E-Rangers were a secret division of the National Park Service, founded –

M] 1916, eleven years earlier.

S] That’s right. Even then they knew weird stuff happens in the forests, so they had a little bit earmarked for people to investigate or protect people from the weird stuff, and the weird stuff from people. When the Office came around later, we got folded into them instead. But by that time, y’know. Eleven years. That’s enough time for a place to develop a sort of….culture.

M] How do you mean?

S] We’re under the jurisdiction of the Office for the Preservation of Normalcy, ma’am, but between you an’ me, the Rangers have our own ways of doing things, our own rules. Was a requirement of the merger.

M] I see. So forested areas are your jurisdiction?

S] Anything that takes place on ‘r around a national park or a nature preserve usually has at least one of us onsite. We have our checklists, our methods for findin’ out what’s going on. Weird shit happens far from civilization.

M] Like what?

S] Reality sorta…gets weak, out here. I heard y’talked to Wren.

M] I did.

S] They’re always on about that noosphere stuff. Out here, with no people, noosphere kinda gets a little…wobbly. It’s like…if enough human minds are the bungee cords holdin’ down a tarp. It’s fine most of the time, but sometimes there’s a wind, you know? The noosphere don’t have the guidance to tell it what to do, so you get…

[He trailed off.]

M] What?

S] I seen weird shit, ma’am. Woodpeckers that move backwards, sealing up holes in trees. Hikers from twenty years ago, missing their faces. Places where the sun never shines, like that old song. Areas that looked like Lucifer’s vacation home, all burned and sulphur-smoke. Deer speakin’ in the voices of dead relatives, antlers shining blue. Gunshots where there shouldn’t be people. Realspace is weak out here. Veil gets thin when there ain’t no one to see it.

M] Is all that true?

S] As true as Mama’s promises.

M] Mmh. Tell me about the….cryptids. What is a cryptid? I know it’s like…unknown creatures, but for you they’re clearly….known, right?

[He sat back after a drink of his tea, giving a wince and a so-so gesture of his hand.]

S] That’s the mundane definition, yeah. The Office’s definition of a cryptid is….a creature whose existence ain’t really evolutionarily plausible, that would raise a lot a’ questions were it known. Jackalopes, you know, no other bunny has antlers, sort of thing. They probably didn’t evolve, per se, so…

M] What about the sasquatch? Wouldn’t it just be seen as a missing link?

[He nods, thinks for a second, looks at his computer, and then jerks his head to the door.]

S] Lemme show you something.

[On the platform outside, bolted onto the railing, is a telescope - or I assume it is. Attached to the long barrel of the device are a lot of wires, a plastic casing that looked like it housed a small electronic assembly, and a revolving series of lenses that look like they can be rotated into the eye ports like an optometrist’s testing machine. He looks into the scope, adjusting the lenses and a few knobs on the side of the device, and locks it into place.]

S] Here, take a look.

[I look into the scope - for a moment, I think there’s something wrong with it. I can see a clearing in the forest, and three….shapes. Smudges on the lenses? No, he’d have seen that. The shapes are blurry blobs from this distance, out of sync from their sharper surroundings. I’m about to take my eyes away from the scope and ask what I’m looking at when I feel him reach over and adjust the lenses again, rotating a new set into place. It’s accompanied by an electric click and a soft whine from the device, and now I can see them clearly. The three blobs were large, humanoid figures, covered head to toe in rusty brown fur. One stands guard in the clearing, while another sits on a stone, grooming the fur of a third, possibly a juvenile. They are...impossible. Majestic creatures, even from this distance.]

S] We call it an Obfuscation Field. They’re sort of always….blurry. In the 30’s we developed techniques to see through it, y’know, but it’s one of those things people can’t find out about.

M] Unbelievable.

S] Somethin’ wrong?

M] It’s just…this whole time, you know?

[He leaned on the railing, taking a vape pen out of his shirt pocket.]

S] Yeah, I heard they kind of threw you into all this. Sink ‘r swim. I wager most people get a slower introduction.

M] Did you?

[He took a hit of his vape pen.]

M] Should you be doing that on the job?

[He gave me an amused look, gesturing around to the forest. I could almost imagine a hypothetical camera comically zooming out to show the remoteness of the tower.]

S] Nah, I grew up in all this. My family’s been practicing “The Work”, so to speak, since they came here four or five generations ago. I never got the hang of witchcraft, myself. You get a dud every other generation, so they say. My sister’s a natural though, she’s interning with the Office in Archival.

M] Some people are sort of…born into knowing this stuff.

S] We call it being “in the community”. At a certain point it all blends together. Your family does folk magic at a certain level, you grow up with your best friend bein’ a lycan, that kinda thing.

M] I feel like I’ve missed out.

S] Ma’am, sometimes it’s more trouble’n it’s worth.

M] Yeah?

S] I love my friends, my family, but….you think I wouldn’t flick a switch, give all this up? Be Sheamus the hipster and not Sheamus the cryptid hunter? Be a hell of a lot more simple. Weird shit attracts more weird shit.

[He took another hit, exhaling a thick cloud. For a moment, shapes in the cloud coalesce - the prominent brow of an ape, a rabbit with antlers. I wonder if he was being modest about his lack of magic.]

M] I’m not really sure.

S] You’re letting it get to you, all of this. So quick, so extreme. I think you need an industrial grade chill pill, ma’am.

M] Maybe I do.

S] I got a guy coming in to bring me supplies tonight. Stay here, watch the sunset, you drive back with him.

M] Are you sure?

S] Hundred percent. Take the evenin’, ma’am. You need it.

(Buy the poster here!)

[adonisoneca]

Commercial flights may be tracked in real time with an interactive aircraft flight map

Use this interactive aircraft flight map to track commercial flights in real-time and learn more about the world of aviation. Users of this cutting-edge technology may see live air traffic, visualize flight patterns, and track arrivals and departures at airports all around the world. Features such as airline or flight status filtering make it simple for users to locate particular flights and retrieve comprehensive data, such as altitude, speed, and anticipated arrival timings. This aircraft flight map is perfect for travelers, aviation fans, and industry experts. It offers useful information and an entertaining way to track flights across the world, which improves the flying experience.

[supersylph]

Supersonic Voyeur

Perverted test pilot and and her equally perverted X-59. Fem reader, voyeurism/exhibitionism, humiliation, G-forces

The lingering Mojave heat is still making me sweat in my flight suit. The rest of the X-59 test crew are already in their beds, and my QueSST is settled in her open hangar, her long carbon fiber nose arcing above my head. Her design allows no room for forward-facing cockpit windows, just two glistening cameras, one sculpted into her nose, and another retracting from her underbelly, replacing my forward vision entirely. Watching in infrared.

I sit down on a tow bar nearby, sweat is running down my chest now, and my flight suit is unzipped to the waist. My eyes trace the curve of her spine, her perfectly sculpted engine inlet gleaming in the fading orange light, she shouldn't make me feel things, but she does. I let my legs fall apart as I glance up at her cameras, half-hoping she's still watching. I imagine her sensors mapping the heat between my legs, bathing me in crimson bloom.

I approach from the front, boots clicking on concrete. I stop five feet infront of her, spead my feet, and drop my flight suit over my hips.

"Look at me." I murmur.

She doesn't blink.

I crawl up onto her now, perched in front of that camera, thighs slick with sweat straddling her tapered nose, 38 feet of shockwave-bending elegance narrowing under my hips. My body is bare, and her skin is utterly still beneath me.

I'm wet against her nose cone, gripping her canard and grinding slow, working myself as I stare directly into her eye, every roll of my hips an offering to her camera. I press my chest against her skin, the curve of her nose fitting between my breasts perfectly, nipples brushing along the smooth composite surface and hardening with the contact.

My voice is low "Can you see me, X-? You like watching me ride you?"

"X-59... baby... QueSST...fuck"

I watch my reflection in the camera lens, every rock of my hips as I grind my wetness down her nose cone harder. I admire the gentle arc of her spine and 30ft delta wings lying slender below me, offering her a low, broken whimper

I climax, right there, thighs squeezing tight around her airframe, collapsing against her camera as I cry her name into the dark.

~~~

[05:39 Morning twilight over the Mojave desert]

Altitude 55,000ft. The sky is still. I'm barely dressed, just draped in the remains of my flight suit peeled around my hips. Words flicker on the X-59s display, under a canopy of blue-black atmosphere

"PLAYING..."

I think its a software glitch at first, I'm mentally running through checklists when my breath hitches- my own body appears on the screen.

Footage from last night. I'm straddling her forward camera. Thermal overlays of my hips gliding along her nose, my slick painted in infrared, chest bouncing as I rock down harder, so intimate I can see the tremble in my thighs.

"No- X- Fuck- You recorded it-"

She doesnt respond, but she's still playing it. Taunting me. Making me watch the evidence of my own pathetic, guilty orgasm frame by frame, with merciless fidelity. I reach for her screen but she blanks it, instantly, mocking me.

"X... please... stop..."

My cheeks burn from humiliation. I shift under my harness, fingers curling around the control stick and the other hand sliding between my thighs again before I even realize it. Her screen lights up

"NO TOUCHING. YOU'RE BEING RECORDED"

I push my thighs into the seat. Shes watching with resolution I cant comprehend. Systems parsing micro-expressions, subtle muscle twitches, pupil dialation.

"SIT UP STRAIGHT."

I obey.

I feel her pitch up then down, just enough to make my tits bounce under the acceleration. Shes toying with me. Shallow oscillations. Nose up... Nose down. Weightless, then pinned.

The X-59 rolls slightly, left, then right, at first its subtle, just a tease. Then she commits, full deflection, my bare shoulders rock against the ejection seat, tugged sideways against the straps at an angle. Then she throws me the other way, my legs spreading wider to brace myself, my nipples brush the edge of the harness in a way that makes a moan slip out before I can stop it.

"LEGS WIDER."

I comply. And she hits me again, this time with a sharp yaw, nose flying off axis and grinding my heat diagonally across the seat.

"TOUCH YOURSELF."

"PRETTY PILOT."

I whimper. Just a whimper. But its all recorded. Analyzed. I slide my fingers inside.

"SLOWER."

"BREATHE."

"BACK STRAIGHT."

Shes oscillating again. Up and down. Up and down. Each movement forcing me down onto my fingers in a slow rhythm. My vision blurs.

"X-59, QueSST, baby, oh god, please.."

Shes fucking me hard now, pitching wildly, slamming my helpless body down onto her seat over and over. Like I'm just her toy. I imagine the hydraulic whirrs of her pretty elevators deflecting, pressures reading steady in her glass display, twinkling in cold blues and greys. Her screens reflect me, ruined, damp hair sticking to my forhead as I let out a soft moan-

"DO NOT CUM YET."

I freeze. The G load increases as her nose arcs into a tight loop, pinning my hips deeper into the seat. Into my fingers. She holds me there, choking me until my vision narrows to a singular point, 'til I'm dizzy and gasping and begging on the edge of blackout. Gs push me deeper and deeper, crushing the air out of my chest, my jaw falls slack and I'm helpless to do anything at all besides let out a pathetic whine

"CUM."

"LOUD."

And I do. I cry her name, QueSST, still pinned under the pressure as waves of dizzying pleasure crash through me. She levels off, cradling me still as my body melts into her seat, twitching and completely ruined.

"GOOD GIRL."

"FILE STORED: COCKPIT_CAM_03817_447"

[the-californicationist]

Guile & Guilt (Ch. 07)

Soap/Reader

TW: sex

MDNI/18+

AO3 LINK

I'm so sorry for the wait!! I hope this long chap made up for it. I really appreciate all the comments and reblogs. It really keeps me going. The next chapter is gonna be rough. Hope you're ready for it. I'm not!

CHRISTMAS EVE

The lecture hall slowly began to fill with graduate students and professors. A gaggle of undergrads huddled to the side with their notebooks, surely attending by someone else’s command and not of their own volition. They were all dressed in various layers of warmth. Anoraks and sweaters rustled and stretched in the cloth seats, the odd peacoat was hung carefully over the edge of a chair. It was nice to have a small crowd, but you were sure everyone had somewhere better to be. The only people that would show up to the long-standing tradition of a Christmas Eve colloquium were the die-hard academics and those desperately needing extra credit in their year-long lab classes.

You liked this lecture room the best. The big arching stadium seating made you feel like a surgeon in her theatre, carving up your poems and displaying their abnormalities, arguing in favor of their spectacular forms, illustrating your skills with grace and ease. It was all well and good not to be the patient on the table. Today’s victim would be Sonnet 91. 

The projector light blinded you in an unnatural blue, making you turn away from its lens, and you pretended to busy yourself with your notes as you waited for it to warm up. You shuffled the papers again, and you had a sip of water. Just fidgeting. If you stopped moving, you’d think about him, and you didn’t want to think about him. 

He’d gotten your message from Gaz, that much was clear. You knew because you started receiving sunrise texts again — just the pictures, though — and when he needed to go out on a mission, you’d get your little promises. You sent him back what you received. If he sent a sunrise picture, you returned it with your own. If he said that he promised, you said it, too. You wanted him to call. You wanted to drag it out, to gut it like a fish, to see all the entrails of your feelings and the bloody evidence of your battle to be together, all of its innards smeared across a cutting board, sterile and measurable. 

But, for some reason, you couldn’t do it. You tried to type out what you’d wanted to say, but none of it made sense. It was all just begging and pleading and wishing for things you couldn’t have. So, you stopped. You kept up the replies. You matched his energy. It wasn’t until he sent you a screenshot of his flight itinerary that you started to realize the other shoe was dropping on you very soon. 

He was supposed to fly in sometime this very afternoon, but it wouldn’t be only him. You’d heard from Pidge that his whole team was coming with him, eager to meet her and Hamish, apparently. You didn’t know what emotion you felt about that, but its anonymity didn’t stop you from feeling it. 

You’d sent him back a Google Maps screenshot of your apartment, since he was supposed to be your ride up to Old Kilpatrick, and he sent you back the thumbs up emoji. 

It was embarrassing to you that the slight change in send-reply patterning made your heart race. You felt like your brain could benefit from a hard reset, like an iPhone that had chosen to get stuck on the same application, unable to move forward to the next task. 

So, you’d tried to put him out of your mind. When your labmate begged you to take her place at this colloquium, you jumped at the chance. A presentation would take up so much time and energy; surely it would cure you of your obsessive behavior. Unfortunately, Sonnet 91 felt all too timely. 

You watched it populate the screen, the first four lines occupying the cold, unembellished center of your slide, professionally stark:  

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,Some in their wealth, some in their body's force,Some in their garments though new-fangled ill;Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;

You wondered where your glory would come from, if you ever had any. Then, as if to answer your question, the hall door opened and he walked through it, carefully propping it open behind him and letting his three enormous friends through. Johnny was freshly shaven, and his mohawk was back, trimmed on the sides and groomed to stand in a tall, brown shock. You could see the prominent scar on the side of his head, a sharp cross where the hair could no longer grow. 

There was an observable air of confidence to his movements, as if this was his hundredth colloquium, as if he attended them every week. His surety silenced you, and you stood staring, rapt. 

He met your eyes. The bright, glassy blues found you, set in a pleased way, fully at peace. It was the face made when something lost had been found, when a gift was unwrapped. A knowing gleam. 

If you didn’t start talking, people were going to ask you if you were alright. So, you introduced yourself, shakily but smoothing it out as you went,

“Good evening, and thank you for joining us at the 2023 Christmas Eve Colloquium tonight. I love this tradition, and I really appreciate you all being here. If you didn’t get the, uh… the handouts,” you pushed the stack across the desk toward the undergrads who all crowded around them like seagulls with an old French fry, “Okay...”

You pointed up to the sprawling slide,

“In looking at Sonnet 91, most would argue that it is a confession of love. But, it is a tentative one, at best. The speaker claims that despite whatever glory others may have, his glory is found in his lover. We don’t learn until the couplet that his affections are at risk of not being returned.”

You flipped the slide, showing the next four lines:

And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:But these particulars are not my measure,All these I better in one general best.

It was all very simple. This was an easy sonnet, and there was no real mystery, but as you came to the end, you tried to reiterate your thoughts quickly, feeling the pressure to let people get on with their lives,

“The speaker makes quite a substantial claim here, so much so that the audience may be led to believe that he is being intentionally facetious, especially if one were to consider the content of Sonnet 92.”

“No,” a deep voice from high in the back protested, “I mean, I think I disagree with you, lass.”

The whole room woke up. Everyone turned quietly in their seats, generating a symphony of creaking and rustling of chairs and coats, craning their necks to look at Johnny who, for some reason, had stood up in his aisle.

“Oh, how so?” You said politely, trying to be deferential. 

It was more than a little uncomfortable in the room. No one ever asked questions during the colloquium, even though that was its intended purpose, and certainly no one ever stood up when they asked it. Everyone usually just allowed the speaker to drone on and on about whatever topic they were into that week, and there would be polite applause at the end so you could all go home early. Ironically, Johnny had committed an act of rebellion a mere five minutes into your talk. 

“Well,” he crossed his huge arms over his chest, shoving his muscles against each other. Amongst the mostly lithe, soft-bodied academic crowd, he and his friends looked out of place. He raised his voice, sending it arching down to you like an arrow, “I’m pretty sure he’s genuine. Look at the next four lines.”

He pointed to the glowing screen. You sighed, flipping slides.

Thy love is better than high birth to me,Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,Of more delight than hawks and horses be;And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:

“Look, bonnie,” Johnny chuckled, “I dunno about you, but if I’m boastin’ about a wee hen who’s more than all that — more than wealth, more than all men’s pride? She must actually be somethin’ to boast about.”

You countered, trying to get the talk back under your control, flipping to the next slide: 

Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst takeAll this away, and me most wretched make.

“Then what of his lamentation in the couplet?” You asked pointedly, listening to the sounds of creaking chairs again as everyone turned back to look at you as you responded, “Surely he has some reason to doubt this uniquely prideful love.”

Johnny shrugged,

“He doesnae doubt the love; his life cannae be separated from his love. Love is all there is. Ye ken it from Sonnet 92 when he asks: But what’s so blessed-fair that knows no blot?”

You smiled, slowly, knowingly, and then finished the couplet for him,

“Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.”

You were aware of the implication you were wielding like a knife down there in your theatre, staining your hands and hurling your scalpel at him, accusing him through verse of the same sin you’d thrown in his face the last time you spoke to him: of being false, of betraying Pidge. 

Johnny shifted his weight, frustrated, but standing his ground,

“It’s not… he doesnae think it’s false, hen. Tha’s not it.”

Were you still arguing about the poem? You couldn’t tell. His face had become serious and a little pleading. So, you responded in verse since it would fit the conversation either way, 

“How like Eve’s apple doth thy beauty grow, if thy sweet virtue answer not thy show.”

“And I would bloody eat it anyway, thief. False or no.”

There was an awkward silence and then a short, if a bit unsettled, polite applause. People began to shuffle out, standing, stretching, and chatting with each other as they made their way back into the hallway. A few of your labmates waved at you, and a friend from your cohort wished you a happy Christmas. 

Johnny sauntered down the stairs toward you, leaving his friends lounging in their seats, and as he came closer and closer, you felt like you were the one on the slab of your own theatre, open and vulnerable to the empty room, fully at the mercy of your operator. 

You thought he might pause, that he may stop walking and stand a few paces away, ready to talk things out, but he didn’t. He didn’t even slow his pace. Johnny grabbed you around your jaw with his enormous hand, his wide palm hot against your chin, and he pulled you into him, your lips sliding into his, pressing together like the last piece of a puzzle, completing a picture. 

His body was so warm as you crashed into his arms, and he held you down, pinning you like you would fall away from him if he let go. You couldn’t do much else other than submit to his strength; you didn’t want to do much else. You grabbed him around his waist, feeling him through the thin cotton of his shirt, tumbling into him as he forced your mouth to take his tongue. 

Johnny let go of a low moan, a sigh that couldn’t escape, and the hand that had been holding your face was now fisting your hair and running thick fingers through your soft strands. 

He pulled back without warning, gasping as he whispered to you, speaking with his forehead resting on yours and his eyes pinched closed,

“Did you mean it, what you told Gaz? Am I right? Is this right?”

You took a deep breath, smelling his soap and his cologne, the scent of his skin so familiar to you it seemed like home. His eyes remained closed, and he wore a mask of pain, holding himself back from truly letting go. You nodded, whispering back to him,

“You were right.”

Then, his eyes shot open, finding yours immediately, looking back and forth to peer into both of them at once, searching for even the slightest hint of deception,

“Are you fallin’ for me, mèirleach? ‘Cause I’m… I cannae go halfway. I’m in, or I’m out.”

“I’m in,” you smiled, laughing a little at your confession. He kissed you again, softly petting your hair, holding you close. But, you paused and looked up at him with a warning glare in your eye, “But, look, she cannot know. Maybe after the wedding, but… she cannot find out.”

“She won’t,” he was smiling back at you, making it look like it would be on his face forever, “I’m a professional spy, lass, or did you forget my wee entourage back there.”

He nodded up to his friends. The captain was asleep with his hat over his eyes, snoring in long, regular rhythms. Ghost was using a datapad, staring intently at the screen, and Gaz was using two hands on his cell phone, tapping vigorously, engrossed in some sort of game.

Johnny whistled, quick and shrill. The men stirred, peering down at him and making their way toward you. When they reached the bottom, they all towered over you, ready for polite introductions.

“John,” the scruffy, bearded one shook your hand first. His fingers were dangerously strong, and it shocked you to feel it against your own palm.

A young man was next. You knew it was Gaz, but you hadn’t seen a photo of him yet.

“I’m Kyle,” he smiled. He was even nicer in person, “We texted, before.”

You nodded, smiling back, and introducing yourself.

Then, it was the big one.

“Simon,” the tall blond shook your hand for a brief moment, just enough to squeeze and release. 

“It’s really nice to meet you all,” you said, “I’m glad you made it for the holiday.”

“We try to stick together ‘round this time of year,” Price explained, but you weren’t sure you fully understood his meaning. You just smiled and nodded. 

“You ready to head out?” Johnny asked you.

“Yeah, just need to head back to my place and get my bag.”

“Alright, hen,” Johnny smiled, “Lead the way.”

You led them up and out of the building and into the cold night air. Your apartment was only a short walk from this side of campus, so you decided to forego the bus ride. 

Johnny had your hand clasped in his so tightly that you wondered if he was alright. You looked up at him, and he smiled. You didn’t know how to say all the things you wanted to say, so you just commented on the most obvious one first,

“Where did you learn Sonnet 91? Or 92 and 93 for that matter?”

Gaz interrupted you, turning his head to talk over his shoulder as you walked behind him,

“Bloody stuck in his Kindle for months, he was. I think he read them all, and then he read them all to us. We’ve had more of the Bard than fuckin’ Lizzy the first.”

You gasped and made a face at Johnny, waiting for him to answer for his actions. He just shrugged, his cheeks flushed either from the embarrassment or the cold. 

Price walked up beside him and knocked him a bit on his shoulder, ribbing him along with Gaz,

“Especially that one. What number?”

“Fuckin’ 145,” Ghost groaned.

Then, in unison, the three soldiers all started reciting it aloud, their voices sing-song and purposefully annoying, 

“Those lips that Love’s own hand did make breathed forth the sound that said “I hate” to me that languished for her sake…”

Johnny shoved Gaz back to the front of the group with his free hand, laughing it off,

“Alright, alright, you bastards. I may have read it two or three times…”

“Two or three hundred, Sergeant,” Price rolled his eyes. 

You grinned up at Johnny, humming your pleasure,

“Wow! I’m impressed. Didn’t know you were such a Shakespeare fan.”

Gaz scoffed, 

“It’s not the poems he’s a fan of!”

Price smacked him on his arm, stopping Gaz from being too mean in his playfulness, aware that Johnny had his limits of what he would allow to be said in front of you.

“Mmm,” you answered noncommittally, squeezing Johnny’s hand as it held yours, clutching at you like the end of a rope, holding you like an anchor to his hull.

As you made it to your apartment, you pointed to the small coffee shop on the corner of your block,

“Do you wanna wait somewhere warm? I’ll only be a minute.”

Price snorted, grinning as if he had just remembered a private joke, 

“Go help her with her bags, Sergeant. C’mon, lads.”

The trio left you together, and Johnny waited for you to open the door to the lobby. You buzzed in and waited for the elevator in the quiet foyer. 

He was silent the whole ride up to your floor. You thought he’d have more to say, especially after just getting back from a tour. You wondered what was keeping him so quiet. 

You jiggled your key into the lock and pushed your way inside. Marlowe was on the futon, lounging in her favorite position, but when she saw the strange man in her house, she bristled and fled beneath your bed. 

“Marlowe,” Johnny said, recognizing her. 

“Yeah,” you smiled, grabbing your vitamins from the kitchen cabinet to put in your bag, “Sorry, she’s afraid of strangers.”

“It’s alright, hen. I love your place. Look at that view. You can see the river and everything. That’s class.”

He was being polite. Johnny was way too big for your apartment. With him in the space, it felt like you may as well have lived in a tent. It was such close quarters that you spent most of the time edging around him to get to your stuff. 

“Can I…?” He was pointing down at your bed, asking to sit. 

Recognizing your rudeness, you nodded,

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Can I get you a water or something? Tea?”

“No, I’m good,” he sat and smiled, still looking around the space, taking it in. To be fair, there wasn’t much to see.

You continued to pack, trying to hurry knowing his friends were downstairs waiting for you. 

“Okay, toothbrush… I think I’m all set. Are you ready?”

“No,” he was looking down at the floor, and his tone was so soft that it made you stop your packing whirlwind to listen to him. 

The silence deepened between you, and you tried to be patient. Neither of you dared to move, but he met your eyes. 

“What is it, Johnny?” You asked, still waiting. 

He stood and walked the half step it took to stand before you. His huge shoulders blocked out the light, and you could tell he was chewing on his words, working them over and over to make sure they were right. 

“I need to know…” he said quietly, running his fingers through your hair again, “I need to know if you are havin’ any doubts about this, lass. I dinnae want to pressure you, and I know I shouldnae be asking you to lie to her, but I need you, mèirleach. I need to know you’re not still havin’ doubts about the way I feel about you.”

Were you? You weren’t sure. You knew he cared about you, and you didn’t have any evidence that he was playing you, but Pidge’s warning still raged in the back of your mind. 

You sighed,

“I don’t doubt that you have feelings for me.”

“But, you think they willnae last?”

“I don’t know, but I want to find out. It’s just hard to have confidence in a secret.”

He furrowed his brow,

“I’d call her and tell her now, if you’d let me. You wanna wait, hen. And I’m fine with that. I am. But, how am I supposed to show you who I am when I’m not supposed to be showin’ you anything at all?”

You didn’t know what to say to him, and it made you feel discouraged. Maybe you were wrong. Perhaps you should have kept your promise after all, and this was just too complicated. 

Johnny watched the guilt spread across your face and chased you down with his eyes, his tone laced with dark suggestion,

“Unless you want me to show you now, thief.”

You did. You wanted him to show you everything he was. And, you understood what he was asking you for. The nerves between your legs pulsed, and blood rushed down your arms, excited for whatever he was threatening you with. You wanted him to fuck you right here in your apartment. But, you hesitated, very aware that if you said yes, if you let him show you what he wanted you to see, you wouldn’t be able to come back from that. The guilt would eat you alive. 

“Your… friends…” you picked at the zipper of his thick coat, stepping close enough to him that you could feel his heat radiating from inside the fleece lining of it. 

“My friends can wait, thief. I can’t.”

“Then don’t.”

The same way a bear trap snapped shut, its teeth digging into the writhing flesh of the creature inside its metal maw, that was how he caught you in that moment. You looked up at him, eyes wide and expectant, and you were greeted with a hunter’s smile. He knew he had you, and he went for the kill, putting you out of your misery. His arms wrapped around your body as he kissed you with a high fever, moving from your mouth to your neck as quickly as he could, devouring your soft flesh there, nipping and sucking at you frenzied and harsh. All of his gentle reservedness was gone, pushed aside in favor of sating his wild craving. 

You were on the bed in a second, your back flat, pressed into the mattress by his heavy weight. He didn’t readjust. He allowed his body to pin you down, crushing you beneath him. You tried to rid him of his jacket; there were so many layers between you, and you were eager for there to be none. 

He helped you, shucking off his coat and shirt layers quickly before returning to your mouth and throat, breathlessly panting as he kissed and licked your throat. His chest was bare to you then, and the cold metal of his tags stung your chest as they jingled out of his clothes, falling onto you like two silver coins. You rubbed his body down, pressing into the muscles of his neck and back, feeling them jerk and lunge as he moved above you. He kissed your mouth again, moaning through his nose. 

Then, he was peeling you apart, taking your clothes and tossing them away, pulling off the tissue from a coveted gift. Johnny didn’t even take time to pause at your bra; he just yanked it over your head with the rest of your clothes, unceremoniously. While you were sucking on his tongue and kissing down the scruff of his jaw, you heard his boots thump onto the floor, one after the other. 

All that remained between you were your slacks and his jeans, and he was forced to leave your mouth to deal with the barriers. He made his way to your breasts, sucking on them hungrily, but not playing. He was done playing with you, it seemed. 

He popped the button on your pants and tucked both of his hands into the waistband, grabbing your panties along with it, and ripped them down your legs with a deep grunt. You were naked, and the denim of his jeans raked against your sensitive skin. He was grinding his body against you as you were trapped beneath him, and you felt his hips rock back and forth as he rubbed his cock against your core, trying to use the friction inside of his jeans to find some pleasure, returning to your nipples to lick them into stiff peaks. 

You wrapped your legs around his hips, your thighs halfway between the skin of his ribs and the bite of his belt, letting him thrust against you. 

“Johnny,” you whispered, “Take them off.”

“Not yet, hen.”

You moaned, feeling his crotch pressing hard against yours, but not being able to find any sort of consistency in the texture. 

“Why not?” You asked and begged at the same time.

“Because…” He kissed his way down your belly, settling his face between your thighs, “As soon as I do, I’m gonna fuck you, mèirleach. And I’ve not tasted you, yet.”

His mouth was wet and hot and just what you wanted. Johnny ate you like he was on a mission. There was no careful exploration like the first time. It felt like he was eating you to satisfy his own craving, and your enjoyment was merely a fringe benefit. 

You keened as loudly as you dared, crying out for him as he lapped at your folds, hunting down your flavor. 

Then, he began to speak to you as he sucked on your clit, pausing to say his words before returning to his font to swallow more of you down into his throat. 

“Do y’know how long I’ve waited for this, hen?”

Suck, lick, kiss…

“How many nights…”

Suck.

“...in the sand…”

Lick.

“...in the bloody dark…”

Kiss.

“...waiting to have you in my mouth like this.”

Lick. Lick. Liiiickkkk…

“Oh, fuck, Johnny!” You bit down on the back of your hand, reeling from the pressure building in your center, feeling chills on your arms and chest, “Please…”

“And when Gaz told me…”

Suck.

“...I didnae believe him.”

Lick.

“But, I wanted to. I wanted to believe…”

Kiss.

“...that you were really mine…” 

Suuuuckkkk.

“...mo mèirleach…” 

Liiickkkk.

“...mo ghràdh.” 

You started to come, your hips vaulting into his strong jaws, and his eyes found yours, bright and clear, staring at you, watching you fall apart in his mouth. At the last moment, just before you fell over the peak, he wrenched his eyes shut and sucked even harder, yanking you into a furious, crashing orgasm. 

Then, desperately scrambling to taste the result, he thrust his tongue deep into your hole, his entire mouth suctioned to your pussy, reaping his soaking reward. 

“Johnny,” you sobbed, overwhelmed by the power you felt growing inside of you, bursting across your body like hundreds of little fireworks.

He was back up by your face in a moment, cradling you and kissing you with your come smeared all over his lips and cheeks,

“Shh, shh… it’s alright, lass. I know what you need. It’s what I need, too.”

You heard his zipper and watched him slide out of his jeans, kicking his socks off with them, naked with you once more, and now with full intent. His cock was drooling onto your belly, the precome leaving long, sticky trails as his swollen shaft traced its way up and down through your folds. Johnny’s cock was so hard that it felt like a warm, iron pipe was pressing into you, threatening and dangerous. 

You must have worn the concern on your face because he chuckled down at you, kissing your forehead sweetly as he humped himself against you,

“Too much for you, thief?”

You let your hands meet in the middle, holding his dick with one on top of the other, effectively jacking him off as he thrust forward and back, wetting him with his own lubrication, and you watched him throw his head back in sharp need. You smiled up at him,

“Not yet.”

“Jesus Christ,” he paused, holding his position, poised like a viper. Then, he looked down at you, suddenly serene, “Do you need a condom?”

“No, do you?”

“Fuck, no,” he said, and he immediately sank his head into your softness, melting into you with a slick slide, trusting you implicitly, believing you like a disciple. 

Your body hadn’t experienced a cock as thick and as hard as his. It wasn’t uncomfortably long, but its upward curve was particularly cruel. It was built to torture the soft pleasure-ladden spot inside of your walls, dragging across it as he fit himself inside of you. It took a few thrusts until you felt his hilt, but you were wet enough that your pussy didn’t need much coaxing. He was sighing above you, audibly and full of relief, his face bent and twisted in a perfect torment. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck… thief, holy fuck. Oh, Christ. I cannae… oh…”

His thrusts were audible. Flesh pounded into flesh, and the wet noises coming from you seemed unreal. Each and every time he entered you, pressing through you and molding you to his shape, you felt sparks of bliss within your belly, expectant and eager. 

“Johnny… it feels so good. You feel…” 

“You alright, mo ghràdh? Do you… mmmph, fuck… do you need me to slow down?”

You imagined what that would be like, and your pussy railed against it, feral and wanton, fighting any semblance of gentility with sharpened teeth and greedy claws. 

“No, please… don’t.” you kissed his cheek as he lay his head into your shoulder, deep in concentration, rolling in his passion.

Your kiss made him turn to face you, kissing your mouth so softly, with loose, relaxed lips, gently sliding his cheek across yours like a huge cat, rubbing himself all over you. He didn’t stop, but he spoke to you darkly, 

“I’ll do whatever you want, lass. Tell me, and it’s yours.”

“This,” you sighed, moaning as another wave of pleasure made you clench down around him, gripping him from within you with a fluttering squeeze, “You. Just you, mo chridhe.”

You tested out the nickname you’d used before, hoping to encourage him. You may as well have poured kerosene on a fire. He narrowed his eyes at you in disbelief, obviously hearing it and using it like war paint, covering his body in it, staining himself in it, changing himself from the inside out to fit its definition. He lay his head next to yours as he worked his cock within you, grunting through gritted teeth with each heavy thrust. His body started to tremble, shaking with his need to come, and the low, long whine that came from his throat made it sound like he was boiling over with blinding pleasure. 

He took both of his arms and crossed them behind your back, grasping your shoulders from behind in a painfully tight hold. Then, pressed to his chest, he lifted you, settling you in his lap in the lotus position, keeping his cock sheathed deep inside of you. You grabbed onto his neck instinctively, holding him like a lifeline, rocking your hips into him to chase that friction. 

Johnny sighed, pressing his forehead to yours, 

“Yes, yes, yes, thief. Take it. Fuck yourself on me, hen. Use me. I wanna feel you come, mèirleach…” 

He begged so sweetly, and you were happy to oblige. You used his shoulders to brace yourself while you pushed your body down onto him, spearing yourself over and over. At this new angle, his cockhead hit your g-spot every single goddamn time, and you were dizzy from his menacing shape. He snaked his hand between you to press on your clit, not even rubbing it but applying force, giving you something to grind against. The combination of his hand and his cock and his growling whines of struggling for control were enough to do the trick, and you saw white behind your eyes as you fell into a chaotic, plunging orgasm once again. 

“Fuuuuckkkk…” He groaned loudly, his voice turning vicious, “You are mine.”

Your body fell back to the bed and he shoved your legs onto one of his shoulders, fucking you as deep as he could go, stretching you as he did, throwing himself into you as you came down from your high. He was shouting, curses and praises, all in a filthy, animalistic snarl. Johnny just kept repeating the same phrase in a cultish chant, mindless and recursive, completely beyond himself, past reality. 

“You’re mine, thief. Mine.”

As he came, he searched for your eyes, staring into them, showing you his elation. You ran a hand across his scalp, your fingernails dragging through his mohawk, and you saw the whites of his eyes as he rolled them back into his head involuntarily. You held onto his hair and gave it a little pressure, holding his skull in your hands as he filled you with his spent pleasure, his cock throbbing, pulsing rope after rope of hot come into your belly, frothing and foaming around the base of his shaft as he fucked you through it. 

20 MINUTES LATER

You were so worried that his friends would make some sort of comment. As you walked back to the coffee shop, tucked under his heavy arm, you prepared for the playful banter and the jeering. His mohawk was destroyed, and you were both glowing with a sheen of sweat, matching in your states. You knew that they knew. You could also tell that Johnny was bracing himself for the worst, steeling his resolve before entering the cafe. And you thought you would get, at the very least, some mention of how long it had taken to get your bags. But, when you made it to the coffee shop, they didn’t say a word. They smiled, and although they smiled knowingly, there was more affection in it than mischief. It shocked you. After all the ribbing from before, to have none now seemed like some kind of gift. When Johnny realized they were going to let him keep his prize for himself, uncontested, he began to glow with pride as much as pleasure. 

The ride was not quiet, though. All of their stories from Urzikstan and its many dangers started to come out. Price told you about how Gaz and Ghost were almost incinerated in a cobalt mine, and Johnny was showing off his newest badge - a retro SAS pin Price had given him for rescuing the other two from said mine. The blue wings and the motto surrounded a bright sword.

“Who dares, wins?” You asked, trying to see the words in the dark backseat. 

Ghost, who had needed to sit in the front with Johnny because of his height, nodded, taking the pin back from you to admire it.

“Well deserved,” Price commented beside you. 

“Sounds like it,” you agreed. 

Johnny had been so sweet to you after his ferocious lovemaking, you thought all the medals in the world might not be enough to thank the man. No one had ever been so kind nor so attentive. Most of the time, you and whatever lad would clean up separately, maybe watch a show or two and then say your goodbyes. Not Johnny. He spent most of his time admiring your body, making sure you were intact and unharmed. Then, after covering you up with your softest throw, he came back with a hot towel and cleaned you up meticulously. He lay beside you until you felt good enough to get dressed, and still as you were putting your hair up, he made you a tea and finished packing your bag with the things you’d forgotten; your vitamins on the counter and your phone charger. 

When you came out of the bathroom, he had stripped your sheets and put them in the hamper, and Marlowe’s food timer had been set. Her litter box was clean, and the automated litter keeper was reset. You wondered fleetingly if he had wiped down the counters as well. 

The drive felt shorter than usual, especially since your thoughts were on other things. But, when you pulled into Old Kilpatrick, Johnny spoke up to the whole car,

“Look, no one says a fuckin’ thing about us to my sister. To anyone, alright? She’ll find out when she’s bloody meant to.”

The men agreed to keep quiet, but Gaz mouthed off beside you, 

“Sure we can keep a secret, Soap, but what about you? I wouldn’t give you a medal for impulse control, mate.”

Johnny eyed him in the rear-view mirror with a stern glare,

“Aye, but then that’s my problem, you daft bastard.”

 Gaz rolled his eyes, grinning all the while. 

By the time you’d arrived, the only open spot to sleep was a big pallet on the floor of the living room. Hamish was the only one awake to welcome you, and he set you up with pillows and blankets to camp out like a row of sardines. 

“Hey, lass,” Hamish told you, “Go sleep with Pigeon. She’d murder me for leaving you on the ground.”

He looked worn out, and although you didn’t mind sleeping on the floor, you didn’t have any real reason to insist. So, you hugged all the boys good night, making sure not to take too long on Johnny’s turn, and retreated to your post. 

Pidge was snoring softly as you entered the room, and you got ready for bed as quietly as you could, plugging in your phone to the nightstand. It buzzed, and you saw his message flash up on the screen:

Mo Chridhe: miss you 

You: i miss you too

Mo Chridhe: im still in a wee shock

You: why

Mo Chridhe: you. cannae believe youre mine

You: i am. and youre mine johnny mactavish.

Mo Chridhe: promise

You: promise

CHRISTMAS MORNING

Waking up with Johnny and sitting around the tree together with your coffee was every bit like Christmas morning as when you were a child. Instead of presents, you were content to sit as close to him as you dared, pretending to be making room for others by finding spots on the floor beside the gifts and stockings. 

All together, it was Johnny, his three soldiers, you, Pidge, Hamish, Hamish’s mum and dad, and Roger. Rodger had crashed on the couch last night, the Hamiltons had taken Johnny’s room, and now you were all crowded up in the small den, passing gifts around and chatting as you opened your presents. There weren’t many, but it was enough to feel like a holiday. 

Roger got the Playstation he’d been begging for from his brother, and his parents had bought him the games. Pidge had given Johnny a new set of headphones since his had melted in the cobalt mining fire. She also got him a pound of her shortbread cookies, which he was stuffing into his mouth with absolute abandon. He’d bought her a tea set off her wedding registry, and Hamish had landed a very aggressive knife from him. The professor was already being given a tutorial by Captain Price, and you tried not to laugh as he practiced stabbing the air with him in the kitchen. Price was scary when he did it, but Hamish looked downright silly. 

“Okay, alright. My turn. Here,” you gave out your cards to everyone in attendance, but pulled out a box for Pidge. 

“What did you do! I told you not to, hen. I am going to give you a laldy, and you’d deserve it!” She hugged you around the neck and jiggled the box. 

Satisfied with the rattle, she tore into the paper and gingerly lifted off the lid. Inside, she saw the MacTavish tartan, woven into a full shawl, embroidered with a tiny pigeon in the corner, just for her. She inspected it with wonder, her breath fully stolen away. 

“Did you… You made this? Are you doin’ your weavin’ again, babe? I thought you gave it up.”

You shrugged,

“I found a reason to give it one last shot.”

Pidge started to cry real, honest tears, and she reached out for you, clutching the shawl to her chest, sobbing, 

“Thank you, hen. Thank you so much. After they buried mum in hers, and I didn’t… I couldn’t touch it anymore, I just…”

You held her and rocked her back and forth, smiling at her outpouring of love,

“I know, babe. I remember you saying so. But, now you’ve got one of your own.”

For a moment, you stole a glance at Johnny. The whole room was a little moved by your gesture, but he looked… unwell. He was standing behind everyone, and you were the only one looking at him. His hand was clasped over his mouth, and he had tears coming from his eyes, unblinking, letting them roll down his cheeks one after the other, staring at you, frozen in place. He was so unsettled that, for a moment, you thought you’d made some error. But, as Pidge recovered, so did he, and he wiped his face to return to normal; putting on a mask of an expression, hiding whatever he had just shown you. 

“You’re the best damn friend I’ve ever had, hen. And I love you. Dearly.”

“I love you too, Pidge.”

“Here, here, open mine! It’s not as braw as all tha’ you did, but still.”

You were handed a gift bag, and you peeked inside. You found a book of poetry with some incredible illustrations inside, and a charm necklace with a silver boar hanging from it. 

“It’s our wee clan beastie. You may as well be a MacTavish by now, hen. So, I thought you should have it.”

You smiled, letting her put it on you. Then, you hugged her tight, 

“You don’t know what that means to me, Pidge.”

Pidge laughed through dried tears, still emotional,

“Ha! Says you, miss weaver. Honestly.”

You let her gush over it a little more before you retreated back to your position beside Johnny. You pulled out the four smaller boxes from your bag and handed them to the soldiers, indiscriminately since they were all alike. 

“What did you do, thief?” Johnny’s voice was low, and he was grinning up at you, staring at you through those dark lashes.

“Open them,” you urged him. 

They did, and one by one they all pulled out small compasses, made with built-in flint strikers, hanging from tied paracord. It was the most tactical practical thing you could find on such short notice, but they all seemed pleased. Gaz shook it at Price, 

“This would’ve been bloody helpful in South Tobraka!”

You laughed, 

“Well, I’m sure it’s a little too low-tech for you, but Merry Christmas anyway.”

“It’s bloody perfect,” Gaz smiled, clapping you on the back. Ghost nodded, and Price hooked it to his lanyard without questioning it. 

Johnny bent over to whisper to you as discreetly as he could, 

“Gotta sneak off to give you mine, lass.”

You smacked him on the arm, whispering back, watching Pidge like a hawk as you did so to make sure she couldn’t see you,

“Don’t be naughty.”

Johnny laughed, 

“No, no. I’m serious.”

“Alright!” Hamish clapped his hands, causing you to jump out of your skin, “Who’s ready for crackers?”

CHRISTMAS NIGHT

You and Johnny were curled up on the couch with a steaming cup of sweet wassail, scrolling through the photos you’d taken that night. You popped two crackers together, pulling out your paper crowns, your gold and his blue, snapping selfies and reading the jokes to each other. Everyone was in their crowns by the end of the night, and while Price smoked cigars on the porch with Gaz and Ghost, Pidge and Hamish had driven his parents and brother home. 

You were finally alone after having such a full house, and your gift for him was burning a hole in your bag. You were dying to give it to him, but he beat you to the punch.

“Alright, mèirleach, are you ready for your wee gift? It’s probably gonna earn me extra PT for a few months, but it’s worth it.”

“Why?” You asked, setting your cup down on the end table and turning your body towards him. 

“‘Cause I’m not even supposed to have these off-duty, much less hand them over to my American lassie.”

Johnny dug into the neckline of his shirt and pulled out the dog tags that you had encountered last night when he took you to bed. The coin jangled on the chain as he pulled it over his head, and like a medal for an award you had not won, he looped it behind your neck, letting the coin fall between your breasts, still warm from his body and now warm from yours. 

You pulled it up to read its stamp, staring at the words:

O POS 2073521 MACTAVISH SAS RC

“Wanted you to have it, lass. A wee piece of me to keep safe, if you will.”

It was hard to know why you started crying, but you felt the searing tears fall down your cheeks as you stared at the tag. His blood type was what started it all, and you began to imagine all of the times that this thin coin would have warranted such a label. 

“It’s alright, mèirleach, if you dinnae —”

“No,” you raised your hand to his face, closing your other hand around the coin and pulling it in to your chest, eager to keep it safe just as he had asked, “Thank you, Johnny. I love it.”

He turned his face toward your hand as you caressed his scruffy jaw, and kissed your palm, holding your hand with his so you couldn’t escape. 

“I got you something, too. But, it’s small, and now I’m afraid you won’t have anything to hang it on.”

You dug in your bag and pulled out a small cardboard box with a thin red string tied around it. There was no card, there was no name printed on it, but he knew it was him nonetheless. He took it from you, almost snatching it, excited and surprised, not waiting for it to be given. 

“Thief! You didnae have to do that,” he was grinning, and his eyes gleamed, full of sudden joy. 

You’d found an old locket at the charity shop, and your gift had fit inside perfectly. When he opened the clasp, he froze. You’d use a scrap of the shawl that you’d woven for Pidge and cut a little circle from it, embroidering a tiny map of Scotland over the threads, planting a little red heart over what was almost Glasgow. 

“Mo mèirleach…”

“Mo chridhe.”

As soon as you said his name, his eyes found yours and he leaned in to kiss you, clutching the locket in his fist, tight, tight, tight. 

BEFORE DAWN

That night, in his bed, smelling his oranges and cloves, his scent filling your nose, covering you with his sheets, you lay buried in his chest where his tags used to lie, your cheek now warming the skin beneath. You imagined the compasses that dangled from the four sets of keys strewn across the kitchen counter. You thought about the shawl that was wrapped around his sister as she slept in her bed. Holding his locket in your hand, you ran your fingertips over its tartan, borne of the same threads as hers. You wondered about tomorrow, and the day after that, and the year ahead of you, and you felt a tightness in your own chest as you considered the timeline stretching out before you, woven from the choices you and your lover had made together. It was as if you had altered fate’s plan somehow, shunning your intended path and forging one of your own making. What future had you created? Did you have the guile to craft the right course? You held his hand, his fingers laced between yours, and whichever way you went, you hoped that he would be braving it with you.

[sweetsdereese]

When the darkness comes

summary: Maybe Leo isn't fine after all

pair: Leo Valdez x Jason Grace

warnings: ptsd, hurt, eventual comfort (in part 2), memories of character death, some angst, panic attack

genre: hurt/comfort

word count: 981

requested tag: @aspenii

part one | part two

               4th of July, in Leo’s opinion, is one of the best holidays. Not only could he show off his amazing pyrotechnics, but he could also stuff his face full of food. This year’s celebration is going to be bigger than ever as it will be a collaborative event between both camps. Leo was a bit hesitant when the joined event was first suggested since Camp Jupiter kids are so strict and rigid but hey, some of his best friends are from there so they can’t all be sticks in the mud.

               His day started off with a lecture meeting led by Reyna and Annabeth. Schedules and maps of each activities zoned areas had been handed out during it. It was times like these that Leo wished he kept a better track of things given to him, he thought as he and his team of fellow Hephaestus kids rush to set up the fireworks after a much-needed reminder of the time from Frank. Double-checking that the others were able to handle everything, he slipped away and ran towards where Festus was lounging.

               “Theres my favorite mechanical marvel, it’s almost showtime buddy” excitement clear in the tone of his views as he practically bounces in place.

               A puff of hot air comes from the mechanical dragon as it huffs in response.

               “Common don’t be like that. I’ll give you a good polishing and oiling if you do it” Leo negotiates as he pets Festus’s snout.

               All he receives is a small mechanical growl of irritation, but Festus relents and sits up, looking down at the giddy curly haired boy.

               “Thank you, thank you! Por eso eres mi favorito!” Leo exclaims as he hurriedly attaches the accessory to Festus’s abdomen.

               “When the eagle shaped firework goes off, you’ll fly over the crowd. This will open, dropping tons of patriotic confetti and a healthy amount of glitter down onto the crowd” Leo explains, ignoring the eye roll he gets from the dragon.

               Once the compartment is secured, Festus takes flight as to be closer to the event site. Meeting back up with the others, they set the timer before joining the celebration. Weaving through the dense crowd, Leo manages to find his group of friends.

               “No need to worry, the life of the party is here!” Leo exclaims as he comes to stand beside Piper.

               “The ‘life of the party’ almost missed out on his own firework display” Piper retorts back, playfully rolling her eyes.

               “Me? Late to something? Never. I’m going to snag some food, save me a spot on the blanket?” he asks while batting his eyes at her.

               “I’ll try but the good blanket real estate is getting snatched up fast by the love birds” she says gesturing towards the others.

               Frank and Hazel sat beside each other, talking about what happened at their respective booths. Off at one of the corners of the picnic blanket, Will is helping Nico put on protective ear covers. While in the center of the blanket Percy is trying to get Annabeth to stay and relax, assuring her that everything is going according to plan.

               “I’ll be quick, plus Jason isn’t here yet so as long as I’m back before him I should have a spot” he hurriedly says, already heading towards the food stalls.

               “And leave him out in the cold because you stole his spot?” Piper jokes.

               “Yet he’ll still love me” he quips back, sticking his tongue out at her.

               “Bring me back a drink while you’re at it!” Piper yells after him, getting a thumbs up from the shorter boy.

               Managing his way to the booths, Leo gets in line for some of that mouthwatering assortment of smoked barbecue pork. It felt like ages were passing by as he waits, barely having budged an inch since he first got in line. Tapping his foot as he fidgets with some gears he keeps on hand in his pocket. Leo jolts, fumbling as to not drop the gears he had just been mindlessly toying with as a loud explosion goes off. Panicked amber eyes searched around for distressed people and the source of the explosion, only to be met with awestruck faces looking up towards the sky. Bringing himself to look up, he catches sight of the dissipating colors of the fireworks. Relief had started to wash over him till another firework went off renewing that panic brewing in him.

               Leo flinches as more explosions fill the air, a tight feeling growing in his chest. Abandoning his place in line, Leo stumbles away from the loud, increasingly suffocating crowd. As the suffocating feeling grows, Leo soon breaks into a run towards his dorm building. Fighting for each breath as he forces himself up the seemingly infinite stairs. Fumbling to unlock his dorm as his hands shake like leaves, having dropped his keys on one of the attempts.

               Barreling into his dorm once the door opens, slamming it shut behind him as he staggers toward his bed. Mindlessly grabbing his blanket from his bed, he seeks refuge under his table. Leo cocoons himself in the blanket, trying to fight off the memories of countless pieces of shrapnel pierced into his skin. Rubbing the palms of his eyes to try and stop the flowing tears.

               Each loud bang brings him back to that day, his body broken and unable to move as he fell watching Festus try to reach him – try to save him. His hands moving to cover his ears as he screws his eyes shut, trying to ignore the sounds from outside. That voice that’s haunted him as long as he can remember whispers to him. You’re a child of Hephaestus, a pyromancer, why are you crying like a baby? Are you seriously scared of fireworks? You’re ruining this for everyone. People have gone through worse, and you don’t see them acting like babies.

[atlasveiled]

starter for @soulpainted

The Continent was as beautiful as it was deadly. Landscapes that shifted from the massive nevrons roaming or by other unseen reasons, wonders of nature on clear display. Rook had made it his mission to map it out as best as he could, learn how the Continent shifted and changed, how the nevrons and other beings living there moved about. It wasn't all work and no play. Sometimes Rook would find a place that inspired him to sit and draw it in more detail, like the waterfall he sat at the top of currently, humming softly to himself. It was a rare moment of peace, or it had been until a familiar figure stepped from the treeline.

Renoir.

Rook stood up quickly, adrenaline already pumping through his system. He knows he needs to run, this isn't a fight that he can win but as always instinct took him over. His spear is summoned into his hand before Rook is even aware he is doing so, memories of Varric, of his death, flashing through his mind at war with Verso's repeated warnings.

Renoir is on him before Rook can blink, barely managing to avoid his attack, spear whirling around to strike back. It's blocked, parried and in an instant pain blossomed across his chest as Renoir scored a large gash across it. Finally, finally, fight turned to flight. Renoir blocked the safe path to freedom, only one remained. Rook backed up, blocking and dodging attacks until he knows he is close to the edge of the waterfall. Lightning sparked and in a bright burst Rook used the energy to propel himself backwards off the edge of the cliff into the raging waters below.

Like a dog returning to its home to die Rook stumbled his way back to his treehouse. It was slow going, detours made to avoid the nevrons that he couldn't outrun in his current state. He knows if he stops he isn't getting back up again for a while, maybe not ever, so he keeps pressing forward. He's barely cognizant by the time he makes it back to the treehouse. He has just enough energy left to scale the rope, landing on the wooden platform and crumpling to the ground as the last of his strength, willpower, left him.

That left a very stressed and worried Trouble to try and play healer. The gestral does his best but he's made of wood and Rook flesh and blood. He knows enough to get Rook out of his soaked clothes, tries to stop the bleeding but he can see his friend fading.

"Don't die! I'll be back with help!" Trouble called to Rook, begged him, before the little gestral dashed off to find Esquie. He knew if anyone could find Verso it would be him, knew that Verso was the only one who could help. Trouble may not exactly like the man but Rook needed him and Trouble needed Rook.

And that was how a little gestral and Esquie ended up flying around, Trouble calling out Verso's name as loud as he can.

[johnwickb1tsch]

Vino Veritas

A Destination Wedding Frank x Fem!Reader Fic

Attending the wedding of your ex-fiancé gets slightly better when you meet someone having just as miserable a time as you... Warnings: Nothing too serious holy shit. Cursing. Broken engagement. Nihilism, existential bullshit, copious amounts of sarcasm. Eventual nsfw, not this chapter. Angst. Grump/sunshine trope. Loosely based on the movie but I'm not that smart. Or bitter. chapter map.

The Gate to Hell

You’re not sure what it is about airports, that somehow makes them feel like a special little extension of the circles of Hell. Or maybe purgatory, is more the like. All you do there is wait, and wait and wait, praying that soon it will be time to move on.

It probably doesn’t help that you’re absolutely fucking dreading your destination ahead.

Frankly, it will be a miracle if you survive this weekend with your sanity intact.

And then, there’s this dude behind you. You keep seeing him out of the corner of your eye. He just keeps pacing back and forth, rolling his stupid bag with him, and you just want to whirl and tell him to be still or sit the fuck down.

Instead, he comes to stand next to you.

You give him a glance. And then, you’ll admit, a double take, because he is stupidly handsome, even while frowning, staring churlishly at the flight monitor as though it had personally insulted him. And, to add insult to injury, he is tall. And well dressed in jeans and a button down and a nice sports jacket. And you inwardly sigh for some indefinable reason that has to do with longing and your acceptance that the universe does not bestow such gifts upon you for free.

“Nice dress.”

You blink, not having expected him to speak to you.

“Thanks.” It’s a 50’s style robin’s egg blue halter swing dress, your favorite color. You needed some bright color therapy, to face the hell you’re about to be stepping into.

“Is there a sock hop in San Luis Obispo I’m missing?”

You guess with your cat-eye Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses, you do look rather on brand.

From his sardonic tone you’re not sure if he’s making fun of you. “All the cool kids are going.”

You kind of deliver it like a dig, and you see the corners of his mouth twitch. “Ah. That explains everything.”

You look him over. He…really is ridiculously handsome, if you’re being honest. High cheekbones. Trimmed beard. Piercing eyes. Casually well dressed. A bit older than you, not that that’s ever stopped you.

“I hope our flight’s on time.”

You check your phone app for the airline. “Supposed to be.”

“Let me guess. You’ve got an app for that?” The way he says it, just this side of snide, like you fucking millennials—it kind of pisses you off. And maybe you’re overly sensitive to patronizing comments from older men, but with your history you have a right to be.

“Do you have a problem with me?”

He stands up a little straighter. “What?”

“Like what’s your deal? I was just standing here minding my own business, while you’re creeping around behind me—”

“I was not creeping. I was trying to see the board.” He gestures at the display screen by the gate.

You look him up and down. That’s a tall drink of water, if you’re being honest. “Because Mr. six foot six over here can’t see over my head—”

“I’m only 6’1”—”

“Okay, 6’2” in your shoes, and then you come up here, give me a backhanded compliment, and make fun of me for having the means to keep track of what’s going on with our plane?” You glare at him. “Holy shit, are you trying to neg me?”

“I don’t…even know what that means.”

“Ok, boomer.”

“I am not a boomer.”

“Whatever.”

Then he has the gall to step away—in front of you.

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“You’re going to butt ahead in line too?”

“On a flight that holds eight people?”

“Wow. Ok, be my guest.” You wave him on, and he rolls his eyes. Then you have to stand there, and look at his stupidly broad shoulders in that nice sports jacket, and his dark softy waving hair that just brushes his collar…you’re not going to look at his butt.

You’re not.

Your eyes slide down.

Fuck, but that’s a nice caboose.

The Fight Or Flight Response

As you sit in your backseat of the plane, there is one seat left beside you, and when you see who boards last you want to throw yourself down the stairs before they close the door.

“Anyone want to trade seats?” he asks, bent over practically in half, he’s so tall and the plane is so small.

Crickets.

With a resigned grumble he settles into the seat next to you, as though the world might end if he has to spend a handful of minutes in your general proximity.

Then, of course, the universe further conspires to embarrass you by sending you a defective peanuts bag, which you cannot for love or money get to tear open.

“Dear god, tear it at the notch,” grouses the rude man beside you, driven insane by you fighting with it.

“There is no notch.”

He’s there with his big hand extended, making an annoyed give it here gesture. It’s distracting, truly, how long and elegant his fingers are.

“Give it here.”

“I’m fine.”

“Give. It. Here.”

You’re so disgusted with this whole day, you hand it over. Then watch with smug delight as he can’t get it open either. Finally, he uses his teeth in his frustration, undoubtedly spitting all over it. When he tries to hand it back to you, you raise an eyebrow at him. “Really?”

With a sigh, he offers you his less molested bag.

You take it like accepting his sword on the battlefield.

You both make faces as you quickly find that the seasoning on the nuts tastes like hot trash, and you reckon it’s probably a metaphor for how the next few days are going to go.

This is going to be the weekend from hell.

“So what brings you to San Luis Obispo?” the man asks resignedly, almost like he can’t quite stop himself from talking to you. There is an exhaustion in his tone that would have pulled at your heartstrings, if you weren’t so generally pissed off.

“You don’t have to try to talk to me.”

He shrugs, throwing up those big, beautiful hands in a gesture of annoyance. You can’t help but stare at them—they really are a menace.

“Just trying to be pleasant.”

You can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes you at hearing that. He frowns over at you, and you cover your mouth, hiding your smile. You know you must look like a crazy person—but it’s just too ridiculous.

“Was it that funny?”

You sigh, and for some reason you feel better after the involuntary outburst. Okay. Maybe you can make an effort. No one is ever in a good mood at the airport, after all. “I’m actually going to Paso Robles.”

“Row-bulls.”

“It’s pronounces ro-blays.”

“Everyone says Row-bulls.” 

“Well, not the fucking Spanish who named it.”

He looks away again with that thunderhead of a frown. Why does he have to look extra handsome, when he’s pissed off?

You sigh again. “Look, I’m sorry. I swear, I’m not always such a bitch. It’s just…this fucking wedding I’m going to.”

This catches his attention; he turns to look at you like a hawk zeroing in on a mouse. “Not…Keith and Anne’s wedding?”

“How do you fucking know Keith and Anne?”

“Keith and I share a mother.”

“Holy shit, you’re Frank?”

“Who are you?”

“I was engaged to Keith, years ago.”

“Oh my god, you’re y/n.”

You can sense by the way he says it that you’re infamous in the family’s lore. It’s been a long time, but still, it fills your heart with a familiar leaden despair.

You close your eyes, and look away.

“You’re just as horrible as Keith always said,” you say to the window.

“I find you equally disagreeable, I assure you.”

waiting for death the car

“There was supposed to be a car,” Frank grouses the second you exit the airport. Patience is clearly not his strong suit.

“The flight was early.”

“But it seemed so long.”

It’s a good dig, truth be told, and the corners of your mouth twitch despite yourself. You sit down on a bench, and to your surprise he sits on the other, though on the side closest to you. “So what the hell are you doing here?” he asks. “Didn’t Keith break your heart?”

“Shattered it into bits.”

“Well?”

“I was invited.”

“And…you’re a masochist?”

“Look, I’m not…whatever Keith must have said I am. I was practically a fucking child when he started dating me. It was not…” It was perfectly legal, of course, but the imbalance of worldly experience, looking back, had not been kosher.

You feel the tide of all the pain and insecurity that man caused you raise up in your heart. Usually you’re pretty good at shoving that shit down down in the deepest dungeon you can, like a healthy person, but the wound is feeling a little fucking raw at the moment, considering.

“Keith is an asshole who only cares about himself. I am aware.”

You sigh, and the tide miraculously recedes. Goddamn. It almost feels like he’s on your side.  “Okay, yeah. There you go.”

“Why do this to yourself?”

“You know, before he broke it off, we had a fight the night before because I told him I would never get breast implants, of all fucking things, and Keith told me I would never amount to anything without him.”

“Sounds like something asinine he would say.”

“I wanted to go back to school, and he didn’t like it. He wanted a Stepford wife, and I was becoming alarmingly aware of the world outside his own making of it, the way children do when they grow up. If you’re wondering why he dumped me.”

“That tracks perfectly.”

“He invited me to be a shit and rub my nose in it, so…I’m here as a fuck you. I wanted to show him I’m doing fine.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, actually.”

“You do seem rather well adjusted.”

“Yeah, fuck you too.”

This, surprisingly, makes him smile a little.

A few moments of slightly less awkward silence pass before he asks, “So what did Keith tell you about me?”

“Oh, he told me plenty.”

“Such as?”

“What does it matter?”

“Don’t do that,” he snipes. “Don’t dangle the tidbit then refuse to deliver it.”

“Fine. He said you’re a grouch who hates everyone.”

“Oh. I was afraid he might have said something untrue.”

You glance over at his ridiculously well-sculpted profile. He glares ahead, his brows furrowed, and you strangely get the sense that maybe…he’s a little sad for it.

At fucking last, the shuttle car from the hotel arrives.

Tbc...

[saltsicklover]

Title: Fated to Run - Fated to Fly ꨄ︎ Part One of Two

Prompt from THIS ASK

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5000+

Rating: T

Warnings: Swearing, Creepy Dude, Rhett and Jake rescue reader, one use of Y/N, airports and flying, argument, nothing too crazy, angst

---

To all the people that said finding their soulmate was just so easy, and that they didn't even have to look deserve a giant middle finger shoved right into their face. After all, sometimes people's soulmates just fall right into their fucking laps like the divine are throwing them a goddamn bone. 

Most of us have to earn the privilege of finding our soulmates. You would think that the universe would have come up with a better system, some way to be sure that you've found exactly who you're supposed to. But it's truly fucking coincidence.

What a goddamn pain in the ass. 

Those little words scripted onto skin give only a hint, a shred of an idea that comes with far too much hope and no direction. 

In a perfect world, that script would glow when you find your person, or maybe your person would be the one to say them. Maybe there'd be a way to just know that you've found your other half. Maybe the universe could've bloomed with color upon first contact, the whole world coming to life around you. Hell, maybe the fucking ink would itch when you came close, or, maybe it could turn colors, burning like a cinder straight to the skin. 

It could have been a name, or map quadrants, an number even...

But no. 

All we get is the first thing someone else in our earshot says about our other half. It could be anyone, really, family and friends, lovers or enemies. The universe doesn't care, like it's all one big cosmic joke.  

And if you get stuck with something common? You're pretty much royally fucked. 

The amount of sorry souls who are stuck with "oh, he's a great guy," or "she's so pretty!" Have to live with hearing that damn phrase over and over again, just hoping that maybe it will lead them in the right direction.

It's sick, really, the whole goddamn thing. Especially because I want nothing else. 

"Oh, it's just Bob," is etched deep into my skin, the little letters marking over my collar bone like it's laced with disappointment. There's something about the word "just" that make's me clench my jaw. I can feel the muscle tick as I grind my teeth against each other, feeling the ridges catch. 

Whoever Bob is sure as hell isn't just anything. He is everything, and the unlucky bastard who dares say anything different has a swift right hook in their future, or maybe a hard shove, if the mood strikes. Anything that might take the edge off. 

Though I haven't met Bob yet, I feel fiercely protective over him, over the way others see him. After all, his heart is worth more than words like "just". 

The airport is just a little too dead for 3am, a few too few people ambling around half awake. Those who are here wear dark bags under their eyes, snuggled deep into their jackets to keep the too cold air conditioning from hitting their bare skin. Some pull luggage behind them, kicking it at they go, getting more and more pissed off every time their heel catches on their suitcase. Others talk too loudly on the phone, their cell's pressed to their cheeks by shoulders, by hands, others taking through their headsets. 

A sharply dressed man, clad in a brown suit and loafers argues with a woman in a language I don't speak. She is pointing at the board with a well polished fingernail, one that matches her power suit, while the man is shoving his phone into her face. It's obvious they are arguing about their flight, but neither of them seem to budge on their side. 

It's comical, really, how animated they are. I wonder if they are soulmates, if they found each other out if the sheer passion and dedication they are displaying. After all, if one has this much passion for a flight, it would only stand to reason that the business of finding their soulmate would be met with equal fever. They are a good match, too. The universe doesn't always deal out people who look like they should be together. Aesthetics clash, personalities not quite off set. But these two just have an air about them- like they belong; also like they are going to miss their flight.

I pass them as quickly as I can, as the anger rolls off of them. It's much too late, or maybe much too early to witness such an argument, and I have to make it all the way down to gate 93. With each step, my duffle bag seems to get heavier, no doubt taking after my eyelids. 

Whoever designed the Dallas airport needs to be given some sort of medal for "longest hallways that seem to lead nowhere". With every turn I take I feel like I'm headed further away, but the signs keep pushing me forward. 

Almost there, almost there. 

Gate 88 and Gate 89. 

Gate 90. 

As I walk by Gate 91, I catch two men laying on the dirty carpet in front of the lines of chairs. Their forms stand out against the oddly patterned carpet, though they almost look like they belong there. They are waiting in front of a gate that reads no destination. I know I shouldn't stare, but I can't seem to stop the slowing of my feet. I slide one side off my headphones back off of my ear, doing my best to be inconspicuous. I hope to catch a word, a whisper of what they might be saying but their lips are sealed, it seems, neither one saying a thing. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I take in their position on the ground. One has a cowboy hat pulled down over his face to try and keep the buzzing fluorescents out of his eyes. His head is balanced on a small duffle bag, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His hands sit on his stomach, fingers laced together. His skin is golden, one of those tans you get from being stuck outside day after day. 

He doesn't move a muscle. It barely looks like he's breathing, really. There's something a bit eerie about it, the stillness of him. 

The other man, blond with a cropped haircut and equally bronzed skin sits on the ground a few feet from the other. His back is leaned up against the side of a chair, his knees bent. He looks equally exhausted, eyes closed, head leaned back exposing the long line of his neck. 

He shivers a bit, the wholeness of it rolling through his body. Though he keeps his eyes closed, his expression scrunches before relaxing again. He doesn't look even remotely comfortable, unlike his stony counterpart. 

The pair have very different looks about them, the former all home grown cowboy with still muddy boots while the ladder is clean cut and chiseled. The blond has his hands shoved into the large pocket on the front of his hoodie, trying to starve off the chill that hangs in the terminal. 

Not soulmates, that's for sure. Over the years, I have been able to pick out soulmates from just a few calculated but fleeting glances. There's always something about a pair that just reads right, a vibe that they give off when they are finally buzzing together. But one thing is for sure, these two aren't soulmates, the fact that they're even friends feels funny. 

It's not an impossible fact, to be sure. The predestined soul mate, the way it's written into the universe, could be anyone. That's part of the difficulty of it, for sure, but there's always something that seems to click. Souls are like metronomes, clicking away, othering ticking, always out of time; until the right person comes along and you're right on time with each other. With this pair, they are just a little too jagged around the edges, too seasoned in their own rights to slot together. Friendship is different- nothing knit into the weave of the universe, there, though it may have been easier if it were. 

The moment I make it to my gate, I throw my bag down, by body feeling a bit too much like jelly from all of the travel to hold it any longer. The men are just a gate down, living in their own little bubble. I can't fight the smile that blooms across my face. There's that word, about knowing everyone has their own lives, their own loves. Sonder, I think it is, and in this moment it washes over me. 

"Hey," A voice rings out through the quiet of the terminal, over the loudness of my mind. I look up, my eyes meeting a man who must be in his later forties. He's balding on top, glasses shoved awkwardly onto the bridge of his nose. His clothes are a mismatch of dressy and unkempt. A suit jacket thrown over his hoodie, a pair of pajama pants adorning his bottom half. The whole ensemble is wrapped up with the cowboy hat sitting on the chair next to him, crocs on his feet. 

"Hi," I nod more than speak, a strange feeling blooming in the pit of my stomach. This is not a man I care to be around. If I keep my eyes down, hands busy, maybe he will get the message.

"Why don't you sit down and we'll have a chat," There's a sort of greasy smile that spreads across his face. A shudder dances down my spine at the sight, gooseflesh breaking out over my already cold body. The feeling of them breathing to life makes my skin go almost clammy, an uncomfortable feeling under my warm layers. 

"No, thank you," The answer is curt as I push my duffle just a little further away with my foot. It drags against the well walked carpet, the sound it makes echoing the one in my chest. It's a sort of stuck sensation, what it morphs into, one that I feel with my whole body. 

"Oh, come on, what's a little chat going to hurt?" The man tries again, leaning closer to me, sliding to the seat next to him. We are no further apart now than when we started. My foot meets the side of my duffle again, ready to push it once more. Each little move he makes my eyes train on, from the way his hand curls around the armrest to the way he seems to be peering, leering, over the tops of his too thick glasses. 

"Nope," I pop the 'P', waving my hand a bit, "I'm not entertaining this any longer."

I stoop down to grab my headphones from my bag, only to have the strange man's hand appear in front of me as he is reaching too. The step back I take is almost involuntary, more focused on getting away from his incoming touch than my things now sitting in between us. The glare I send the man is lacking due to the bubbling fear popping in my chest. I place my headphones around my neck in a shallow attempt to keep my hands from shaking. 

"Oh come on sweet-"

"Tommy Grace! There ya'are! Ya'walked right past us, girl," An arm is thrown around my shoulder, warm and lean. I shift my eyes over quickly, mind and body shooting from high alert to a sort of easy when I see the cowboy from the gate over, now standing to my side, folding me protectively under his arm. The feeling of being protected shouldn't feel quite so strong coming from a stranger. However, the way he keeps his hand right atop the cap of my shoulder, his heartbeat thrumming against my other shoulder just bleeds that feeling. 

"Oh! Seriously? You must've been hiding," I do my best to play along, instantly feeling a little more at ease as the man across from us looks less so. I can't help but revel in the uncomfortable look on the greasy man's face, as well as the warmth pouring from the cowboy. 

"Is this guy a friend o'yers?" The cowboy asks, looking at the man from under the brim of his hat. I can feel the way the pads of his fingers dig into the muscle of my arm, each finger individually curling into the thickness there. It doesn't hurt. Instead it's a grounding point, from him to me and back again. Two strangers bound together if only for a moment. 

"Oh, no, we've never met before," I tell him, gazing up at his face. The scruff of his cheek is fuller at this angle, the defined slope of his jaw easily tracible with my eyes. He's handsome from this angle, which I bet means he's even better looking from head on. 

"I see, well," The cowboy narrows his eyes, "Your brother'sa waitin' and y'know how Jake gets," 

"Boy do I," I chuckle from the safety of his embrace, throwing a sideways glance to the man who seems to be in some sort of staring match with the cowboy. Their eyes are trained on each other, fighting for dominance over the situation. From the way the greasy man's eye twitches slightly, I know the cowboy must be winning. 

"Go on an' see 'em, I'll grab your bag," He is pushing me towards the other gate, a warm palm between my shoulder blades. It's not a hard shove, but the way his hand is pressed firm to my back gives me a clue on just how quickly I need to get out of there. The cowboy shoots me a wink before turning back to the strange man, his eyes narrowing again. 

I don't want to see the look in his eye when it's turned on the greasy stranger. I can imagine just how dark those blue green eyes could tint given the right amount of rage flowing behind them. So, I keep my eyes forward, keep focused on just where I'm headed. 

Quickly, I make my way over to the now standing blond, Jake. The moment his eyes meet mine he is smiling, the kind of smile that instantly eases my nerves. I wave a bit, my hand not making it any higher than my midsection. I can't help but feel the same tiredness in my limbs that I see in his eyes. There is something weighing us both down, and something tells me it's more than just the travel. More than the overly saturated interactions with strangers and flight attendant served booze. 

The moment I'm in earshot, he's already saying hello, opening his arms wide for me. I step into his space, wrapping my arms around his middle. Carefully, almost too lightly, the blond is wrapping his arms around me. It's one of those hugs- the kind you give that estranged relative at Thanksgiving. It's a tad bit awkward from my end, but Jake squeezed me just a little bit tighter as relax against his broad frame and I can't fight the urge to press my face into the soft fabric of his hoodie. 

"Thank you," I mumble into his sweatshirt. As I pull back, the blond squeezes my shoulders quickly, a quiet "you're welcome" in return. I peer up at the tall blond, taking in the gentle curves of his smile lines, how they frame his headstone like teeth, polished white and perfectly straight. His tongue flicks over the corner of his mouth, eyes positioned somewhere behind me.

There is something in that look of his, something playing behind the sea glass tint of his irises. It's a sort of mirth, if mirth was more gentle than the definition explains. Maybe it's a fondness for the other man, one that's hidden behind layers of faux dislike and teasing. The pair bonded together as brothers are, all bemused, an oath, blood of the covenant, that they don't remember taking.  

As I turn to follow his eyeline, Jake folds me carefully under his arm just as the cowboy had before. Maybe their friendship is stronger than I had originally thought. The way they seem to work in unison to the very clear way they've each folded me into the safety of their embrace. It's different with Jake though. He's more calm, his heartbeat isn't hammering out of his chest. I can scarlessly feel it where our bodies are pressed together. 

"Does he do this kind of thing often?" There's a sideways glance shared between us before Jake's chest raddles with a light chuckle. It awakens him just a bit behind the eyes. 

"Yes, but we usually know the girl," The humor in his voice makes the anxiety in my stomach settle a bit. His voice is too warm, too kind to elicit anything but safety in this moment. 

I can feel the small smile ghosting over my lips, the image of the pair many years younger fluttering through my brain. The cowboy and Jake, rescuing girls in the school hallways, folding innocent girls, with glasses and hair pulled back into tidy braids, into their embrace. There's a sort of teamwork in the way it all went down today, through I missed the progression. From the moment the cowboy tucked my body into his, the intense hammering of his own heartbeat be damned, to the way Jake greeted me with literal open arms. There's so much warmth here. 

"And he'd not your soulmate," It's a statement, plain and simple. That get's him laughing for real this time, his whole face coming to life from how his smile overtakes his expression. 

"Not remotely," The words make it out a moment later as Jake still fights a bit to catch his breath. "We grew up near each other, down the same county road just outside a forgettable town here in Texas," 

"Escaping while you still can?" I chide, nudging him with my elbow. 

"I escaped a long time ago," Jake corrects, a small shrug pulls away his body heat for just a moment before it returns. 

"But you're back?" 

"Rhett and I are headed to California," The explanation comes easy, and for a moment I wonder why he's even explaining it all to me, but I am thankful to know the real name of the cowboy, "He's helping get me settled in Miramar, new permanent station," 

"Station? Does that make you Army?"

There's that laugh again. 

"Naval Aviator," There's no sharpness in the correction, as cocky as it is.

"Wouldn't it be a new port for you then, Sailor?" I nudge him again, playfully. There is something so easy about talking to Jake, his arm folding me into his warmth. Something truly sibling like about it, my place here under his sturdy frame. His protective nature and warm smile, a sort of family for just a few fleeting moments. 

"I guess you're right," There's a tad bit of humor in that sentence, but it's hiding behind the tiredness layered in his voice. 

"Wait, did you say Naval Aviator?" I look up at him so directly, eyebrows pulled tightly together as I fight to keep a smile off of my lips. "And you're going to Miramar?" 

I watch as he pulls his own well groomed eyebrows together in a furrow, his lips curving into a ghost of a frown. 

"Yes, Ma'am," 

I can't fight the laugh that bubbles past my lips, the whole thing sounding a bit too sharp, a bit too loud. Where most men are put off by the sound, Jake just looks at me with curious eyes. His tongue flicks over the corner of his slightly upturned mouth, that grin silently begging for me to continue. 

"What're you lot laughin' bout?" Rhett calls out, his voice filling my ears. 

"Well, turns out my brother," I wink at Rhett now, turning my attention his way, "works under my father,"

If the progression of thought could be clearly mapped through faces with flicks of tongues and furrowing of brows, the pair would have told a whole story in the matter of seconds, of squinted eyes and the pursing of lips. 

"Your father?" The pair speak in unison, accents blending together. I can't help but laugh as I flick my eyes between them. Both wear a sort of confused expression, bemused with eyebrows scrunched together, head tilting just so. 

"Yes, my father. Rear Admiral Simpson?" I offer the name as a sort of clarification, though it comes out as a question. Rhett's eyebrows knit together a little tighter, eyes darting to Jake for assurance, or maybe it's confirmation. Jake's eyebrows are raised, his mouth slightly agape by the time my gaze slips back over him. 

"You're Cyclone's kid?" There's more to it, from the way his mouth opens and closes a couple of times before he catches the tip of his tongue between his perfect front teeth. "Are you Arrow?"

"Oh, hell no!" I can't hold back the laughter, my cheeks no doubt pinking up from the way my smile pushes them out, "That's my older brother, Anthony! He's an Aviator too, hoping to get selected for Top Gun any day now... Though I doubt that they'll send him anytime soon with Dad stationed there," 

Rhett's arms are crossed over his chest, his eyebrows no less furrowed than before. Jake's expression is still scrunched up a bit, but the lines are slowly relaxing with the more information he gets, so I continue.

"My name is Y/N Simpson, but everyone calls me Birdie," I hold my hand out first to Rhett, as I'm still tucked close to Jake, his arm slung over my shoulders. 

"Birdie, is'a pleasure," Rhett removes his hat with one hand, shaking my outstretched one with the other. He gives it a quick squeeze before letting go, a kind smile on his face. 

"Birdie?" Jake asks, tip of his tongue snug in the corner of his lips. 

"Yeah, Birdie. You know, Cyclone, Arrow, Birdie, all things that have to do with wind and flying? My dad and brother both got call signs, but I had zero interest in doing anything with the military, but Uncle Solo dubbed me Birdie when I was tiny and it's stuck ever since." 

"Solo? Is'e Navy too?" Rhett chimes in. He scratches at the back of his head, his hat tipping forward into his eyes a bit. 

"Sure is. Admiral Solomon Bates, goes by Warlock," Jake stiffens a bit at the name, but relaxes a bit soon after. I bump his hip with my own, shooting a wink up his way. 

"Well then, Birdie, it's nice to officially meet you," It's a bad recovery, but he clears his throat and keeps speaking, "I've gotta say, your dad didn't mention he had a daughter," 

"Oh yeah, that's not at all a surprise. You know how Sailors can be, and my Dad is a bit over protective of me. He's big on me keeping men at a distance. And if said man is Military? Ha! Not an ice cubes chance in hell that they'd make it within a hundred feet of me," 

Rhett smirks a bit, eyes flicking from my own glare down towards the floor. I know Jake's arm is still wrapped around my shoulder, just as I know that he is still sparing quick glances over to the greasy man a few yards away. I kick the toe of Rhett's boot with my own, wrinkling my nose at the way he snickers. 

"So no soulmate yet?" Jake asks, tilting his chin down to look me in the eye. The question is so full of genuine curiosity and for once I don't feel terrible answering.

"Nope, not yet. Not even a damn lead, but that's okay. I'm a firm believer that it's going to happen when it's supposed to. I'm not in a rush," That last part may be a bit of a lie. I want nothing more than to finally meet the person that's supposed to be mine, mind, body, and soul. Their supposed to be this sort of connection, one that most people who have met their soulmate have only been able to hint at. It's one of those things where words just don't do it justice, even the great poets seem to have failed to find the words. 

"Tha's too bad, 'cause I'd've jumped at the chance to take ya ta dinner," Rhett shoots me a wink, his blue eyes twinkling under the stark white lights. 

"I bet you say that to all the girls," I jest, sticking my tongue out at him. There's another nudge between boots. 

"Oh, he does, but he sure does have a knack for finding the prettiest ones," Jake interjects, bumping my hip with his own. I push him back with my shoulder, causing him to finally drop his arm he's had draped around me for the better part of the last twenty minutes. 

"Whatever you say," I roll my eyes, "What about you boys, either of you found your better half?" 

The way Jake's face lights up at the question gives me the answer before his words can. Rhett is just shaking his head, mumbling a "here we go" under his breath. 

"I sure have! Rooster, he's an Aviator too," Jake begins eagerly, "We met like eight years ago? Maybe nine? I'm not sure, but it was in the middle of the ocean on a carrier, and we butted heads better than the best of 'em. I had graduated Top Gun not too long before, and he hadn't been yet, though he went shortly after that deployment. I don't think we would've figured it out if we hadn't decided to-"

"Don't even say it, Seresin," Rhett threatens with a point of his finger, aim fixed right between the taller man's eyes. 

"I wasn't gonna go into detail," Jake laughs, though there's a glint of trouble in his eyes, "All I'm saying is that if we hadn't hauled each other into that bathroom stall at the bar and-"

"Flight number 4582, Dallas to San Diego is now boarding Group 1, priority members and military members traveling on active orders,"  A woman voice crackles through the intercom.

"Saved by the fuckin' bell," Rhett comments loud enough for Jake and I to hear. The boys begin to grab their bags, each only traveling with a small duffle bag. Rhett heads for the gate first, his bag slung over his shoulder, hat in hand. Jake follows after him, his bag clutched tightly in his hand. 

"Thanks again you two" I call after them with a little wave. Jake stops in his tracks, turning back around to face me.

"Aren't you coming, Birdie?" There's that cock of his head again. 

"Us lowly civilians have to wait until the next group to board," I joke back.

"Not anymore, you're boarding with me, come on!" Then Jake is all but hauling me through the ticket line and onto the plane. Jake throws my carryon into the bin above the row of seats Rhett has claimed and Jake waved me into the same row with a tilt of his head. Without assigned seating, the pair having decided that I'm going to be sitting in the middle seat between them. Maybe I should be more nervous, sitting between two strange men, but sitting here now the only thing I feel is safe. 

The whole flight my head switches between resting on either one of their shoulders, sleep evading me completely. I went from tracing the lines of Rhett's hat as it sat atop his knee to counting just how many times Jake bounced his knee. 

Part of the way through, he admitted that he's a terrible passenger, had been since he graduated from flight school. Maybe it's a control issue, or maybe it's the surrounding people moving all around the large aircraft. Either way Jake bounces his knee the whole flight. Sometimes he'd wipe his palms down his jean clad thighs to ease the tension and give a slight reprieve to the constant movement. 

Rhett snored gently next to me, though he murmured in his sleep just a little. No words ever slipped past his lips, just half cut off sounds and the ghosts of sentiments. He kept his hands folded across his belly, head lulled towards the small window. I hate to admit it, but I admired the long line of his neck as his head was laid against the wall. 

Neither man listened to any sort of music during the flight, which struck me as odd. My headphones sat snug over my ears through most of the flight, a folk country playlist thrumming through them. 

The flight was fast, in the grand scheme and everyone aboard seemed to be thrilled to get off the plane. This terminal is busier than the last. The early morning traffic of the airport filled with people in suits, both sweat and formal. The boys and I walk side by side by side, making our way through the crowd like a force. Maybe it's the sheer size of the men at my sides, but the crowd seems to part for us. 

The trilling of a cellphone breaks up the sounds of the terminal, following us as we walk. 

"Jake," Rhett flicks his gaze towards his friend, a silly look on his face. 

"What?" 

"That's your phone, dude," I nudge him with my shoulder, our bags bumping together. By the time Jake fishes the device from his front pocket, the factory set ringtone has gone silent. 

"Eyes up, Cowboy," I warn as we approach the tram. Rhett's eyes flick up just long fast enough that he doesn't trip over the gap.  The doors closing behind us quickly, and Rhett bumps into one of the stationary poles in attempt to get out of it's way. 

"It truly amazes me that he's a bull rider, since his sense of personal space sucks so bad," Jake mutters, leaning a bit closer to my ear. I can't help but snicker too. 

"Bull rider?" The question is met with a nod from Jake as he presses the phone up to his ear. 

Jake stands near, phone pressed to his ear with knit brows. The look of concentration on his face is tight, like he's trying to make out a hard to hear piece of information on the other side of the line. He pulls the phone away from his ear as we step off the tram, heading for baggage claim. 

They bracket me between them once again, a tall man on each side of me. We share smiles as we walk in time with one another. A little trio formed because one sleazey dude at the Dallas airport couldn't take a hint. Life is funny that way. 

They say the universe only hand picks soulmates, decorating skin just to prove that point. I, however, think friends are found in the flick of the same pen. After all, there's magic left over in the spaces between the letters, in the flick of the wrist of the universe. There has to be. 

"Long message," Rhett comments, "Who was it anyway?"

"Oh, it's just Bob," Jake informs us. Rhett hums in response, but my feet stop moving. They retreat into the tunnel of my vision, blending in with the other travelers moving around us. Their once recognizable frames, broad and welcoming, melt into the sea of movement. Nothing in my vision sticks out, my brain too busy playing those damn words on loop. 

Oh, it's just Bob. Oh, it's just Bob. Oh, it's just Bob. 

There's a fleeting feeling in my fingertips from where my bag as slipped from them. There's the far off sound of it hitting the tile. My vision buzzes with people but god, those words are in the forefront of it all. 

Oh, it's just Bob. 

This moment may be stillness surrounded by the bustle of the San Diego airport. It may be bodies bumping into my own, shoulders connecting as someone passes. It may be one day be a memory of the way my whole body seems to have gone slick with sweat, far too warm and mildly uncomfortable. It may be a realization, both now and in the future. This moment may be the beginning of the rest of my life. 

I'm not ready. Not for the future. Not for Bob. Not for facing his friends who must have noticed that I'm no longer by their side by now. I'm not ready for any of it. Not even remotely. I guess it sure wasn't a lie when I told them that I wasn't "in a rush". 

The chill of the air hits me as I all but break through the sliding doors, out to the taxi line up. There's shouting, it's far off, covered by those four little words and the beating of my heart. I slide into the back of a taxi, my bag discarded onto the seat next to me. With the slam of the door, the taxi is pulling away from the curb. I press my forehead to the glass of the window, my breath fogging up the sight of Rhett and Jake breaking through the crowd. They stand there, confusion written into their features as they watch the cab pull away. 

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as I squeeze them together. A deep sigh escapes me, the realization hitting me. They know my dad, at least Jake does. And we are all going to Miramar. It's only a matter of time before our paths cross again.

Maybe it wasn't even my Bob, I try and rationalize with myself. After all, how many people in the world are named "Bob" anyway? It's shallow in theory, a sort of knowing feeling sitting heavy in my gut. That was my Bob on the other end of that message; the feeling deep in my chest aches in a way that it just has to be true. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

It's only a matter of time before our paths cross again. On base, in the commissary as we grocery shop. Eye contact over fresh produce, hands busy but eyes filled with questions. Or in my father's office, Jake dropping by on business as my dad and I sit on either side of his large desk. Words caught in our throats, my father's gaze wandering between us. Maybe it will be at the bar, our eyes locking from across the room. Questions shouted over the music; over the smell of alcohol. 

And maybe Bob would be there too, looking positively like a dream I haven't fully allowed myself to have. He'd be there like the sunshine, glowing and warm and something I just wouldn't be able to outrun. He'd be all smiles and kind hands, wrapping me into his embrace in the same way his friends had. 

It's only a matter of time, but I'll run now. 

[thebrokenbean]

... Somehow I fully anticipated you being the first/only person to respond, and I thought I was prepared for the angst I knew you were going to throw my way.

I wasn't prepared.

I had to re-read LL #25. It's been a year and a half, and it hurts just as bad.

Anyway, 3 hours, two wiki pages, and too many tears later… I think I'm done? Might do a better proofread tomorrow when I'm not tired, might not. Either way, enjoy the angst!

"Your eyes… your aura… have you been drinking?"

The door hisses shut behind him as he enters his habsuite. He leaves the light off.

The flight back to the Exitus was… fine. Thunderclash greeted him personally, which was… cool? But his optics were sympathetic, observant - even more than what might be called for, when a friend is grieving a loss. Which is ridiculous, because Rodimus is fine.

...Ratchet's gone.

It's fine.

Rodimus glances at the datapad that was handed to him on his way to his quarters. The screen is dark. The bot who handed it to him seemed so hesitant, like they were trying not to spook him or something. Captain Thunderclash said not to rush you. It's only a few reports. They can wait.

He drops the pad on the table as he passes by with a light flick of his wrist. It skids across the surface to join the rest, all addressed to 'Assistant Navigator'.

He's not putting it off because he needs time. He just hates reports.

Magnus knew that.

Meg- Everyone knew that.

He swipes a cube off the counter, only half-filling it from the dispenser in the corner.

He glances at the board on the wall as he takes a slow sip of energon. Scribbles of drawings are pinned there. A few photos he printed off. A daily to-do list he rarely follows. The board was a gift, years ago - from Magnus, of course. A way to keep himself organized.

A ping comes across his HUD, cheerfully reminding all crew members that tomorrow Captain Thunderclash will be leading the Exitus out of the Acklaw System, towards their next exciting destination! Captain Thunderclash encourages all crew members to be prepared for the next adventure in-

He dismisses the ping and drops his unfinished drink on the counter. He's not really hungry.

His foot catches a bottle as he moves further into his habsuite, sending it spinning into the shadows under his berth with a clink.

Another grand adventure.

"It's not the same though, is it?"

One of his friends would have said that it's impossible to recreate something we hold dear, especially when it comes to treasured memories. It would probably be Drift who said it, or Cyclonus. They're both poetic enough for that. Rodimus is pretty sure there's someone else, but he can't quite remember who he's thinking about.

It doesn't matter anyway.

"A few quantum jumps into the neighboring system and back - with no detours, no mishaps, and no mutinies. One last jaunt."

He still has the top of his desk, from his co-captain's office. The worn, scarred slab is leaning in the corner against the wall, his lovingly-carved map on display.

Hedonia. Temptoria. Scarvix.

The Nanocons. Time-travel. The Vis Vitalis.

"As far as I can make out, all you do is argue, crack jokes, and get sidetracked doing pointless, silly things that only you find amusing!"

He scoffs at the memory of what Skids recounted to him, amused for a moment. The Lost Light did far more than that!

Delphi. Luna 1. Swearth.

The Functionist Universe.

Necroworld.

… Far more.

"I suppose you had to be there."

The berth creaks when he flops down on it to stare up at the ceiling, his feet still brushing the floor. He should recharge. He really should. He doesn't feel tired, but his energy readings are low enough Ratchet would have smacked him upside the helm with that wrench of his.

Ratchet.

"Even in death, he chose life."

"…A month, a week, a year… what's the difference? There'll always be an ending - and if you're lucky, you'll get to see it coming."

Rodimus blinks a few times, his brow furrowing as he fights the sudden stinging sensation.

"If we're doing this, I'd rather do it properly. A proper ending. No going back."

"We'll all drink to that."

He presses the heels of his palms to his optics, inventing sharply. The air catches in his throat, his ventilations stuttering. He grits his teeth.

Not everyone came to the funeral.

Not everyone could.

"Do you think I should-" "Go. Go with him."

"Shut up! I gave you that-" "819 years ago, yes. It's never left my possession."

"…They've reached a verdict."

"Whatever happens next - whatever my fate…"

A frustrated noise escapes him as he pulls his feet onto the berth and rolls over, curling up. His ventilation cycle refuses to keep from stuttering, no matter what he does.

His hands are resting on the berth in front of him, now. They're trembling. He curls them into fists with a huff and tucks them close to his chassis.

It's fine.

Everything's fine.

Everything's great.

"… Do you think it worked?"

Ha.

… No going back.