#i truly am so removed but like i would still like to know lmfao

[rigginsstreet]

there is drama going on in which i know not a fuck about but from what it sounds like it seems like i should know at least a little fuck about but everyones being so secretive and i do not wish to get too nosy and ask questions cuz like maybe it dont even involve me in the sense that maybe i dont even know the person being subtweeted but like the nosy bitch within my spirit would still like to know...

[lacesoflovedeactivated]

if ur comfortable answering why are you stopping? pls let us know if you’ll delete the fics

long read! <3

i’d first like to start off by saying, i’m currently unsure if i will be removing/keeping my fics up. I do ask, and would like to stress, that if my fics are taken down that they are not reuploaded. i’d also like to express tremendous gratitude to the love and attention i have received on my writing works. truly i am so grateful and elated over the moon for the support and it is not taken for granted. the reason why i plan, at least, hopefully, for the time being to step away from writing fics is because of something that has plagued me and my writing journey for ages and that is just the simple author’s dilemma of just not thinking your works are good. i used to enjoy writing somewhat, but now it just feels like a chore and something i do not enjoy anymore. i find myself reading my fics, keeping in mind that my community and followers enjoying, and i realised that i hate them. my decision to quit is recent after i found myself re-reading “hurtin’ deeply”, and even after countless revisions and edits i still hate it (which is really funny considering it’s arguably my most popular fic). i went through a manic phase of reading all my other fics and realised i didn’t like any of them. i also found myself increasingly violating my own personal moral code and writer’s integrity by heavily relying more and more on chat gpt and other ai softwares. i think the final straw is when i unconsciously realised i was taking full excerpts from other writers who i adores work to make up for my own subpar writing. there also other factors contributing to me quitting like my mental health taking a severe and drastic nosedive, the ethical issues of writing smut about a person i don’t know etc

so for those, like me, who can’t read:

i just dont enjoy writing anymore lmfao and i hate my writing so i quit but i thank everyone for everything <33

[liliumwallichianum]

dear h,

i'm really struggling without you in this season of my life. i miss you more than you probably know, and i never thought i'd be doing this without you. there were a lot of things wrong with us but a hell of a lot more things right. i wish i wasnt an all or nothing person but the grey area is so difficult for me..

i hope you are doing well. i hope you and s are thriving and enjoying life together -- you two deserve it. i hope your fat (and somehow the skinniest minniest?!?!) ass is taking care of yourself.... i hope you found a workout groove either with walking or yoga or who knows. i just hope something finally spoke to you lmfao! and please tell me you ditched the juul/vapes and found balance with weed.... life is not that bad sober i promise you! and gratitude/love is stronger than anything i've smoked/drank/swallowed.

i dont think you'll be shocked to know, my life still revolves around my family. and i'm really okay with it. i truly believe that if i dont have family, what is the point of life? i really don't want to leave them and i'm okay with missing the potential of what could be if i did leave them... i am a family girl through and through, and i dont love or trust anybody like i do them. i love that i can be the bitchiest, moodiest, most cranky person to them and they still want to be around me LOL. and P just got a puppy...... you would love him dude. he's so adorable, kinda reminds me of the old man from Up. he also confirmed to me why i am a cat girl forsure lol!! but i love him, and he's inspiring me to get my own one day (pass on the puppy phase though, i will adopt an older cutie frenchie and great dane lol).

P is....*surprise* also expecting :) this has changed a lot for me. it's been really easy to focus on what matters most to me now. I always knew all of my distractions would disappear when I started my own family but it's nice to have this period where i can see how a baby affects me, without having the responsibility of having my own. i guess you can say i'm living the best of both worlds at the moment.

H, i commend you for your 3 month ashram stint. i'm trying to replicate that in this season of my life without actually having to leave. i figured that learning to evolve in the midst of chaos is better for me than actually removing myself from it considering 1) life will always be chaotic and 2) i thrive in chaos in a way! and lowkey it's... kinda working! i see myself week by week becoming more and more powerful.

speaking of power, i miss us being little witchy witches together. nobody gets me like you. i've def met other witches but i feel like our values and missions just dont align like ours did. so i'm sad for that. but...

The universe always replaces what exits your life with something bigger and better. so i let go of what we were, and though it will always bring me great joy to know we had each other during our worst times (<3), i am surrendering and allowing myself to move on. i am confident i will find someone similar to you in my future that is more in alignment with me and my soul than you were. maybe that will be the result of absence of trauma we carried through our friendship or maybe it will be because im a different version of myself that needs someone new.

i really love you H. you were so beautiful, intelligent, strong, pragmatic, cultured, etc. i hope you found a way to be kind and selfless in this life. i hope you learned the magic of abundance... abundant love, abundant gratitude, abundant vitality, etc. i hope you are at peace and i hope you are watching some bomb ass reality tv (i stopped btw :/ p gets me to watch an ep here and there and it's truly mind numbing for me but i know how yall love it so chalo).

[bradshawsweetheart]

Hello Millie my beloved, I am live typing my thoughts as I read:

But Maggie is not here now.

God this cutaway from the “what if” hit me like a brick wall

“Hangman’s staring at you,” he mumbles against my lips, chuckling, sighing. … “Isn’t he always?”

I am a Bradley girlie but this broke my heart lowkey😭

Now I’m flanked by Hangman and Rooster and they’re both grinning below their mustaches, both offering to order me shots simultaneously then glancing at each other over my head. 

The way I squealed at this LMFAO please like is it tension? Is it banter? Is it both? AAAAAAA

“Let’s get drunk now, yeah?” Hangman says suddenly and severely, already tipping his champagne flute backwards and down, down, down his throat.

OH THE TENSION I WILL SIMPLY PASS AWAY

But still, he’d texted me a few times at random intervals, sometimes after midnight and sometimes in the middle of the day, asking me to talk him out of it. That was the phrase he used--ambiguous to any outsider in the conversation, something only we understood, our accidental secret language. I always sent something back, a few sentences. I don’t like red wine. I think zero-sugar soda tastes better. I could eat a tomato like an apple. I truly dislike every film adaptation of Wuthering Heights. And he would usually send the same response each time: Futile. One word, that’s all.

Millie I am going to fucking THROW UP OMG THIS TENSION IS MAKING ME BOTH GIDDY AND SICK

“Bob, your veil is crooked,” he laughs. … “How embarrassing,” he mutters. 

The way I just cackled.

Bob doesn’t correct Rooster--instead he takes the title with grace, smiling with his nose in the air, his chin tilted proudly. Bob likes nothing more than to be included.

No bc why are my eyes watering at this

“Bagman, you don’t know the first thing about womanhood,” he sighs, “you beautiful, stupid man.”

PLEAAAAAASE IM FUCKING CACKLING, this entire drunk shoe removing scene has me in complete stitches. The Bob/Jake banter is absolutely killing me

Now the kitchen chair sits in my living room, which is not the only room in my house with hardwood floors, but the room with all my records. He didn’t get to pick the record, but our friend did. My kitchen scissors are sharp this time, probably double the price of the ones I owned during undergrad.

I really love these excerpts that you do when you talk about Faye and Bob’s relationship and how they’ve grown, but I especially love when you include lines that talk about what they share. For this instance, “he didn’t get to pick the record, but our friend did.” It makes me melt a bit to see how Faye is almost saying “look at us, look where we came from and look what we’ve gained together.” Pulls at my heart strings big time.

“Try harder, Jake.”

God this just makes me want to cry

“Don’t look at me like that,” he begs softly, “you break my fuckin’ heart when you look at me like that.”

Yeah I am crying now

“You are a good man,” I tell him seriously. I know it is something that he does not hear often--I know that so much. 

I AM IN SO MUCH PAIN MILLIE

This chapter was absolutely beautiful and also slightly heartbreaking. I am a Bradley x Faye shipper but Jake is over here making me want to take him into my arms and kiss his stupid little forehead.

I’m trying to finally finish this series now that I have a couple of days off!!

𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾☽ 𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐈𝐈𝐈.𝐈

☾☽ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐅𝐚𝐲𝐞 "𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫" 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫

☾☽ 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw feels like he’s been homesick his entire life. He’s always on the move;  jumping from one squadron to another, living one mission to the next. Somewhere in between losing both his parents and carving a successful career as a Naval aviator, he’s never found himself a home. When a call to serve on a high-priority mission with an elite squadron brings Rooster back to Miramar, he finds that home. Except it’s not a house that he finds--it’s the former backseater that observes and records the mission for the Official Navy Record. 

☾☽ 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞.𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐅𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝟏𝟐𝐭𝐡 & 𝟏𝟑𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟏

I wish my sister was here. That’s all I can think right now; a thought that first swept past me beneath the palm trees outside The Hard Deck’s front doors, drifting its fingers lazily across my eyelids before returning to consume me after my second glass of  champagne--pressing me against its wet tongue and swallowing me deep down into the crux of its hollow belly. I’m here now--suddenly sitting in a shallow pool of cold water, blinking at the dark, thinking about Maggie.   

If she was here now she would be wearing a vintage dress--one that I didn’t even know she owned, one that she somehow found at the bottom of a barrel for free somewhere in New Mexico, one that was well-fitting and tasteful--and her hair would be wild and her earrings would be big and she would smell like velvety amber and nondescript citrus. She would have her arm looped through mine all night and she would pay for all my shots and take every bathroom break with me, giggling as she stuffed a strip of spearmint gum between my teeth and dried her hands on her dress. She would ask me how I felt, slyly encasing my hands in hers under the guise of closeness--though really because it was her way of assessing my nerves by gauging the temperature, the flexibility, of my fingers. She wouldn’t let any uniform dance with me, forming a makeshift barrier around me with her own body as a velvet-clad shield. She would slip Bob a caffeine pill when his eyes would inevitably start to droop after eleven, coaxing him into chasing it with a shot of tequila.  

“And why do we drink tequila?” She would’ve purred, grinning, leaning into Bob.  

And Bob, ever-exhausted but ever-loyal to Maggie Palmer Ledger, would answer begrudgingly, “Because tequila is an upper.” 

She would pet Bob, pressing a lewd-sounding wet-lipped kiss to his cheek, praising him as he tilted the shot glass back and swallowed with a grimace. She would be sweet, though, pressing a lime to his lips.  

When he would open his twisted mouth to explain that tequila is actually a depressant, that the myth that it is a stimulant is just that--a myth--she would quickly usher another shot glass to his lips.  

“Quiet now,” she would say, “drink the kool aid, baby boy.” 

I think her and Phoenix would have been fast friends, too. They were similar in many capacities, so similar that sometimes Phoenix felt more familiar to me than she really should. The both of them always going toe-to-toe with cocksure pilots, except Maggie would wither them down and end the night with them pressed beneath the soft pad of her thumb. Phoenix is whip-smart and lethal when she flies--just like Maggie was. Even their drinks of choice and the order in which they desire them--which goes tequila shots, then bloody Mary’s, then margaritas--are identical. They would have been the kind of friends that indulge each other’s confrontational nature and enable each other’s short tempers. They would have been the kind of friends that sat together on one end of every spectrum, leaving no room for middleground, never meeting each other--or anyone else--halfway on anything.   

But Maggie is not here now.

 She is somewhere else, much farther away, just out of reach. 

Sometimes I dream that she is on the other side of the unopened door that connects our childhood rooms, just waiting for me to be brave enough to turn the handle--waiting for me to come home. 

But really, truly, I know that she is buried in Topeka Cemetery, flanked by the empty plots my parents will one day lie in. I know that it’s cold in Topeka now and probably cloudy as the nighttime draws nearer. I know that the minuscule weather-resistant American flag staked by her headstone is probably flapping in the icy wind, maybe even tilted from the sideways sleet or unflappable snow. 

She is there, parts of her at least, and I am here in this bar in Fightertown on the eve of my wedding that she did not get to plan and will not get to attend.

 It’s still early in the evening now, early enough so The Hard Deck’s usual Friday-night clientele is still trickling in, gaggles of uniforms sporadically standing around the dartboard and pool table with glasses of scotch and bottles of beer. It’s not very loud yet--the jukebox isn’t humming, the pool balls aren’t clacking thunderously under the forceful nudge of Hangman or Coyote, there is no strapping young man pounding at the piano keys, or peanut shells crunching under lug-sole boots. There are glasses clinking smally, the sound muted by the low voices of men.  

Outside, in the nippy air, the sun is sinking slowly into the teal ocean. It is painting the bar the color of a chrysanthemum, the kind I buy at the farmer’s market when they’re in season and set in the middle of the breakfast table, the kind Rooster has come home with on random Tuesday’s. Yes, it feels like a familiar color, one that has been in my home for a long time in repurposed measuring cups and brown paper tied with twine.  

I’m standing at the bar, the ledge digging into my belly as I rest my forearms on the damp wooden surface, finishing my glass at the insistence of Phoenix. She’s standing on my left side, her hair long and pushed behind her ears and down her back. Her eyes are crinkled, dusted the same baby blue hue of her dress, and she’s laughing as she nudges me. 

“We’re getting Faye drunk,” she sings, wrinkling her nose at Penny, who’s standing before me with her own cheeky grin.

The bubbles from the champagne are bursting in my nostrils, peppering the back of my throat. It makes my spine tingle as it settles in the middle of my chest, a bundle of vibrating, ticklish nerves. 

Warmth is blooming over my entire being; my tongue, my throat, my chest, my belly, between my thighs. It’s the way pink champagne always makes me feel, especially after three glasses. Fizzy --that’s how I feel, which is better than sad. It sits at the bottom of my belly, cascading down my thighs and calves and into my toes; but it also reaches up into my chest and stretches across my shoulders and blushes my throat. It holds me there in quivering hands, overtaking me, overwhelming me. 

“One down,” Penny exclaims gleefully, setting the empty champagne bottle beside us, biting her lip, “few more to go.”

“How’re you feeling? What’re you at?”

Bob, who’s glowing in the radiance of this February dusk with his scruffy cheeks and overgrown hair, leans against the bar to search my face with his baby blues slightly narrowed. 

He’s talking about the ranking system he insists we use tonight. We are to gauge our drunkenness on a scale from 1-10, reporting back to him as often as he sees fit. He had told us this on the drive over, gesturing and nodding as he spoke, San Diego flashing past the tinted windows of the Uber in frames of yellow and blue. And even though Phoenix and I had shared a private glance, a discreet pinch, we agreed to Bob’s terms on account of our unyielding affection for him. 

“Three,” I tell him, smiling, exhaling as I climb out of the belly of grief and back into my barstool, “y’all?”

I point at Bob and Phoenix alike.

“I think I hear a little Tahpekah in there,” Phoenix teases, nudging me.

Bob’s laughing, eyes crinkling.   

Phoenix shrugs then, considering for a moment, still smiling a teasing smile. 

“Two and a half,” she says. 

Bob nods. 

“Yeah, that’s where I’m at, too,” he agrees.

“You’ve got all night,” Penny interjects, already uncorking another bottle of identical champagne, dropping her eye in a sly wink, “we’ll get you all nice and hungover for the ceremony tomorrow.”

The ceremony tomorrow.  

It makes my tongue quiver in my mouth, between my teeth. Yes, I am getting married tomorrow--somewhere between four and five o’clock, somewhere between dusk and sunset. There’s a cream-colored silk dress zipped into a velvet garment bag in my closet, freshly steamed and wrinkle-free. There’s a gold band, a thin and round one, the width of Rooster’s fourth finger in the satin-lined jewelry box on our bathroom counter. My fingernails are long and painted the color of a pearl, my cuticles trimmed and unusually tear-free. There is a permanent ache at the base of my spine from the tireless months we’ve spent working on our backyard; laying bricks, power washing the patio, repainting the house, planting blue witch and Indian mallow flowers. 

It does feel like I am getting married tomorrow; it does feel like this is the night before it happens, the night before I become a wife. And that makes the warmth pulsing through my body feel infinite--like I am just radiating heat, inspiring perspiration on the hairlines of my bridal party.

“Oh, I’ve got hangovers covered,” Bob insists coolly, pushing his wire-framed glasses back up his nose, “an old Floyd-family secret.”

Phoenix snorts--leaning forward to grin at Bob, a teasing tint glimmering in her glassy eyes. 

“Tell Penny what the family recipe is,” she encourages, tickled, “g’head, tell her.”

Penny leans forward, refilling our champagne flutes. I’m smiling, too, watching the bubbles rise to the brim of my glass before I bring the flute to my lips and swallow. Fizzy.   

Bob’s blushing now, shoulders drooping a smidgen. 

“Well,” Bob starts, “it’s just a cup of black coffee with a shot of--well, a shot of whatever gave you the hangover. So, like, for us it’ll probably be tequila.”

Penny grimaces. I bite my lip.

“Oh, just wait. He’s not done yet,” Phoenix tells Penny, chuckling, “continue, Floyd.”

Bob is smiling now, shrugging in a small way, moving to let one of his hands rest in the middle of my back. His hand is warm, just like mine, but I know the bare skin of my back is warmer. He absently rolls his fingers over the soft edge of my dress, his touch gentle and non-presumptuous.

“Well, the real beauty of the recipe is the vitamins,” he explains, cheeks blooming the same ballet-slipper color of my dress, “it’s two crushed up zinc pills, three crushed up ibuprofen, and one vitamin B-12. And one allergy pill for me because the pollen count is supposed to be high tomorrow.”

Penny’s nose is wrinkled, her mouth slightly ajar and frowning, her eyebrows quirked. Phoenix is laughing, the sound melodious and soft. 

“And then?” I prompt.

“Yeah,” Phoenix agrees, “take us home, Floyd.” 

Bob is really grinning now. 

“Bagel and lox. Extra capers,” he says, eyes twinkling, “That’s the holy hangover cure! You’ve got caffeine, hair of the dog, vitamins, carbs, fatty acids, and electrolytes. The recipe’s been in the Floyd family for generations.”

Penny’s face is unchanging. 

“I hate to say this,” I interject softly, pulling my brows together as Penny finds my eyes, “but it works. It’s remarkable. Like, Bob could open up a store that only sells those two things and become a very, very rich man. He’d be like a medicine man.”

Phoenix sighs beside me when Penny’s gaze falls to her. 

“It’s true,” Phoenix confirms, “we’re talking Forbes 40 Under 40 material here.”

Bob laughs, palm still flat against my spine. 

I know he’s happy that we’re validating him, know that he’s happy that we have trusted him with our unsettled guts and pulsing skulls and been genuinely remedied by his formula. We are his best friends, his closest friends--I know he likes sharing these things with us, likes it very much when we take his outstretched palm or fall back into his awaiting arms. He likes it the best when the common ground between me and Phoenix broadens, when there’s more room for us to stretch out and towards each other. 

Penny tops our glasses off, shaking her head, blinking rapidly. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Penny finally says, winking at us again before she turns to wipe the counters on the other side of the bar, still shaking her head. 

Phoenix is grinning at me, still biting her lip as she tucks a piece of loose hair behind her ear. Her veil, the short tulle one that Bob doled out on the ride over, is secured evenly and carefully in her dark locks. It is pristine and white, a stark contrast from her dark hair and tanned skin, both of which have been kissed by the Florida sun. 

“Finish your drink,” she encourages again, nodding to my glass, “then we’ll hit the jukebox.”

“That’s an order, lieutenant,” Bob says coolly from behind me, reaching up to smooth his own veil that persists in sliding from its place in his fine, sun-streaked locks, “Phoenix, is my veil lopsided?”

Phoenix cranes her neck to look at Bob as I tilt my head back and finish my glass. The bubbles are racing up my nostrils and straight to the throbbing vein that crosses the bridge of my nose. Phoenix shakes her head, slinking out of her stool. 

“Let’s roll,” Phoenix grins, nodding in the direction of the jukebox.  

We all stand, muscles unfolding beneath our skin, perfumed with the sweet scent of cinnamon gum and Nivea and clean baby. Phoenix is grinning, looking out across the barren dance floor, holding one of my hands in hers. 

“Bride-to-be coming through,” Phoenix calls, despite precisely nobody being in our way, “make way!” 

Bob laughs from behind, moving his hands to rest on my shoulders. 

“Bridal train,” Bob calls, “and we have precious cargo!”

At their outbursts, a series of laughter and good-natured whistling elicites from the gathering crowd. A few people raise their drinks, grinning. Others give a few claps of recognition. Some give an ow-ow! or slight cheer, which makes the tips of my ears redden. I think I’m too tipsy to care all that much, though--can’t contain my grin, my pink cheeks.

But then suddenly, Phoenix stops dead in her tracks, her swinging hair stilling with a final thwack and her veil stuttering in its place, slightly askew. Her hands move to hold high on her hips, and even though I can’t see her face, I know her lips are pouting. 

“Looks like we’ve got company,” she says finally, glancing over her shoulder at me and Bob as we move to step beside her.

Maverick has just walked into The Hard Deck, the door still swinging behind him. He’s tan and his hair is gelled and he’s wearing his leather bomber, sunglasses still on. 

He sees us the exact moment we see him--grin stammering before dissipating entirely. And it’s when I squint, tilting my head, that I notice that he has a stick-on mustache above his top lip--the kind that kid’s buy for a quarter in Mexican restaurants.  

“Well, shit,” he mumbles, sucking a sharp breath in through his teeth, moving to place his hands on his hips too.

“Well, shit is right, Captain,” Phoenix says, though she’s crossing the wide-plank floors with a smile adorning her face, “you’re in enemy territory.”

Maverick smiles, sighing, opening his mouth to speak before the door swings wide open and reveals Hangman and Rooster. They saunter through the doors with identical grins, chuckles dying in their throats when they see all of us there seemingly waiting for them. 

Rooster and I find each other’s eyes instantaneously, like we are always looking for each other, like we knew this would happen, like we’ve planned this. And when we see each other, when his brown eyes find mine, it makes me want to lay down on the floor there and wait to be held. It makes me want to kneel before him and repent, his name falling off my lips hotly, uttering it like a little private prayer. 

It’s silly, really, because we only saw each other two hours ago when he loaded all of us in the Uber and waved us off at the end of the driveway. But now any amount of time without him beside me, fingers against the slope of my shoulder or foot laying sweetly beneath mine, feels gargantuan. 

His face is beautiful--that is something undeniable, indisputable. The scars across his cheek and chin, the sunkissed skin, the strong nose and pouted lips--these are all things that make my knees buckle. 

But more than that, when I see his face, it feels like walking into a place that is almost-forgotten, but treasured. It feels like I just walked into my kindergarten classroom as an adult woman and it still smells the way I remember it. It feels like I just walked into Maggie’s old apartment, the one that I cleaned out with Bob, and all her stuff is still there waiting for her to come back to. It’s a feeling that consumes me each time I look at him--when his joyous profile is backlit by the California sun on the patio, when I walk upstairs with brown paper bags against my chest and he’s sleeping on the couch with his mouth wet and wide, when we meet in the hallway of our shared offices at the end of a long Thursday--and I know that it is a feeling that I will always submit to. 

“If it ain’t our darlin’ Faye,” Hangman starts, grin molding around the faux-furry sticker beneath his nose, “and Phoenix and Bob.”

I glance at him--he winks in that way he does sometimes, when it’s lightning-fast, when I know I’m the only one that’s seen it. 

“Didn’t think to ask the ladies where we’re having the bachelorette party?” Phoenix asks Maverick, crossing her arms over her chest.  

“Yeah,” Bob agrees, voice thin, “should’ve asked us.”

Maverick sheepishly combs his fingers through his hair before letting his hands fall to his thighs, sighing.

“My wife owns this bar,” he defends defeatedly. 

Bob scoffs. 

“Get a new line, buddy,” Bob says with a chuckle. 

Phoenix nods sharply. 

Maverick sighs, glancing back at Hangman and Rooster, biting his lip before he meets my eyes. His gaze feels like a sorry, kid.   

“We could go--!” 

I shake my head, the vein over my nose throbbing. 

But I’m smiling, moving closer to Bradley as he moves closer to me with that loved-up glaze over his eyes. 

“No,” I say, “crash my bachelorette party, I don’t mind. Really!”

Hangman grins, moving closer to me so he can pat me on the shoulder. He lets his hand linger there so he can squeeze me, fingers expanding over my bare skin. His touch is different than Bob’s--it is tighter, closer, more broad. His index finger draws a few lazy circles on my skin. 

I look up at him and he’s looking down at me, green eyes shining. 

“There’s a joke in there somewhere about hen parties and roosters,” he says, coming forward to press a hasty kiss to my temple, which he does every time he sees me now, “good to see you, sugar plum.”

“You, too,” I say back pertly, smiling.

“You wanna impede on Faye’s last night as a free woman, Rooster?”

Maverick says this with a teasing lilt in his voice, cocking his head as Rooster presses Phoenix into a one-armed hug, a grin tugging at his lips. 

Hangman is still standing with his hands on my shoulders, his fingers dancing over my skin. I pretend not to notice it, pretend like this is something he’s doing absently because he considers me a very close friend. I’m pretending like I can’t feel the tightness of his chest or the perspiration cupping in his palms. 

“That’s a little regressive,” Bob says, moving in to hug Bradley, too--a short, quick hug.

A sound of agreement vibrates from Hangman’s chest.

“Yeah, he’s not holding her hostage,” he agrees, quirking a brow at Bradley, who’s smiling down at me, “unless you two aren’t telling us something.”

Bob turns, still standing beside Rooster, his veil somehow more lopsided now than it was only a moment ago. 

He tilts his head, eyebrows coming together, as he lets his eyes wash over Jake. 

“Hangman’s a purveyor of women’s rights,” I say softly, glancing at Hangman through my lashes, “at least he considers himself to be.”

Jake laughs--it’s a throaty, saran-wrapped laugh. 

His hands move from the tops of my shoulders to the sides of my arms as he falls in-step behind me. Each time he breathes, his chest grazes my bare back. It is not an unwelcome touch, not even an unfamiliar touch--but one that makes my throat tight. His hands are much softer than Bradley’s, but not softer than Bob’s. 

The vein over my nose pulses again.  

“Alright, kids,” Maverick chuckles, patting Bradley’s shoulder, “if you’d please excuse me, I’m gonna go get chewed out by my wife.”

“See you on the other side, Mav,” Bob calls, nodding.

That’s when I notice that Rooster isn’t playing along--he’s not jibing, quipping, retorting, laughing. No, he’s just standing there, a few steps farther from me than Jake and he’s watching me. His eyes are swimming as he gazes at me, the color of amber. He’s looking at the low cut of my dress, the way the material presses into my skin. He’s looking at my collarbones and the freckles on my throat. It’s when his eyes wash over my bare shoulders, at the valley of my breasts, that I think he registers that I’m not wearing a bra. 

He stiffens, grin broadening, but doesn’t say anything yet.

“Y’look gorgeous, sugar plum,” Jake says from above me, chest vibrating against the column of my spine, “pink’s your color.”

“It’s that whole blushing bride thing,” I say politely, but I don’t move my eyes from Rooster, “now, be a doll and get me another glass of champagne.”

Jake tuts, squeezing me again. 

“Yes, ma’am!”

I’m moving towards Bradley not a moment after Jake’s hands fall from my shoulders, feet pointing the direction of home as Rooster and I near each other. I can smell him from here--freshly showered and lathered in ginger soap, radiating that sweet sharp scent that is naturally occurring in his being--and it makes all the muscles in my shoulders slacken.

Our wedding party falls into each other around us as they argue good-naturedly about roles and regulations and communication, about what the fuck that is on your lip, Bagman and about wedding traditions. They melt into the floor, into the walls, into the sunset until their voices are indiscernible from the crowd surrounding us. 

“Hey, tramp,” I whisper, crossing one foot in front of the other, “couldn’t stay away, huh?”

He’s finally close enough to touch me. He licks his lips, reaching up suddenly to smooth his fingers over the tulle pinned in my hair. Then he’s beaming, eyes drifting over my nose and mouth and finally to the top of my head where the short, white veil is perched.

“This,” he comments quietly, only loud enough for me to hear, “will be the death of me.”

It makes heat bloom between my legs, makes me press my thighs together, makes my throat flush with want. 

“The veil?”

As if I really need to ask.  

He nods, pink tongue darting out to lick his lips again, fingers still delicately petting my veil and the hair it's nestled in. 

“Getting hot and bothered at bridal headwear,” I tease, “that’s so you.” 

And I’m smiling and he’s chuckling, but it’s true. 

He likes me to wear my ring--only my ring--when we make love. He dutifully unclasps my moon earrings and my necklace, flaking kisses over my blushed skin, then carefully strips me until I am entirely bare except for the fourth finger on my left hand. And when we are chest to chest and he’s rocking his hips into mine, our fingers tightly entwined, he’ll sometimes kiss my ring finger--his lips wet, a groan caught in his throat.

I press my thighs together so tightly that they start to ache.  

He sighs, tugging on the ends of my hair before his eyes finally fall to mine. He holds me there in his gaze before he presses himself against me. We’re so close that our chests are kissing, his thigh slotted between my own. He’s holding my hips and I’m carefully twirling the sandy curls at the nape of his neck, smiling up at him despite how hard it feels to breathe suddenly. 

“Y’look fuckin’ perfect,” he whispers, breath fanning over my the apples of my cheeks and the end of my nose, “what’re you wearing under that dress, baby?”

Heat is pooling again, pooling in a big, bad way. My throat is tight, getting tighter, as I press his thigh between mine. 

“Nothing,” I whisper back, pressing a soft kiss to his chin.

His lips are parted, the corners still turned up. His pupils grow as he brings a calloused hand up to my face, stroking gently over my cheek before grazing the veil again.

He kisses my cheek, lips familiar and sweet. He kisses a line all the way to my ear, which he very softly takes between his teeth before whispering, “The veil stays on tonight.”

Oh, fuck.  

And before I can respond, before I can even take a moment to compose myself and lengthen my breathing, he pulls back with a lopsided grin. Now he’s holding my shoulders like Jake was before, thumbs stroking identically on either arm. 

“Gimme some sugar,” he all but purrs, pressing his lips to mine, fingers curling into my flesh. 

The kiss is sweet, short. Just his solid skin beneath my hands is enough to make me feel like I’ve finished a few bottles of champagne entirely on my own, enough to make me feel like my steps are fluttering.

“Hangman’s staring at you,” he mumbles against my lips, chuckling, sighing.

It isn’t that he is jealous--because he is not, could never be, would never be. There is that string between us, attached to our bodies and skin, that tethers us together everywhere we go. We know, know without having an explicit discussion about it, that we are it for each other. That everything else around us will wither with time like the petals of a cut flower, wilting in muddled water.  

I pull back, clearing my throat, pretending like I suddenly don’t feel like I’m at a full-blown, sloppy 10 right now. 

“Isn’t he always?”

“C’mon,” Hangman calls across the bar, like he can hear us, “time for shots!”

“S’cuse us, bride and groom coming through,” Rooster announces as we navigate the bodies busying the bar, “pardon us, just trying to get back to our wedding party!”

People are clapping Rooster on the back now, shaking his hand, and he’s all grins from his spot behind me. He is squeezing my hips and nodding his head, voice raspy as he makes several more unnecessary announcements about our nuptials. 

Feel free to stop by, we’ll have an open bar! I know what you’re thinking--yes, I am a lucky guy! Knew I wanted to marry her the first time I saw her! You know, I actually proposed in my childhood h0me--! 

“Rooster,” I warn, biting a grin, “you’ve gotta stop inviting strangers to the wedding!” 

He looks as giddy as a child on Christmas morning, a big toothy grin spread across his face and pressing into his rosy cheeks. 

“Just can’t help myself, honey,” he whines, “I’ve gotta show you off!”

My heart is swelling. But I still raise my brow, biting down hard on my lip.

Fuck, that dopey, lovely, gooey grin on his lips is melting me. 

My lungs feel like dough, malleable and soft, full of fingerprints and dusted with flour. Someone could pull my lungs out of my chest and roll them out on a counter with ease. 

“Always knew I’d be some old man’s arm candy,” I tease, sighing. 

He pinches my hips and I have to stifle a squeak. 

“You’re gonna get yourself in trouble, little lady,” he grins, pressing a quick kiss to the back of my head, against my veil. 

There’s that heat again--pooling, pooling between my bare thighs.   

He loves to tell people that we are engaged, that we are getting married on the Saturday before Valentine’s Day--a date he picked, marking it on every paper calendar with a crudely-drawn heart. He bought two paper calendars to keep at home, just for the sake of a physical reminder: one hanging in our bathroom and one hanging on our fridge--each adorned with vintage-style portraits of cats. 

He’s told every person that runs our most frequented stands at the farmer’s market, holding cucumbers in one hand and mine in the other as he shows my ring to the elderly women, pointing out which pieces were his mother’s and which pieces he picked himself. Proudly, he tells the swooning women that he knew he was going to marry me from the start of it all--letting them pinch his cheeks and tell me how darn-right lucky I am to have him.  

 Every barista in the tri-state area knows the story of his proposal, Rooster telling the story with an admirable reverence each and every time--tireless, excitable. Sometimes, I will walk into a coffee shop and the barista will recognize me. It’s usually a show of furrowed eyebrows and chin-tapping before they ask me if my fiancee is t hat guy with a pornstache who orders his lattes breve with extra sweetener? And then I’ll blush and say yes and they’ll ask me if my name is Faye and we’ll have a good-hearted laugh as they tell me about my fiance’s most adorable exuberance.   

 Late last September, I was sitting in my office when he knocked, his face broken out in an all-consuming grin. There, trailing behind him like a row of misguided ducklings, was the Top Gun class he instructed. Rooster had simply held his hand out towards me and I gave in immediately, leaning against the doorframe, trying not to blush as he had every member individually come on over and take a gander at this ring, everybody. Say hello to the pretty lieutenant wearing it, too! 

I’m flushed under everyone’s delighted gaze when we fall into place at the bar. My face is impossibly warmer now, a blush creeping up through my chest and staining my cheeks. It still makes me flush to think about tomorrow--about walking down the aisle, kissing beneath the San Diego sun, slow-dancing on the brick patio, about toasting with all of our friends.  

Now I’m flanked by Hangman and Rooster and they’re both grinning below their mustaches, both offering to order me shots simultaneously then glancing at each other over my head. 

“Leave me out of this,” I quietly tell them, smiling sweetly.  

“So, how is the lady of the hour?”

It’s Maverick that asks from his spot by Bob, his mustache lopsided, his grin on the verge of shit-eating. He’s looking at me now, pushing his aviators up into his inky hair. 

“Cool as a cucumber,” Bob answers for me, distributing champagne flutes while Phoenix doles out shots of tequila, “have you ever seen a more relaxed bride?”

Rooster squeezes my hip, then leaves his hand there, his palm warm against the fabric of my dress. 

I wonder what I must feel like in this dress, under his touch--my skin plush and pressed against the thin satin. It’s thin enough that he must feel the warmth of my hip blooming against his palm, he must feel the nakedness of my skin. 

We are so very near touching skin-to-skin that I’m starting to ache--a deep ache that makes my legs hurt. 

“That’s a good sign, right?” Maverick asks. 

I nod.

Hangman makes a show of shrugging, twisting the stem of his champagne flute between his index finger and thumb, frowning.

“Yes,” Hangman says, “or she’s been trained to remain calm under pressure. Like for a career or somethin’ like that.”

I tut and Hangman grins. 

Another squeeze on my hip from Rooster, but his chest is rumbling with a chuckle as he brings the champagne to his lips. 

“Oh, she’s totally smitten,” Penny says, winking at me, “aren’t you?”

“How could I not be?”

“Let’s get drunk now, yeah?” Hangman says suddenly and severely, already tipping his champagne flute backwards and down, down, down his throat.

“Should we toast?” 

It’s Phoenix who asks, her sculpted brow perched, her lip curled. She’s already holding her flute in the air around us, glancing around at all of our flaxen faces, at our veils, at the faux staches. 

Rooster’s thumb is methodically stroking my hip, never stuttering or snagging on panties. That makes me flush, too. No panties to get snagged on. It’s just a smooth, fluid movement as he holds me against him, his chest solid against my shoulder and his arm tight around me. 

“To the bride and groom,” Penny offers, her smile soft and sweet. 

Maverick smoothes his fingers over his stache and then holds his own glass up. 

“To Rooster and his hen,” Maverick echoes, grinning.

“Oh, Pete,” Penny chastises, “I might ring the bell for that one.”

He shrugs, grinning. 

“I’ve had that in the chamber for months,” he admits.  

I wish I could roll my eyes, I do. But I can’t. I am just grinning, my cheeks round and pink, my wet lips curled around my teeth, my eyes crinkled. 

When Rooster laughs, it puffs my veil in a gust of hot breath. The skin on the back of my neck gooses. 

“To Faye and her fella,” Bob says with his eyebrows raised, his veil is lopsided again.

Penny nods, winking at Bob, holding her glass up towards him. 

“Now, that’s more like it,” she grins at Bob.

I am suddenly so giddy all over again. My heart is sitting in my throat, warm and safe, pulsing. 

Rooster squeezes my hip and I fall back into him, leaning my head back ever-so-lightly against his shoulder.

Being held by him feels like raking a pile of leaves in the front yard of my childhood home, laboring and scurrying with an oversized rake, then jumping into them in the frigid air--hands up, mouth wide open. It’s that split second when all I can smell is that damp rankness of decayed leaves, that sharp peppery smell of earth and death and everything in between. It’s like being held there, the sun shining high and bright in an endless autumn sky. It’s like staying there, the light breaking through the muddled leaves, my gloves handmade and my coat too big and my hair ratty. Being held by him feels like that--all abandonment, all hard work, all blind trust in the solid ground and flimsy barrier between me and the earth. 

“To true love,” Phoenix adds, smiling sweetly, batting her lashes mockingly.

If anyone is able to soften her, it is the people closest to her, the people she loves so severely and thoroughly. She is plush in certain places, the places that she keeps her friends. I know she keeps me and Rooster there, tucking us close, tucking us in.

“Aw, Phoenix,” Bob grins, elbowing her softly, “you’ve gone gooey!”   

I’m laughing, still leaning into Bradley, tickled. 

But then I see it. Hangman is still beside us, his eyes untrained and distant as he gazes past the bar, his mustache perched above his lip, his glass still resting on the bartop as he pinches the stem lazily.

Fuck.  

If the champagne isn’t already making my face hot--my face is fiery now. 

Being engaged hadn’t changed very much for Hangman--not really, no. We’d seen him--really, seen the whole squadron--only sparsely since getting engaged. The first time he saw us, he shook Rooster’s hand, whistled at my ring, congratulated us--did all the things that he was supposed to do. But still, he’d texted me a few times at random intervals, sometimes after midnight and sometimes in the middle of the day, asking me to talk him out of it. That was the phrase he used--ambiguous to any outsider in the conversation, something only we understood, our accidental secret language. I always sent something back, a few sentences. I don’t like red wine. I think zero-sugar soda tastes better. I could eat a tomato like an apple. I truly dislike every film adaptation of Wuthering Heights. And he would usually send the same response each time: Futile. One word, that’s all.

But we are friends--we are good friends. I am someone he calls when he has a question about flowers or baking. He calls me when he needs a rom-com recommendation for a date or when he can’t remember the name of the book with that guy who does that thing and that lady that can’t get there. He calls me when he’s had a very bad day, usually between his second and third bourbon. When he’s had these days, I know not to ask about it because he doesn’t want to talk about it--doesn’t care to. His tell, besides the bourbon-induced enhancement of his Southern drawl, is that he always asks all about my day during these calls on his very bad days.

“Tell me ‘bout your day, sugar plum,” he’ll say, slightly inebriated and severely Texan, “and tell it to me straight. I can handle it.”

Subsequently, I call him sometimes, too. I call him whenever the Longhorns win to congratulate him personally. I call him whenever Die Hard is playing on TV so I can tell him what channel it’s on. I call him whenever I have a question about Willie Nelson or Johnny Cash, which is more often than I ever thought possible. I call him when I want to buy Bradley a nice alcohol and don’t know where to start. Sometimes I will call him and ask for a Crimson and Clover story--and that is usually when I’m between my second and third tequila lavender limeade and Rooster is busy beating all his students in pool.

Now, we are all waiting for him to say something, to add something--anything at all. 

But it isn’t until Phoenix nudges him, her eyebrows pulled together slightly, that he sucks in a breath and comes back into his body.

When he angles his face towards me, all gold-tinted shadows and creases and unblemished skin, he smiles a very charming smile. But his eyes are swimming, the shade of a strawberry stem, and the skin beside his eyes is smooth and uncrinkled--joyless. 

There is just one moment when I’m watching him and he’s watching me, one moment where I see him and he knows that I see him. And then he’s bringing his glass up, letting his eyes fall to Rooster and his body against mine. 

“To the happy couple,” he says, his voice thick and deep. 

And then we all lift our champagne in the air and it is suspended for a long moment, all our pink bubbles racing to the top, all our hearts swollen and our faces smiling. Then we clink and it’s all so sweet-sounding, my love for Rooster being toasted so carefully by the people here that matter the most. 

Our jaws flex, our throats open, our bellies slosh as we empty our flutes. 

Hangman, wiping the back of his hand against his damp mustache, grins. Then he points at Bob, who is settling his empty glass down on the bartop beside Maverick’s. 

“Bob, your veil is crooked,” he laughs. 

Bob, cheeks suddenly rosy, sighs and blindly reaches up to grab at the mess of tulle haphazardly nestled in his hair. 

“How embarrassing,” he mutters. 

Phoenix cackles, hair fanning out over her thin straps, before she carefully reaches over to Bob. Bob submits instantaneously, hand falling onto the bartop uselessly as Phoenix tuts and reattaches the stubborn headpiece. 

“Beauty is pain,” Bob sighs again, glancing between Penny, Phoenix, and I, “right, ladies?”

It makes me laugh--the kind of laugh that vibrates my chest and makes my lips stretch. It springs from my throat and falls out of my mouth easily. It is a laugh that I didn’t laugh for a very long time after my sister died, a laugh that I had forgotten all about until it was coaxed from me between screaming jets and fistfuls of quarters.

Everyone else is laughing, too. Penny’s already pouring more champagne. Phoenix is rolling her eyes good-naturedly, her hand resting in the middle of Bob’s back. Hangman has his arms crossed now, shaking his head softly. And Rooster’s chest is rumbling against my shoulder, his grip on my hip lazy and sweet, but wholly intoxicating. 

It hurts very suddenly--my chest tightening, heart squeezed in a fist, palms aching. Maggie would have loved that joke-- she loved anything Bob did, loved it when he finally grew comfortable enough to quip and lip.

I can see her now, tucked between me and Hangman, her veil glowing against her dirty-blonde hair and her perpetually-tanned skin. She would have been corralling the crowd right alongside Rooster, announcing my marriage, happily and hastily indulging stranger’s offers of free drinks. But Maggie was better at planning things than sweet Bob--she would’ve laid out a plan for Maverick, telling him to stay far away from The Hard Deck. As much as she would have loved Rooster, she would make entirely sure that the night before my wedding was spent alone with her and our friends. We would’ve danced between games of pool and darts, between stepping out front to catch a breath, between tip-toed trips to the bar.   

It would be at the end of the night, when we would be all nice and liquored up, that she would get emotional. She would make sure that Bob and Phoenix were too drunk to notice, all of us crammed into the back of a noiseless Uber with the windows down, our veils billowing in the breeze as our sweat-slicked skin dried in the nighttime air. She would gaze at me with that sweet, sad look; the one that made her bottom lip quiver and her eyes widen, the one that made her cheeks pale and her throat flush. And then she would smile and it would be a wet smile, one that accompanied tears in the corners of her big eyes. She would tell me quietly, blinking rapidly and swallowing thickly, that there would not be a her without a me. And I would be drunk, maybe too drunk to lift my head, but I would lay against her shoulder and just stay there and pretend like she wasn’t wetting my veil with her tears. And she would let me lay there, pretending like she wasn’t crying.  

If Maggie were here, if she never died, then we would even sleep in the same bed tonight. We would snuggle in my bed, and she would complain that it smells like Rooster and I would grin. And then we would fall asleep at the same time, the way we used to when we were little enough to be carried to bed together in our father’s arms, curled into ourselves and facing each other. And maybe Rooster would stumble in very late, blinking through the dark, squinting at his side of the bed that would be occupied with my older sister. He would be good about it, would just pepper a sweet kiss to the side of my face before he would move to sleep on the couch.  

Rooster kisses the side of my head again, breath warm, pulling me closer to him. I think he wants to settle the wrinkle between my brows, understands that I am faraway, wants to bring me back to him.  

“Y’make me so happy,” Rooster suddenly whispers, kissing the side of my head, pulling me against him tighter, “can’t wait to marry you, baby.”

The bar is alive all around us. Our glasses are full and paid for three times over. Our friends are laughing, their teeth barring as they tilt their heads back and clap each other’s shoulders. The doors swing open every few minutes as more Navymen waltz in, eliciting good-natured chiding and grinning from the gathering crowd. Pool balls clack beneath the insistence of some subpar, tipsy uniforms. My sister is not here, her chipped teeth on display, the freckles dusting her nose glowing in the dim lighting. 

But it’s okay--it’s okay. I can do these things without her, can keep breathing this air that never touched her, love this man that she never met. I can laugh at jokes she would have liked and I can be friends with women that remind me of her. I can have a bachelorette party without her and drink this champagne, can dance without her taking polaroids of me. I can walk down the aisle tomorrow, a lone speck of flowing white dress and flowered hair, and get married. I can do these things, can keep pushing forward, because it is what she would fervently insist on. 

“Not much longer now,” I whisper back, craning my neck to look up at him. 

He’s already looking down at me, eyes soft and warm, smile wide but serene. His hand leaves my hip, comes to cup my cheek, rough thumb gingerly ghosting over my bottom lip. A tingle, one that curls my toes and flutters my lashes, tickles my spine.

The vein over my nose pulses. I love him I love him I love him I love him.  

“Cold feet?” 

I bite my lip, sighing softly, my chest expanding. 

I take a long look at his face painted the color between yellow and gold--just his soft gaze makes me feel drunk. Like bubbles are tickling my tongue, coating my throat, sinking down to my toes. I wiggle them inside my heels--just for good measure. No, not cold. Toasty warm.  

“Not even a little,” I return, kissing his thumb softly.

Hangman’s familiar gaze is burning my blushed cheek. He’s looking at Rooster when I face the bar again, mind still humming, reeling just from Bradley’s thumb on my lips, from just looking at him painted in the dying light.

“What about you, Rooster,” he asks softly, pressing down on his wayward mustache again, “nervous?”

Phoenix is eyeing Hangman, her lips pursed tightly. She finds my eyes and I shrug in a small way, rolling my eyes. It’s fine, I’m saying without really saying, Hangman will be Hangman. And she nods, mirroring my eyeroll, taking a long sip of champagne as Bob watches us with a small smile .  

Common ground. His girls.  

Bob can’t contain himself--he puts a friendly arm over Phoenix’s shoulders, throws a delighted grin in my direction. 

Bob still evokes a distinct maternal feeling from deep within my chest whenever we look at each other. It’s the same feeling I had on the carrier, saying goodbye to him before the Uranium detachment, when I told him to come back to me. He is the closest I have ever had to a brother, the closest friend I had during undergraduate and the Academy. And now, now even though he looks like a more full version of himself with wider shoulders and scruffier cheeks--he’s still my baby. He’s still my best friend.   

I can feel Rooster’s smile above me, can feel his blissful breaths, can feel the warmth spreading through his limbs. He locks an arm around my waist again, burying his nose in my hair as he kisses my head through my veil again. His lips are soft and wet, his breath hot. 

He shakes his head, squeezing my belly gently. 

“Look at her,” Rooster remarks, gesturing to me, “how could I be?”

Hangman is already looking at me, his smile one that is beginning to falter. He is looking at me much too softly, much too carefully, eyes falling from my own to my lips and nose and chin and throat and the flat part of my chest where my necklace is a dot of gold and opal against my bare skin. Maybe he’s thinking about how perfectly it rests there, thinking about how it’s a marker for the exact spot where his palm sat as he guided my rapid breaths. Maybe he’s wondering if I’m wondering about it.  

“You’d have to be an idiot,” Hangman says, shrugging, eyes lingering on my pendant, “and blind. Profoundly blind.” 

My belly aches. My spit feels thick as honey as I swallow, carefully moving to hold my pendant between my fingers. That’s when Jake looks up finally--when he gives me a small grin.

Friends, I’m telling him with my measured gaze, friends, only friends, just friends. 

But maybe we aren’t close enough to share that unspoken language between friends, that one I’ve adapted between quirked brows and bitten bottom lips.   

“You two flatter me,” I say primly, sighing.

Another squeeze from Rooster. 

That invisible string tightens, pulls me closer to him, to his solidness between my shoulderblades.  

Maverick holds his shot glass up and tips it towards Rooster and I again before downing it swiftly.

“Hold your horses, old man,” Rooster chuckles, scrambling to press a tequila shot into my palm.

Once we are all warm with champagne and tequila, when we are all catching our breaths and sucking lime pulp from our teeth, it is suddenly too quiet within our group. Rooster is holding me close to him, chin resting on my head. Hangman is fingering the rim of his beer bottle, eyes glazed.  

Bob breaks the silence. 

“What’s everyone at?”

“Six,” I say, blood rushing to my cheeks, “close to seven, maybe.” 

Bob’s smiling. 

“Five,” Phoenix answers decidedly, eyes narrowed. 

“I’m with Faye this time,” Bob says, sighing, taking another sip from his glass.

Hangman and Rooster seem to register what we’re doing. Rooster nudges Hangman very softly and from below, I can feel his grin. It’s very wide and warm--his breath smells like limes now.

“Gotta play catch-up,” he says, “can’t let the ladies have all the fun.”

Bob doesn’t correct Rooster--instead he takes the title with grace, smiling with his nose in the air, his chin tilted proudly. Bob likes nothing more than to be included.

Hangman grins again, the glaze dissipating across his eyes. 

“Sure thing, Bradshaw,” he agrees, signaling another round of shots for the groom's party, “let’s get to it.”

Phoenix finds my eyes, biting a grin, cheeks rosy. She’s good at doing this--reading the room, finding my face, good at pulling me away from the boys and into her. We’re friends now--good enough friends to text almost everyday, sending each other pictures of new ice cream flavors at the supermarket and songs that remind us of each other. Only last week, before she came to town, she sent me Heaven or Las Vegas by The Cocteau Twins after I sent her Sledgehammer by Peter Gabriel.

“Let’s dance,” she calls out to me, grinning. 

Rooster, as if on cue, pulls a palmful of quarters from his pocket and drops them into my palm. He presses another long kiss to the side of my head, gripping my hips. He pats my rear slyly, cupping me as I step forward. 

“Give ‘em Hell, baby,” he grins. 

“Yes, sir,” I wink, saluting, taking Bob’s hand in mine as we start towards the floor. 

Maverick, Hangman, Rooster, and Penny are watching us as we slink towards the jukebox again, smiles lingering on their lips, faces friendly and slacked. We leave them there to catch up and I catch Rooster’s eyes one more time, sending him a fleeting wink, as Bob guides my stuttering feet to Phoenix. 

We dance for a long, long while as our veils skew in our flailing hair. We are fielding congratulatory shoulder pats from overly-friendly locals, creatively shimmying past anybody that accompanies us on the dance floor. Bob’s pockets are housing the quarters and he escorts me to the jukebox between trips to the bar, catching his breath as I select songs. Once the men join us, the energy shifts from excited to downright giddy--the men singing crudely under their wet mustaches, hands large on our waists, hair mussed.

The champagne flows freely and beer and cherry wine slosh onto the pool table, empty glasses towering higher and higher with each hour that passes us. Perspiration gathers on our hairlines, especially when the dance floor clogs with passersby and patrons sharing in our glee. 

And all night, as I steadily climb from a six to an eight, I am just blindingly happy. It is the kind of happy that is indiscernible from that sweet spot between wasted and blackout drunk, when my limbs are numb but my chest is warm and my belly is full. It’s when my vision is blurry and my speech is slurring and I’m hiccupping, when I’m being twirled from one pair of aviator’s arms to the other, that I really truly realize how indisputably happy I am. 

We are all giddy--on the cusp of a great change. Come tomorrow, I will be a married woman. I will make Rooster a husband. He will make me a wife. My name will be lengthened in a most ceremonious way. I will be Faye Leona Ledger-Bradshaw. There will be another Bradshaw in the world tomorrow --or when my paperwork is finalized.  

“Faye Bradshaw,” Phoenix grins in my arms, chewing the name with her nose scrunched and her hair flailing around her in strains of dark ribbon, “sounds like you’re about to drop the hottest country album of the year!”

Boogie Wonderland by Earth, Wind, and Fire is pulsing through the bar.

Everybody is singing along, elongating notes, stomping offbeat and tumbling over each other, spilling their drinks and throwing their jackets to the side--it’s so loud that Phoenix has to shout, lips attached to the shell of my ear. 

“Ha-ha,” I grin back, “I’m stuck on the title. Any suggestions?”

Phoenix thinks so hard that one of her eyes drops in an involuntary wink, her mouth puckered, her cheeks flushed. All around us, we are being danced on and around--a sea of sweaty bodies holding us in place clutching each other. She’s warm pressed against me.

“Flea-bitten Faye’s Folk Songs,” she finally answers, laughing with her mouth wide open and pressed to my ear. 

“Hey, that’s good,” I call back, feeling drunker than before as giggles fall from my parted lips, “you came up with that just now?”

“Yeah!”

“Color me impressed, Nix!”

She grins and I take her warm hands in mine and spin her around a few times, her velvet reflecting the lights above us with a blue reverence, the crowd around us hardly parting as she throws her open arms around her.

When I pull her into me again, we accidentally fall into each other, chests colliding. And then we’re giggling all over again, sweaty hands still clasped as we try to half-heartedly fix each other’s veils. 

“You two are a mess,” Bob suddenly calls from beside us, his very own sloppy grin eating his face as he breaks through the crowd to stand beside us, “drunken skunks!”

Phoenix shakes her head at Bob, stumbling to her tip-toes to put a faux-indignant finger in the middle of his chest. 

“Oh , wizzo,” she starts with a chuckle, “if I was drunk--could I do this?” 

We wait for a moment--she doesn’t move, stays in her spot with her pointer finger buried in Bob’s chest, her lips puckered, her eyes glossy, her cheeks red, her hair messy.

“I think so?” Bob says, eyebrows furrowing, “You didn’t do anything.”

She shrugs, falling back on her heels with mild difficulty. 

“Exactly,” she grins, crossing her arms, “you’ve been Traced, bitch!” 

“Phoenix!” 

It falls out of my mouth before I can stop it--I sound like a bewildered mother who’s just heard her toddler curse for the first time, all breath and pitch and red cheeks.  

Bob glances at me with a knowing grin, putting a hand on Phoenix’s shoulder to steady her in her place before him. 

“She gets like this when she’s drunk,” he tells me, “this ain’t my first time being Traced.”

She pats his chest, cocking her head, smirking. 

“Or your last!” 

And all night, as I am passed from Bob to Hangman to Rooster and to Maverick, my feet never even so much as catch a breeze. I am most sure about Rooster, more sure about him than I’ve been about anything in my life. Even as I glance at him from Maverick’s arms during I Say A Little Prayer , even as I watch him dance with his shirt unbuttoned and his aviators low on his nose, even just watching the blush across his cheeks as he twirls Phoenix--I am very, very sure about him. 

“He’s a good man,” Maverick says, smiling softly as he follows my gaze, “wish I could take credit for some of that.” 

  He is holding me very softly, only secure enough to keep me from tripping over my own feet. He smells of leather and cigar smoke and gasoline, which I think is permanently his scent--diffusing from his body at all times.

I smile at him, too, dragging my eyes away from Rooster. 

Maverick’s mustache is crooked above his lip, his t-shirt clinging to his shoulder where Bob accidentally spilled beer on him. He’s holding my hands politely as we dance. He’s sober--his hands are my guide, the solid ground I’m standing on. 

“Well, I can’t take all the credit,” I tell him, teasing, “just most of it.”

Maverick’s chest rumbles as he chuckles--it feels deep and loud. He finds my eyes again and I know that I must look very drunk, very happy. 

Everything is bleary. Everything feels good. 

I’ve been Traced three times to Bob’s four. 

Maverick nods softly and my heart pulses. 

“You’re the best thing that’s happened to him in a long time,” he tells me, suddenly somber, “you two are good for each other. You make him happy.”

I hiccup--a bubble of emotion bursting in my chest suddenly. It makes me feel tipsier, the love that pulses through me--Maverick’s words ringing inside my buzzing skull with Aretha Franklin.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice thin, “I really love him.”

As if it wasn’t already apparent--wildly apparent--to every person in the room. 

“Oh, I know,” Maverick grins, swiftly swiping an accidental tear from my cheek, “everybody does.”

“People keep telling me that,” I whisper, smiling softly. 

Maverick laughs again, smile bright. 

“Goose and Carole would’ve been in love with you,” he tells me, keeping his tone light and airy as we spin together, “especially Carole. God, she wouldn’t be able to get enough of you.”

That makes my throat ache. I understand it, understand how utterly gutting it is to know something so intrinsically but be unable to prove it because of the thin veil between the living and the dead. I believe Maverick--I do. I know that he believes it as firmly as I believe that Maggie would have adored Bradley, very thoroughly and completely. 

And that makes my eyes water again. 

“Well, I can’t get enough of their son,” I say and my voice cracks because I want to weep, “he’s the best person I’ve ever met.”

Maverick quietly rids my cheeks of a few more tears, not making a fuss, not making light of it. He’s smiling, his own eyes watery, his cheeks flushed. He squeezes my hands softly. 

“Funny,” he says, glancing at Rooster again, “he says the same thing about you, sweetheart.”

It’s after midnight--after Rooster beckoned me to him in the middle of the crowded bar by playing The Bridal March loudly, head tilted as he laughed, fingers skillfully thrusting the keys despite his intoxication--when Bob, Phoenix, Rooster, Hangman, and I tumble through the front door of my home. We are all giggles and crooked mustaches and veils, wet lips and flushed chests. 

The house is quiet and dark, but we all sigh in unison as we step onto the entryway tiles. It still smells like the perfume I spritzed on my skin before I left, like pink pepper and raspberry. And I know we all smell like The Hard Deck now--our skin stained with beer and champagne and sweat. 

Rooster is the first to slip his shoes off, the first to turn and smile at everyone else in the mostly-dark entryway. 

Him and I are the only ones that can navigate in the dark--the only ones that will be able to venture up the steps to the living room. This is his way of saying I’ve got it, baby. I’ve got it.  

“Shoes off,” Rooster instructs, slurring lightly, “I’ll hit the lights.”

“These boots might never come off,” Phoenix warns, half-moaning, half-laughing, “I had to suck my calves in to get them on.”

“What,” Hangman sputters, laughing, “how did you do that?”

Bob groans. 

“Bagman, you don’t know the first thing about womanhood,” he sighs, “you beautiful, stupid man.”

“You think I’m beautiful?” Hangman asks sweetly. 

I’m pressed against the front door, grinning, holding myself steady when Rooster finds me in the dark. He presses a short kiss to the crown of my hair before smoothing my veil again, his touch less focused and lazier now that he’s at an 8.9--which he announced to us just as we climbed out of the Uber.

“Happy wedding day, sweet thing,” he whispers to me, kissing the shell of my ear, “my gorgeous girl.”

I lock my hands around his neck for a moment, thumbs carefully stroking the edge of his curls. His skin is warm beneath my fingers and when I start to hoist myself up on my tip-toes, he ducks down and meets me halfway, wrapping his arms around my waist. 

It’s a sweet, sweet kiss--lazy and hungry and happy. 

We are getting married today.  

“Happy wedding day,” I mumble softly against his lips, biting a grin as his mustache lightly scratches my Cupid’s bow, “I love you.”

Then he leaves all of us hiccupping and giggling as we struggle with laces and zippers. It isn’t until Rooster successfully stumbles upstairs and flickers the living room lamps on that I can finally survey the lot of us, holding my heels in my hands.  

Bob and Hangman are resting with their backs against the other’s, their leather shoes discarded haphazardly before them, their socked feet stuttering as they sway lightly. They are most definitely drunk--especially Hangman, who was just drunk enough to offer me his lap when we found there were not enough seats in the Uber.    

Phoenix is falling onto the stairs, butt-first, before she extends her legs with a frown. She grips the wooden steps for leverage and then finds my eyes, hers distant and glossy, her smile wet. 

“Help,” she laughs, kicking her boots lightly, “I’m stuck.” 

Distantly, there is the small scratching sound of a match striking and I know Rooster is lighting candles while Bob and I kneel before Phoenix, each tugging a leather boot as she throws her head back laughing, knuckles white as she holds on.

“I think I’ve had a dream like this,” Hangman said, “but there was less clothing.”

Bob grins at Hangman over his shoulder. 

“You dream about me?” Bob teases, smiling sweetly. 

Rooster guffaws upstairs.

The tile is cold against my knees but I press myself into the floor further, knuckles white as I grip Phoenix’s thick heel. I can feel how warm her skin is even through the leather--her cheeks are flushed.  

“Hangman, come pick a record,” Rooster says, leaning over the landing to watch as Bob and I try again to tug off Phoenix's merciless boot. 

My sides are starting to ache from all that laughter--all that throat-vibrating, chest-hollowing laughter. And my cheeks are sore from grinning, my lips still stained with lavender syrup and pink bubbly. 

Hangman steps over and around Phoenix, staggering slightly and nearly tripping over her extended ankle before I reach out hastily and steady him, gripping his elbow with one hand while I hold Phoenix’s boot in my other.

“Y’alright?” I ask, furrowing my brow, swallowing hard.  

He throws me a grin, winking, regaining his posture. 

“Right as rain, sugar plum,” he moans, slinking his arm away, grasping my hand, “you?”

Then he brings my hand to his lips and presses a sloppy kiss to my knuckles--his lips are too hot, too wet. Yes, he kisses my forehead in greeting when he sees me, but it is still a measured kind of kiss--polite enough. It is the kind of kiss that wouldn’t make me bat an eye if someone other than Hangman insisted upon doing it each time. But this kiss now, as he’s standing in the stairwell, looking down at me--it feels different. It feels like the barrier that is between us has suddenly been seized and he’s taking advantage of the empty air around us now.

I drop his hand, shaking my head softly, the vein across my nose beginning to throb.

“I’m good, Jake,” I laugh, “now, pick something jaunty so we can pop a bottle of prosecco.” 

Another fleeting glance thrown over his shoulder, one where his smile is bright and his eyes are shining, one where his cheeks are pink and his gaze is broad. Then he is climbing the steps, gripping the handrail. 

Bob is doubled over, giggling, his glasses falling down his nose as he attempts to pull the boot again. Phoenix is groaning, eyes clamped shut, limbs much looser than usual as she grasps for purchase.

The boot will not budge.

The sight makes my heart swell. I love them so much--have missed them entirely too much since they’ve been gone. Want so badly to keep them here in my house, close to me, close to Rooster.  

I sigh, grinning, hands on my hips.

“These just might be your feet now, honey,” I tell her, tapping her heel.

“No,” she moans, “my bridesmaid dress won’t match!”

Bob releases her heel and straightens his back, his hands finding his hips identically.

“We might have to amputate,” he sighs, wiping his brow.   

“Put your back into it, Floyd,” Phoenix groans, “and pull your weight, Ledger! Can’t just stand there!”

“Sounds like someone’s gettin’ Traced down there,” Rooster calls from upstairs. 

I can hear that dopey grin, that chuckle sitting smoothly in his throat. 

And it’s such a stupid thing to say, such a stupid joke to make, but we are all grinning--even Phoenix, who’s sputtering through her ground teeth. Yes, I want to marry Rooster--I want to marry the idiot who calls down the stairs like this. 

It is less than an hour later when Rooster drags one of our kitchen chairs away from the table and into the living room, its worn legs groaning under its own weight, the sound nearly drowned out by the laughter echoing off the picture frames clogging the walls. This room is alive with love--lamplit and painted pink and orange. There are candles lit; green and blue taper candles dripping down to their brass holders and iris-scented candles in expensive clay-molded vessels. It’s warm in here--warm enough that Phoenix finally cracked a window, sighing when the nighttime air slid into the living room. 

Got To Give It Up by Marvin Gaye is thumping through the speakers--Jake’s pick.  

“Who’s first?”

I ask this very softly, my cheeks flooded with warmth. I am holding a hair of kitchen scissors in one hand and an almost-empty glass of prosecco in the other. I don’t remember who first brought up the idea of me cutting everyone’s hair--but I know that it was born from Jake’s complaint about not having time to get a trim before leaving North Carolina. 

Phoenix is stretched out on the couch, her feet resting in Bob’s lap as he lounges against the cushions. Hangman is sprawled on the floor before the sofa, leaning his head on Phoenix’s hip. Rooster is standing beside me, eyes heavy and lips wet.

We’re all smiling, still drunk, limbs heavy.

“Me,” Bob decides, carefully slinking out from under Phoenix’s feet, settling them on the couch as he stands, “nothing we haven’t done before, right?”

“It’ll be just like old times,” I whisper, handing Rooster my glass as he presses his lips to the side of my face shortly. 

Bob’s smiling in that friendly way, his eyes nearly disappearing as his closed lips curl, his cheeks pink. He smooths a hand through his locks as he falls into the kitchen chair, leaning back.

“Just a trim,” I whisper to Bob, patting his shoulder. 

Bob nods, head heavy as he leans back. 

“You ‘member how I like it?”

I hum, carefully raking my fingers through his silky locks after I disengage his veil. It’s still the longest I’ve seen his hair, curling by his ears. He groans very quietly, skull even heavier as he leans into my touch. 

“‘Course,” I whisper, “you were my best customer at Temple.”

He sighs, lips twitching. 

“Only customer,” he adds.

“Don’t forget that I’m holding scissors right now,” I mumble to him, smiling softly, chomping the scissors a few measly times to get my point across. 

Rooster and Hangman laugh from their spots on the floor. 

This is what Bob and I used to do in Philly, when he was too poor to afford a haircut and I loved him too much to say no. We would drag a chair into my kitchen--the only room in my apartment with tile--and lay ratty beach towels on the floor. He would pick a record--Elton John or Etta James or Dion--and then he would sit very still as I carefully trimmed his hair with dull kitchen scissors. He would lean into my touch when I compared symmetry and I would laugh and he would throw in an extra few dollars if I played with his hair. 

And now I’m doing it again, very early in the morning of my wedding, the night sky still wrapped around us. We are both older now, settled into our careers, settled into our friendships, living in different states. He can definitely afford a haircut now--could even go to a nice salon if he wanted to. Now the kitchen chair sits in my living room, which is not the only room in my house with hardwood floors, but the room with all my records. He didn’t get to pick the record, but our friend did. My kitchen scissors are sharp this time, probably double the price of the ones I owned during undergrad.

Carefully, I begin to trim his hair, my chest very warm and heavy, my eyes still bleary and soft. The light in here is golden and low, but it’s enough for me to navigate his familiar locks. 

“Isn’t this a full-circle moment,” Bob muses, eyes falling shut beneath his glasses, “you, me, a kitchen chair, and a pair of scissors?”

A fist wraps around my heart. 

“That’s the name of your porno,” Hangman quips. 

I tut, shooting him an amused glance as Rooster shakes his head. Hangman grins at me, his mustache finally discarded. Phoenix, who is half-asleep now, thumps Hangman in the back of the head. 

“Now you’re my man-of-honor,” I smile, pulling his hair between my fingers before I cut very carefully. 

“And you’re marrying my best friend,” Phoenix mumbles from her spot, muffled by the velvet sofa.  

Rooster pats her back gently and she smiles sleepily, eyes half-shut. 

“I think we’re losing her,” Hangman grins, “she’s calling Rooster her best friend.”

“Hey,” Phoenix whines, “he is my best friend. Chicken guy.”

“Ah,” Rooster chuckles, “there she is.” 

I nod, scissors still gliding through Bob’s hair gently. 

He doesn’t move an inch, but I know he’s grinning, too.  

“You sober enough to cut my hair next?” Jake asks softly. 

I nod again without breaking my gaze from Bob’s locks. 

“Then me,” Phoenix adds, voice low, “can’t forget ‘bout me.”

“Couldn’t forget about you,” I grin, shaking my head, “you, too, Bradley? Taming the mane?”

He’s looking at me from his spot on the floor, Stevie curled into his lap as he carefully scratches her head. She’s purring beneath the spinning record, leaning into Rooster’s touch. Bitch. Rooster’s eyes are hot on my cheek, watching as my expression glides from gleeful to serious while I gently cut. 

“Thought that was implied,” Rooster teases, “you know, saving the best for last and all that.”

Blindly, Phoenix reaches out and thumps Rooster on the back of the head.

“Sap,” she insists, sighing deeply.

There’s a beat where no one talks. 

Rooster rubs the back of his head with a smile still gracing his lips, Phoenix’s hand falling onto his shoulder good-naturedly. Hangman is watching us, still--watching the fragments of Bob’s hair fall onto the shoulders of Bob’s shirt.

“So,” Hangman grins, turning to Phoenix, “tell me more about Flea-bitten Faye.” 

“Well,” Phoenix sighs, eyes half-shut, “she’s only the fastest gunslinger in all of the West.”

And then the three of them are laughing, humming, chuckling.  

Phoenix is half-asleep in her spot, all her sentences muffled by her mouthful of couch. Rooster is nodding and Hangman is smirking. 

Phoenix is so much like Maggie right now--the main source of entertainment, the life of the party even when she’s half asleep. Even after coming home from the bar, Maggie would still read people’s palms and tell them their fortunes, pulling a pack of tarot out of her purse. She was the kind of person people would look to when they needed a laugh--needed something, anything to be reminded of the good nature of humans. 

“She’s just like Maggie sometimes,” I whisper to Bob, pink dusting my cheeks, “it’s uncanny.” 

“Wish Maggie was here,” Bob whispers to me softly, suddenly.

I’m the only one that hears him.  

I know he does. I do, too. She would’ve liked to have been here right now. 

She used to sit on the kitchen counter and watch me cut his hair, sometimes ripping a gasp from her chest to scare poor Bob. She used to beg to cut his hair too and he would never let her, somehow evading her cowering bottom lip and big, wet eyes. 

“Faye’s the only hairdresser in my life,” he would say calmly, “end of discussion!” 

She would’ve done a terrible job if he ever let her cut his hair. The kind of terrible that is really, truly only remedied by a buzzcut and an apology.

If she was here right now, she would be next in line. Maybe she even would’ve been drunk enough to let me cut a lot of hair off--maybe she would let me cut it to her shoulders or her chin. And instead of regretting it when she woke up, like any normal person, she would’ve leaned into it entirely--snipping a few stray hairs in the bathroom mirror and smoothing it with oil. She would look beautiful, too--a reckless, stupid, apathetic kind of beautiful. 

I’m too drunk to cry right now, though. So I just keep trimming, smiling. I’m trying to hold these thoughts of her, this grief in my chest, with grace--not only for myself but for Bob, who loved her as much as I did, who lost her as much as I did.

“Me too,” I return quietly, “you know she would’ve been reading everyone’s tarot right now.”

Bob smiles--his face is slack, serene. 

“And antagonizing Bagman.”

Yes, she would have. She would have been making up her own meanings for the cards, quietly cursing under her breath when she revealed them, grimacing as Hangman watched her carefully. She would’ve really put on a show for him. 

“Well, I’m sure there’s another meaning here,” she would’ve mumbled to herself, biting a smirk, “the Death card doesn’t have to mean Death. I think...”  

When Bob is pleased with my work, his grin pink and wide in the bathroom mirror, he thumps Hangman softly on the back to replace him before he settles on the couch again. Rooster ambles to the record player at the same time, kissing my nose and squeezing the curve of my waist before he flicks through the records. 

Jake sinks deeply into the wooden chair, which groans under his weight. He’s still in his jeans and button-down, except now it’s almost entirely unbuttoned and leaves little to the imagination. He sits with his legs spread apart wide, hands resting on his denim-clad thighs. 

“Hey, cowboy,” I whisper, softly skimming against his scalp, vein across my nose throbbing, “what’re you in for?”

He has almost the exact same reaction to my touch as Bob--his head is very heavy beneath my fingers, his eyes slipped shut blissfully, his lips parted. A small groan falls from his lips, even. I think it is pride that I feel deep in my gut, a strange sense of pride that stems from my ability to dismantle brick-walled guards. 

“Trust you, sugar plum,” he whispers, “couldn’t steer me wrong if you tried.”

I want to scoff--really, I do. But I am too fond of him to scoff, even if he’s smirking lightly, even if he’s cracked an eye open and he’s peering at me through his lashes. 

“Right,” I whisper, shaking my head, “we’ll just clean you up, then.”

Rooster carefully lifts the record player’s needle and places it on his choice. Sound floods the room--at first that static that makes me think of my sister’s laugh, but then a familiar song.

Suzanne by Leonard Cohen is playing now. 

“Are you calling me a dirty boy?” Hangman asks, grinning. 

I sigh, shaking my head. 

“We’ve gotta start a jar or something,” Bob groans from the couch, “he can’t keep getting away with this.”

“Hangman’s Horny Jar,” Phoenix suggests. 

I don’t look, but I know that Rooster is nodding, know that Phoenix and Bob are pressing their knuckles together. 

Carefully, I begin to trim Hangman’s blonde hair, his head heavy, his face slack. His hair is smooth like Bob’s, but thinner and finer. It is different than Rooster’s, which is thick and coarse and much darker. It’s soft in my grip, beneath the pads of my fingers.  

He’s humming along to the song, lashes fluttering, Adam’s apple bobbing. He looks nice like this, head tipped back and jaw flexed. He looks relaxed--looks very kind, very soft. This is the Jake that I like, the one that sits in kitchen chairs and doesn’t micromanage haircuts. 

“We get married in about fifteen hours,” Rooster announces as I bite my lip hard. 

There’s that flush again, spreading from my chest to my belly, that tight grip around my pulsing heart. 

Bob and Phoenix cheer quietly, whistling, clapping. Not a moment later, they both stand at the insistence of Rooster and meander down the hallway to get ready for bed. And not a moment after that, Rooster comes around to kiss my cheek and tell me he’s going to take a quick shower before his haircut. 

Then it’s just me and Hangman, my hands in his hair and his throat hot. 

I know he’s going to say something before I even really know--I can feel it sitting thickly on his tongue, can feel it between his cheeks, crunched under his molars. I think about announcing another unsavory fact, but wonder if I’m jumping the gun--I am drunk after all, very drunk. 

“Fifteen hours,” he echoes quietly, eyes still shut. 

That’s all he says at first. I just hum in response, sighing. 

“That’s what they tell me,” I say. 

He nods, eyebrows slightly furrowed. A beat passes--just the sound of Leonard Cohen and scissors slicing hair surround us.

“This song is about someone else’s wife,” I whisper and I don’t know why I say it, but I do because it’s true and the song is too soft and it is too quiet here. 

Hangman’s eyebrows pinch.   

Fuck.  

“Always thought this was a love song,” he muses quietly, his voice tinging on ragged. 

I swallow, eyes heavy. 

“It is,” I respond. 

The silence almost swallows us whole--we are almost in the belly of the beast.

And you want to travel with her, and you want to travel blind 

“Rooster’s like a brother to me, you know,” he starts, voice soft. 

His breath is bated. I know he wants to say more, needs to say more. 

Please don’t say anything else. Please let that be the end of it. I am begging him silently, desperately. Please be quiet. 

But he still hasn’t learned this secret, silent language. He is not like Bob and Phoenix, doesn’t absorb the fire in my eyes, the twist in my lips. He can’t look at my face and know exactly what I’m going to say the way they can.    

He inhales sharply and my belly flips. My fingers are steady, though. 

“But I would do anything to have met you before him,” he whispers, “terrible, demented things.”

He cracks an eye open when my fingers fall from his hair. He wants me to laugh--I know this. But I can’t laugh right now. My throat is too dry. I can’t laugh because I know that he is mostly serious--I know that he wants to be with me. And I do not want to be with him.

This sobers him in a small way. 

He clears his throat, eyes slipping shut again.

“In another life, I guess,” he mumbles quietly. 

I nod, finding his hair again. 

“Maybe,” I whisper to him and it feels like the only thing I can say. 

Another beat. 

“If I had met you before,” he starts, licking his lips, “do you think you could’ve loved me like you love him?”

My fingers are suddenly cold. Fuck.  

I sigh deeply, a sigh that touches the innermost parts of my belly and chest. 

“God, Jake,” I say softly, “can’t you just be quiet and let me cut your hair?”

He shakes his head. No, he can’t just be quiet and let me cut his hair.  

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I tell him, snipping here and there gently, “really, I don’t.”

He inhales deeply, chest expanding below me. He leans back, too, in a measured way so the top of his head is nestled against my ribs. It is a touch light enough to be innocent, an accident; except that I know it is not. I know he’s drunk. I know he’s drunk enough to stumble and maybe drunk enough to throw up, even. But he is not drunk enough to touch me in these small ways accidentally, not drunk enough to forget about this thing that lies between us and swallows him, only him.  

He swallows thickly, eyes still closed.  

“Maybe I should get it out of my system before you’re someone else’s wife,” he muses, “you don’t even have to say anything. I’ll just talk.”

Someone else’s wife.  

I want to yank him back by his hair and tell him that he needs to get his shit together. I know it’s what my sister would have done for me. But it is not in my nature--I cannot do that. So I just sigh. I don’t say yes and I don’t say no, the same response I had for the ten months after my sister died, the same response that got me into trouble. 

“I think ‘bout you all the time,” he admits softly, “when I’m tired, when I’m happy, when I’m sad, when I’m drunk--’specially when I’m drunk.”

It’s my turn to take a bated breath. My fingers are frigid, but I’m still able to keep my grip on the scissors and trim gently. His eyes are still closed.

“Wish I would’ve met you a long time ago,” he continues, “like, way before the mission. When you were still flying. Think I could’ve charmed you, sugar plum. Think I could’ve loved you right.”

This is when he finally opens his eyes--they are very deep, his pupils blown. He’s just looking up at me and I’m looking down at him, scissors still moving through his hair. He’s searching my face, eyebrows knit. 

My belly is aching, my spine prickling.

“I have to say it,” he tells me, his voice strained.

I know what he is going to say--wish fervently that I didn’t.  

“You don’t,” I return just as quietly. 

He blinks, cringes like he’s in pain. He sucks in a breath, lips parting. 

“I do love you,” he tells me. 

A lightning bolt strikes my chest and sizzles my skin, burns my hair. 

It is what we’ve been dancing around since we first met--what I’ve been able to dismantle and dodge. But I am too drunk to dismantle it, to dodge it. Now it is sitting in the air around us and we are alone in here. An admission, a big one, one bigger than both of us.

“Stop it,” I whisper, hands falling from his hair as my brows come together. 

He continues, though, licking his lips. 

“I would never try anything with you ‘cause I respect you too much, Faye. I respect you more than anyone, kid,” he tells me, coming up to grasp my wrist, “I think you’re my favorite person. I do love you. I do.”

Swallowing thickly, I just shake my head. I don’t know what to say to him and my throat is tight and my chest is tighter. So I just look down at him, at his gaze, and shake my head.

“You’re drunk,” I try. 

He nods. Fuck.  

“So are you,” he says, “and I mean what I said.” 

I do not love him like he loves me. Not even a fraction of myself does--not a particle of skin or a follicle of hair or a fallen eyelash or the toenail on my pinky toe. Top to bottom, side to side, head to toe; I love Rooster. Only Rooster. 

“Why can’t you just be my friend?” I whisper. 

He swallows, shaking his head softly. His grip on my wrist tightens slightly, not enough to hurt me, but enough to keep me close to him.  

“I am your friend,” he says, “of course I’m your friend.”

A long beat passes. Somewhere else in the house, the shower turns off, the constant hum abruptly pausing. Rooster will be back soon. 

“But it’s not enough for you?”

He stares up at me--his gaze is earnest, frightened. It makes me want to go outside and drink up all the air out there. It makes me want to stand beneath the star-sprinkled sky, skin goosing in the nippy winter air. 

“It can be,” he insists softly. 

I sigh. 

Another beat passes.

“It’s enough for me,” I nod, “you know that I think you’re a good man. Be a good friend.”

This makes him close his eyes in that unintentional way, when he just can’t look at me anymore, when they seem to flutter shut in a sharp, pained way. He turns his cheek, chin tilted towards the floor. 

“I’m trying,” he says. 

I swallow thickly. 

“Try harder, Jake.”

And I’m pushing him right now, I can feel it. I’m pushing him because I love him so much, love that he calls me on his bad days, love that he watches whatever Meg Ryan movie I tell him about and never brings his dates carnations. 

He nods one time, a slow and sad kind of nod.

“You say it like it’s easy,” he whispers and then he sucks in a big breath, “and you know what? Maybe being your friend isn’t enough for me, Faye. Maybe it’s just not.” 

And my chest feels like it’s been blown wide open suddenly. Because as much as I know that there are feelings in his chest reserved specifically for me, that there is a place between his ribs where pieces of me reside perpetually, as much as everyone can chide about it, as much as we all  laugh about it--I did not think he would ever say it. We have done this dance since we’ve met; he spins me out and I let go of his hand, he pulls me close and I turn my cheek, he dips me and I slip from his grip. He has never said it--never explicitly said the words, even if they were implied. But now my chest is open and wide because he is my friend--a good friend, a close one. One that I need, one that I want. It feels like that’s slipping away suddenly--like I am losing him.

“Don’t do this to me the night before my wedding,” I beg, “please, Jake.”

He sighs and brings one of his hands to his face, rubbing his eyes. 

“I’m not tryin’ to do anything, kid,” he says softly, “I had to say it.”

There’s that insistence again; he had to. He had to.

“So, what now?” I ask softly, “you say that and I don’t say it back and now we’re supposed to move forward, keep going?”

He groans softly and it’s muffled by his palm.

“Dunno,” he mumbles, “didn’t think that far.” 

He’s still rubbing his face. He still sounds drunk. 

“You’re one of my best friends--!”

“--Yeah, I get it, Faye. Friends,” he says curtly, staring at the floor, leaning forward in the chair, “you don’t have to twist the knife, darlin’.”

For a moment, I’m speechless. I wonder, just for a second, if I have stepped into some alternate timeline. One where he has admitted his feelings and we are both too drunk to do anything about it and he will not be my friend anymore after this. 

“Well, that’s not fair,” I whisper finally. 

He groans quietly into his palms, still not meeting my gaze. 

“Do you think this is fair to me,” he whispers, “because it’s not. This has never been fair to me.”

The house feels very still, very quiet. I feel like we are the only ones here--like everyone else left and we are entirely alone. 

“I don’t want to lose you,” I tell him, my voice thin, “what can I do?”

And I’m being entirely truthful now--of course I don’t want to lose him. We are friends now, have been friends since the beginning of it all, even if we really weren’t friends. I am soft with him and he’s even softer with me. His oozing ego staunches when he is alone with me--a facade dissipates, a mask unties and falls. I know that he is himself in front of me, know that he trusts me to see these parts of himself that other people don’t. 

He groans louder now, shaking his head. His voice is dripping with exhaustion, frustration. 

“Nothing,” he tells me, “not a damn thing, Faye.”

That makes me feel like I’ve just dove into a pool of rusty nails. Like I need to be stitched and bandaged, like I need a tetanus injection. I feel like I should be in a hospital bed, blinking up at a white ceiling. 

I’m still standing here in my dress from earlier, the one that is a thin sheath between my bare body and the rest of the world. It is the ballet-slipper pink dress that Jake likes so much, the dress Bradley will take off me soon. I still have my veil on, a genuine marker that I am a bride--the only bride now that Bob and Phoenix are out of the room. My makeup is surely messy, melted by sweat and laughter and small tears. He’s the only one in his clothes from earlier, too--his jeans tight on his legs and his shirt loose around his chest. Here we are, alone, dressed with nowhere to go right now. 

All I can see from here, with my soft-edged vision in this lamplit room, is the back of his head and his neck, his back. He’s breathing evenly, trying to compose himself I think. 

I wonder, fleetingly, if he’s as good at soothing himself as he is at soothing me. 

“Don’t leave me, Jake,” I say. 

It makes me feel cruel almost--saying this to him after what he’s said to me. But I mean that I need him, I really do--just in a different way that he needs me. He was the one that held me together when we thought Rooster was gone, collecting my limbs when they were clicking out of place and flailing with grief. He was the one that promised to come and get me after it all, after everything, after nothing. He was the one that told me his favorite stories of my sister and I that flirted around whatever base he was stationed at in the time before he knew me. He was the one that humiliated me so thoroughly that night on the beach, the one that truly repented, the one that crawled back into my good graces with bloody knees and broken fingernails. He was the one that wanted to be my friend. He was the one that made me care about him, leaning into my fleeting touch and telling me we would do right by my sister when I danced for the first time in The Hard Deck since she died.

Why should I be punished for being loved by him? 

I’m drunk. I know I’m drunk. But when he turns in the seat, turns so his legs are facing me, I don’t move away. I should move away. And when he carefully reaches out and settles his hand in mine, I should retreat--but I can’t. It isn’t even that I want him to hold me, but that I know that he needs me to hold him, the way I knew he needed me on the carrier when he was not chosen as Maverick’s wingman. But I can’t get my fingers to curl around his. 

When he looks up at me, his eyes are glimmering sadly, his lips frowning. His eyebrows are knit and his cheeks are flaxen. When he swallows, it’s with great effort. He looks anguished, entirely consumed by grief--the same way he looked when he found me in the hallway outside the control room. 

I know I must not look much different--anguished, heart-wrenched, formerly beautiful. I know my eyes are watery and my brows are pulled together and the flat part of my chest is naked, my pulse throbbing. I know my hair is messy now, longer than it was last May, streaked by the winter sun. I know I must look wrecked right now--glossy and bleary. Drunk and woeful. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he begs softly, “you break my fuckin’ heart when you look at me like that.”

His hand is soft, the skin lotioned. But his grip is hard--harder than it was earlier when he was holding me in place by my wrist. This grip is tighter, more desperate. I still can’t get my fingers to move. I can’t get any part of myself to move.

“What can I do?” I ask again, quieter. 

My heart is throbbing in my throat, threatening to burst out of my neck and lay on the floor in a bloody heap. He is watching me, watching my eyes. His grip is tightening--my fingertips are red and his knuckles are white.

“Love me,” he says, laughing dryly and without a smile. 

I shake my head. 

“I do love you, Jake.”

“Not the way I want you to,” he returns. 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all.  

Tequila pulses through my temple. 

“C’mon,” I say, “please.” 

I’m waiting for us to step outside of this alternate dimension again. I’m waiting for both of us to wake up, snap out of it. I’m waiting to not feel drunk anymore, but I still really do feel drunk. I’m waiting for someone to walk into the room and take us away from each other. I’m waiting for him to admit that he’s just drunk--that he won’t even remember this in the morning. I’m waiting for something, anything. 

“Can’t keep pretending like I’m not in love with you,” he says decidedly. 

My knees almost buckle, but I lock my hip, transferring my weight to my right side. My mouth is dry, full of sand. 

I want so badly to wake the fuck up now.   

“Why not?” 

My cheeks are red. He laughs another humorless laugh. 

“‘Cause it ain’t fair to me, you, or him.”

He’s right. I know that he’s right. 

He blinks up at me, stubble suddenly wildly apparent as he lets his free hand fall down his face again, pulling his skin towards the earth.

It makes me angry, how pained he seems, how utterly dejected he is. Because he is telling me this on the eve of my wedding, looking up at me with his stubble and his green eyes, and punishing me for not being in love with him. He is telling me these things he knows that I will not say back and making my heart sink in my chest and pretending like it’s hurting him the most.

“So, that’s what you’ve been doing this whole time? Just pretending to be my friend, pretending that you’re interested in anything other than fucking me?”

Fuck. There it is--that bitterness, the unintentional cruelty--leaking out of me.

 He shakes his head rapidly, scoffing. 

“That’s what you got from everything I just said? Jesus Christ, Faye,” he seethes, narrowing his eyes, “I’m not a fuckin’ villain. You are one of my best friends in the world, alright? I am delighted to be your fuckin’ friend, honey. Of course I wanna fuck you--but don’t think for a minute that means I don’t care about you, about being your friend.”

I’m stuck still, my breath a pathetic gust of hot air in my throat--clinging to my trachea. Of course I wanna fuck you. I think I might be sick, I think I might just turn around and walk away and pretend like none of this is happening at all. 

But I don’t think I could wrench my hand from his grip without my skin degloving. 

His eyes hold me in place--narrow, green eyes that watch me like I am the only flimsy flame in a very dark room. My whole body is flushed again--I’m suddenly embarrassed and keenly aware that I am wearing a thin dress with not even the hint of a stitch on underneath it.

His face is red now--his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“You can’t say that,” I am able to whisper, my voice thin and broken, “can’t say that to me.”

He doesn’t look away from my eyes--doesn’t let go of me. But he nods. He nods just one time, a solid and short thing. He agrees. Okay. I won’t say that.   

“Just stop,” I suggest defeatedly, “just stop being in love with me.”

He scoffs again, quieter now. His eyes fall to my chest and I know that he’s thinking about being on the carrier with me, holding me together, putting me on the floor, touching my skin, slowing my breathing, blowing onto my fingers. Maybe he’s thinking about it because it was the closest he has ever been to me--probably the closest he will ever be to me. 

“Okay,” he says, equally as defeated, “I’ll get right on that.”

Now it’s very quiet between us. He’s still holding my hand and I’m still just looking down at his face. The clock is ticking on and on, closer to my wedding, closer to me tethering myself to Bradley officially.

He is the one that speaks next. His voice is gravely pensive. His eyebrows are unfurrowed, his eyes wide and swimming as he gazes up at me. He looks sober, painfully sober. He lets go of my hand suddenly, lips parting as his jaw flexes.   

“I don’t know if I can watch you love him forever, Faye.”

It feels like a blow--an upper-cut to the chin, a gunshot to the chest, a firework pelted at my belly. 

When did we get here? When did Jake and I slip into this place, this place he can’t get back from but I can? Why is this so hard? Why is he telling me this fifteen hours before I get married? 

“You’re being cruel,” I say, my voice cracking, breaking.

“I’m being cruel?” 

He asks this brokenly, his tone not bitter and accusatory. He asks this like he really needs me to answer him--like I really need to tell him the truth because he doesn’t know. 

I have to swallow very hard before I can speak again. My hands are shaking.

“What did you expect to happen?”

He knows what I mean. He knows what I’m asking.

Did he think I was going to take his hand and walk out the front door and never look back? Did he think I would pity him enough and just give him a little bit of myself--just a quick and quiet kiss on the mouth, enough to keep him going, enough to keep quiet between the two of us? Did he think that I would suddenly open my chest to him, let him inside, hold him close to my heart? Did he think I would realize that it was him all along--that he is the one I am supposed to be with? 

Or did he just want to punish me? 

There’s that anguished expression on his face again--now I’m the one that closes my eyes, turns my cheek, because I cannot look at him when he looks like that. I don’t like it when he looks at me like that, so sad and broken, so eager for me to put him together again even though I cannot.

But I know then--I know what he wanted to happen. He wanted me to choose him, wanted me to sit shotgun in his truck all the way back to North Carolina, wanted to take this dress off me somewhere dark and quiet, wanted me to just forget about the wedding ticking closer and closer. 

Fuck. Oh, fuck.  

My heart is hammering in my chest.  

“Faye…”

“You’re drunk,” I say again and he is just blinking up at me.

Really, it’s an olive branch that I’m extending to him. Really I am giving him an out so that when I wake up tomorrow, when I slip into my wedding dress and my veil, we can pretend like this only happened because of pink champagne and tequila. 

I’m begging him wordlessly. My face looks like the word please. 

It dawns on him very slowly, deflating every feature of his face. His chest sinks. 

“Yes,” he whispers, “I’m drunk.”

I bring the scissors up and cut one final tuft of uneven hair. 

He stays still, lets me, keeps quiet. 

“There,” I whisper, “all done.”

He turns again, blinking up at me. His cheeks are red. 

My voice is very soft, very quiet when I speak again. It is not an unkind tone that I take with him; I cannot find it in my heart to be bitter and unkind to him. Not after everything we’ve been through--not after everything we’ve done for each other, to each other. 

“Get out of my chair,” I whisper gently, “and wash your face with cold water. Take an ibuprofen. Go to sleep.”  

When he nods, he looks very much like a child being told what to do. He is submitting to me, to my words, letting them guide him. He’s doing as he’s told, carefully moving his eyes from mine and sitting up again, hands still on his thighs.

“So when you wake up tomorrow, you’re going to pretend like none of this happened?”

He doesn’t look at me when he says this. He just whispers it with his back turned to me, his eyes trained on the empty stairs before him. He sounds dejected--broken. He sounds like this is the one thing that he cannot handle--if I pretend like this conversation never happened, if I try to dance around all of his words and keep being friends like nothing happened.

“I never said that.”

He nods, but still doesn’t look at me. 

Phoenix moves into the room as he stands up, smiling tiredly before she yawns.

But Phoenix is good at reading the room--good at reading my face, Jake’s face even when she’s drunk. I know the blush has dripped from my cheeks down to my chest, know that my eyebrows are still knit and my mouth is flat. I’m not smiling anymore--neither is Jake. 

Jake is slinking towards the hallway with his cheeks hollowed, his hand raking through his trimmed hair.  

“You okay?”

She asks this when it’s just her and I in the room. 

Her face is clean and free of makeup now, her hair brushed and her veil disappeared. Her dress has been replaced with a Navy sweatshirt and plaid pajama pants--it makes her look soft and small.

I could lie to her--could just smile and say oh, yes, I’m fine. Just tired. Big day tomorrow! But she reminds me too much of my sister, who is the one person I wish was here, the one person who would listen to my qualms and work through them vivaciously. 

When I open my mouth, though--I still feel too empty to say anything. And I suddenly feel that saying what Jake said to me is betraying his trust in me, his vulnerability. He is still my friend. I still love him--just not the way he wants me to. 

My hands quiver as I set the scissors on the coffee table.   

“He’s relentless sometimes,” I tell her, my voice thin, “and I’m too soft. And I’m pretty drunk.”

That’s all I have to say--she nods, registering what must have happened, perhaps thinking that one of his flirtations struck the wrong cord finally. 

Carefully, she shuffles across the floor and around the tufts of hair to sit in the wooden chair. It is probably still warm from his body.  

“I’ll talk to him,” she whispers, “don’t worry about it.”

I just braid Phoenix’s hair--combing my fingers through it and very carefully layering the French braid down her back as the boys file back in the room. Everyone is fresh-faced and in their pajamas, still bleary-eyed and hiccupping lightly. But now it’s mostly quiet as I band Phoenix’s hair, smoothing it with my slick palms a final time before I sigh. 

When I look out to the boys, my head is throbbing smally; I don’t know if it’s because of the champagne or because of Jake or because of the hour or because of the exhaustion flooding my gut. Bob is on the couch, eyes slipping shut slowly as he watches Phoenix climb out of the chair. Hangman is sitting on the floor again, legs stretched out before him once more. But he isn’t looking at my face now--he’s watching my legs, my bare feet. Rooster is standing from his spot on the ottoman, grinning at me, oblivious to the pulsing vein in my head and the strange air between Hangman and I. 

“Ready for me, honey?”

He cups my cheeks, tilting my head towards him, and kisses me a few times. His lips taste minty, his breathing very soft as it fans across my lips. And it’s not that I have to be reminded of this, but he does remind me of it when he does this: he is a good man. He is the kind of person I am ready to spend the rest of my life with. These are the lips I should be kissing, this is the body I should be pressed against. 

“‘M gonna get some air,” Jake says suddenly, standing from his spot and crossing to the back door before I can even detach myself from Bradley. 

The backdoor slams shut behind him, vibrates the kitchen door. 

“Wedding jitters?” Bob guesses quietly from the sofa, shrugging. 

“Probably,” I whisper. 

And it’s when Rooster sits in the chair, when Bob and Phoenix fall asleep in tandem on the couch covered by a wool blanket, when I hear the patio chair scrape against the bricks and know that Hangman is sitting beneath the night sky by himself, that the knot in my chest comes undone. Finally, it is just Rooster and I here, everyone else just figures, just fragments. 

Rooster is so tall that his head rests against my chest when I rake my fingers through his damp hair. He groans lowly, head falling into my palms, lips parting prettily. I just do that for a few moments, let my fingers brush against his scalp and through his sandy curls, carefully detangling them. 

“Not long now,” he hums, peeking at me through a nearly-shut eye, “cold feet?”

I am reeling still from my conversation with Jake minutes ago, reeling from his gaze burning my ankles and feet, reeling from this sudden confession. But I am also very happy--very happy to be marrying Bradley tomorrow, very happy to be having my wedding here with all of my friends. 

I am ready to be Bradley’s wife. I know that we are tied together and have been since before either of us even knew. 

The wedding will be good--perfect, even.   

I’m just drunk. I’m just drunk and one of my best friends broke our unspoken rule and told me that he is in love with me and I told him to wash his face and go to bed.  

I swallow thickly, bringing the scissors up to his hair, grinning widely despite myself, despite my pulsing and aching.

“No,” I whisper, snipping the first curl carefully, “you?”

He chuckles, eyes slipped shut again. He is so beautiful bathed in lamplight, so beautiful when he gives me his weight and lets me hold it close to my body. 

“Should’ve married you a long time ago,” he whispers.  

My eyes water.   

Yes, this is what I want. This is who I want.  

“Rookie mistake,” I whisper to him. 

He grins--it is the grin that I love so much, the one that is molded around a mustache and scars and teeth and tanned skin. It’s a grin that is on the face that I love so much. It makes me set the scissors down, makes me hold his cheeks as I tip his head back, makes me bend at the waist to give him an upside-down kiss. 

“I would’ve married you the first day I saw you, baby,” I whisper into his mouth, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, “all you had to do was ask.”

☾☽

I am awake before anyone else is in the house--it feels like I’m up before anyone else in California for a fleeting few minutes as I blink at the ceiling, orienting myself. It feels like I’m awake before anyone else in this great, wide world--like my eyes are open before anyone else’s. 

 It’s still dark outside, the calling birds distant and hollow-sounding as they cry for the light. The house is quiet--an easy kind of quiet, a plentiful sort of quiet that accompanies sleeping bodies. The house is the kind of clean that amplifies silence, too--spotless except for the tufts of hair peppering the living room floor, the tufts that must be swept and thrown away.

The dim morning light is starting to obscure the darkness of the bedroom, the maple-scented candle having never been lit in mine and Rooster’s rump to the bedroom late last night after his haircut. The bed is warm from our unwashed skin--the skin that’s pressed deeply into the wrinkles and folds of this linen, this cotton. These sheets are tangled around us, the way they have been since July of 2019. They smell like us now--somewhere between pepper and honey--a scent that was born when we tethered ourselves to each other. 

I am sure that no one in the living room is awake yet--can hear the soft sound of the air conditioner below the puffs of breath and bending limbs. It sounds like they’re dreaming in there. For just a split second, I wonder if Hangman is dreaming about me. The thought makes me pulse all over, makes my throat ache. Thinking about our conversation at all suddenly has bile rising in my throat, threatening to spew if I move too suddenly. I cannot deny the reality of it now that I am awake, blinking at my bedroom ceiling, acutely hungover, achingly sober: Jake is in love with me.

Fuck.  

Filling my lungs, I hold my breath there. I measure the seconds with Rooster’s breathing. Everything’s okay. Everything’s good. I am able to hold myself there, hold myself still, for twenty-seven seconds before my lungs start to burn. 

When I exhale, it’s slow and steady, my fingers colder than they were last night.   

Stevie is stretched out across Rooster’s feet, more fluff than feline, far away in her dreams. Her whiskers twitch when she stretches her paws out before her, but still she doesn’t awaken. This is where she sleeps each night--careful not to drape her tail over my legs or toes. Bitch.   

Rooster is sleeping beside me, stripped down to a pair of briefs, sprawled across the middle of the bed with his mouth buried in my hair in a sweet attempt to reach my throat. He’s holding me close, holding me tight, a thick hand splayed across my belly and an even thicker thigh pinning my legs to the bed. His mustache is tickling the exposed lobe of my ear and I would move if I didn’t treasure those bristly hairs pressed against my skin, if I didn’t love the chill up my spine. His eyelashes are fluttering--they’re gingerly twitching there against the side of my face in accidental butterfly kisses. He’s breathing those loud, hard breaths into my tangled locks--his breath smells like the draft beer he likes at The Hard Deck.

This is how I am going to wake up every morning after this point. Yes, just like this--us entwined on these sheets, him holding me against the bed, me waking up before him. We will not be in this house anymore come September, probably. Come May, we will be packing boxes, staking a For Sale sign in the front yard. 

But not today--no, today we are getting married. 

I am good at getting out of bed without waking Rooster up. I’m good at navigating our room in the mostly-dark morning, good at slipping my robe on silently. I’m even good at navigating the rest of the house in the dark, stepping over piles of hair and sleeping bodies, closing the doors soundlessly until I am on the back patio with just my phone. 

It’s still cold now--colder than it was last night when I ached to be under the sky. The birds are louder now, too--swooping gracefully from one branch to the other, calling gleefully. I can still see the buttery moon hanging in the cobalt sky above; a waning crescent.  

But it is beautiful out here, very beautiful. The brick patio, which used to be a humble square, has been extended beyond its original placement and covers half the backyard now. It gives way to trimmed, green grass perimetered by the tall wooden fence Bradley painted white last month. There are trees, too, dotting the corners of the yard; big, sturdy eucalyptus trees with sage-colored leaves and smoky bark. 

Perhaps the most identifiable change, though, are the flowers that flood the lawn. All over, sprawling and crawling, are flowers. They’re in rows and not in rows, planted wherever we saw fit, growing in an array of colors ranging from indigo to canary to azure. There are all kinds of flowers, too; daffodils, early tulips, breath of heavens, tuscan blues, lilac vines, California poppies. 

Out here, in the nippy air, the flowers emit a most consuming scent. It smells like a picnic on a Sunday morning in the park, like laying on a gingham blanket and sitting beside a wicker basket. Like flicking thick-bodies ants into the freshly cut grass and tearing pieces off a baguette with unwashed hands. Like hard ground against soft skin, like rusty swingsets and idle clouds. It smells like my grandmother’s farm--like running around the haybales with Maggie, like scaring the cows, like eating apple butter on buttermilk biscuits. It smells like hiding behind a big red barn and pulling splinters out of my sister’s palms. 

It just smells like Maggie out here, I think. Like something that is inside the earth. 

I know this is the place I should do it if I’m going to do it--in the backyard that we used to polish wine bottles off in, surrounded by native wildflowers, a chill in the air to offset the heat in my face. I know that this is the time to do it if I’m going to do it--everybody in the world is asleep, everybody in the world is dreaming. I know this is the day to do it--my wedding day, the day we naively spoke about under the false pretense of togetherness, brazenly unaware that we would not be together at all, naive to the delicate pendulum of death that would suddenly strike her. 

So I do it. 

My fingers are cold, very cold. It is hard to bend them, hard to dial the number that I still remember so very well. 619-295-9472. When I press call, her face fills my screen--all chipped-tooth smiles, rosy cheeks, wet lips, tired eyes--just below her contact name: Maggie Moo.  

This grief that sits in my chest has not grown lighter since she died, but my muscles have grown around it--I have pushed forward, bearing the weight, bearing the brunt of it all. And I have not heard her voice in a very long time, not since the last time I called her, which was on the day I came home from the rehabilitation center. I will allow myself this--I will allow myself to hear my sister’s voicemail right now, in this beautiful backyard that will no longer be mine in a few months, on the day that I am going to marry the love of my life. 

The line trills one time and hitches as her voicemail starts. 

“Lieutenant Maggie ‘Crimson’ Ledger is busy right now, sorry! Try calling Lieutenant Faye ‘Clover’ Ledger if it’s really an emergency--or if it’s Bob. Hey, Bob! I guess Cyclone, too. Sir! Okay, so Bob and Cyclone can call Faye if it’s really an emergency--or if you just want to chat, I’m sure she’d answer right away. But if this is, like, a telemarketer or something then you can hang the fuc--”

It cuts off there. 

I used to beg her to change her voicemail, endlessly worrying that she was going to miss an important professional call and find herself in an awkward situation. But now, now that I have my phone pressed against my face and her voice is so close to my ear, I’m so glad she didn’t listen to me. 

She sounds so happy, so alive. She definitely recorded it in the car--I can hear the highway around her, the radio humming distantly. Maybe she was on her way to work. Maybe she was on her way home from the grocery store, ice cream melting inside a paper bag in the backseat. Maybe she was coming here to my house and we were going to watch You’ve Got Mail. I wish I knew when she recorded it, wish I knew where she was and what she was doing. 

I play it again, eyes slipping shut. 

It’s been a very long time since I’ve heard my name fall out of her mouth like that, so very easily, so very casually. It’s the name she said first, before her own name, before mama or dada. It was Faye that she uttered gleefully, grabbing a fistful of my hair as we toddled around blocks on the living room floor. And now it’s recorded for eternity in this voicemail, her voice the same scratchy-sweet tone I remember. 

One day, I worry that she will start to slip away. God, it’s a thought that has crept into my skull in moments between asleep and awake--a thought that’s made a nest at the edge of my brain, nestled between pink folds, burrowing deeply in my mind. I am afraid that one day she will have been gone for so long that I will forget what her laugh sounded like, forget about what her left kneecap looked like, forget what her favorite song was, forget what her face looked like when she was annoyed. It makes tears cloud my eyes each time, makes an impossible knot tangle my gut tightly. Because I don’t want to forget any piece of her at all--even the pieces that don’t matter very much. 

I play it a third time and let it finish, let the automated voice prompt me to leave a voicemail. And for some reason, when the beep sounds, my lips part. 

“Hi, Maggie,” I whisper, my voice thick with sleep and tears, “God, I feel stupid doing this. But this is the closest I can get to you right now, Mags. This is all I’ve got left.”

The crackly silence rings through on the other end. 

I sniffle. 

“Can you believe I’m getting married today? Fuck, that’s weird. Bob’s going to wear a flower crown,” I laugh softly, palming the tears from my cheeks, “and he’s been real good to me, real sweet. Came with me to pick out my dress, helped plan the reception. He offered to walk me down the aisle, too, but I told him I need him to just be the man of honor. I can walk myself down.”

Another beat of silence. The birds call hoarsely above me. 

“The backyard’s lovely,” I start again, sighing, “we fixed it up nice and pretty, planted flowers, painted the house. All that boring shit you would’ve hated. But it’s pretty. And it smells good--smells like you. And I think it’s going to be sunny today, which makes me happy. Guess rain on your wedding day isn’t necessarily common in Southern California, though, huh?” 

I wish she was here, on the other end of the phone, humming along with me.  

“Wish you were here now. I wish you were here right now more than I ever have before,” I whisper and my vision is blurring, my throat tightening, “because I just feel like today isn’t real without you here. I wish you were here to tell me that flower crowns aren’t going to be in style in a few years and that I should have my hair up instead. I wish you were here to drink too much champagne and make an inappropriate speech. I wish you were here to hand Bob a handkerchief--he’s gonna be a wreck. I wish you were here to just tell me what to do. Just want you to boss me around.”

I let the silence on the other end wash over me, let it carve my chest out, let it wring me dry. For a moment, I pretend like that’s her voice. That deep, staticy, hollowing silence.  

“I love you,” I say quietly, “How could you leave me hanging like this, Mags? You bitch. I miss you. So much. So, so much.” 

The tone cuts me off before I can continue, not that there is anything left for me to say to my dead sister’s voicemail. 

I won’t listen to her voicemail again for a long time, won’t be able to hear her say my name, won’t be able to hear her tease me from beyond the grave. I won’t listen to it again until my grip starts to loosen--until I cannot remember which teeth her chipped, which ankle had that tiny butterfly tattoo, which eye she claimed was smaller than the other. Then I will let myself have it again. I’ll let her say my name. I’ll let myself pretend like the silence is her voice.  

It is enough for now, though. Enough for me to stand up and tilt my head towards the rising sun, enough for me to flex against the heavy grief on my chest. I can carry it today--I can hold it in my palms, walk it down the aisle, feed it the cake in the fridge, shower it in prosecco. 

The day begins as soon as I cross the threshold of the kitchen, as soon as my bare foot is flat on the tile. Everyone is suddenly awake, crowding the kitchen, their eyes bleary. 

It smells like bacon and coffee, the way Saturday mornings should smell--the scent is thick and fat, wafting through the air in a cloud almost.

Rooster is standing at the stove, a tea towel slung over his shoulder as he twirls the tongs in his right hand. Phoenix and Bob are sitting at the kitchen table, running over the schedule Bob has so graciously worked out (and typed, printed, color-coded, stapled) with two glasses of orange juice perched before them. Hangman is fiddling around with the coffeemaker, five empty mugs sitting before him on the copper countertop. 

Everyone has bleary eyes and stiff limbs. And everyone’s hair is shorter now--I squint against the light, making sure everyone’s ends are even. 

They don’t seem to notice me for a moment, standing in the doorway with tear-streaked cheeks and my phone clutched in my cold hand. But I’m glad to rest here in the doorway, the glass-paned door cool against my skin, watching these people I love mill around this kitchen I love this early in the morning. 

“Morning,” I greet after a moment. 

Everybody looks up at the same time, snapping to attention like an Admiral is on deck. Their faces are all happy ones--clean, shining, smiling. 

“Good morning,” Phoenix grins, “it’s wedding day!”

I’m smiling now, too--my face feels tight from saltwater, like I’ve been swimming in the ocean instead of just sitting in my backyard and crying on an empty voicemail. 

“Don’t worry,” Bob echoes closely, “we’re gonna make it real easy for you, Faye. Right, Phoenix? Smooth sailing here.”

Phoenix nods rapidly, her hair still somehow braided. 

“Thank you guys,” I smile softly, passing them as I walk further into the kitchen, fingers gently grazing the kitchen table. 

Hangman is smiling softly at me, eyes cloudy and crusted with sleep. His hands are resting on the countertop, knuckles inching towards white as his fingers wrap themselves around his palms. It’s like he’s holding himself there, holding himself back. 

“Morning,” I whisper to him, “how’re you feeling?”

I’m asking him this softly and without secrecy. When he looks into my eyes, he knows that my question extends beyond Bob’s Miracle Hangover Cure. He knows I’m testing the water. He doesn’t know, though, that seeing him makes my heart plummet to my belly like the ground has dropped out from under it. 

“I’ll be okay,” he says. 

And I know that he means that he will make it through today. I know that he remembers last night. I know that he remembers everything he said to me. I know the hurt must still be there, sitting between his shoulder blades in shapes that resemble the curve of my palms. 

“Good. We’re gonna need you today.”

His eyes fall from mine, down to the floor. 

Am I being cruel?  

“Well, I’m not going anywhere.”

And then Rooster is grinning at me over his shoulder, hair soft and shorter and curly, mustache unkempt, eyes dazzling and crinkled. He hums the wedding march quietly and I pretend that I’m not elated, playfully rolling my eyes before wrapping my arms around his waist.

“Happy wedding day,” he whispers gleefully, kissing the top of my head. 

“And yourself,” I mumble back, closing my eyes against his solid warmth, letting the scent of bacon consume me. 

He hums, still looking down at me. I know without opening my eyes that his brows are furrowed and his eyes are soft, the way they always are when he’s concerned. Big, brown puppy-dog eyes.  

“You alright?” he whispers to me softly, “saw you on the phone earlier.”

My chest tightens like someone is turning a key attached to my back, winding me up.

I can tell Rooster anything--I can tell him everything. I have given him the deepest of my secrets, the ugliest of my stories, and he has accepted them with ample grace and gratitude. He has eaten small pieces of me, devoured them, and I have sat comfortably inside his belly for over a year now. 

Some things, though--they just belong to me. Some things are just mine and Maggie’s. Twin things, sister things, aviator things. And this phone call, placed very early this morning, is just mine and hers. It will be kept between us, just like the gritty details of her death. 

“I was leaving a voicemail,” I whisper, “I’m alright.”

He nods. 

I know that he wants more, but he doesn’t pry. He’s good like that. He doesn’t push or pull me. He lets me lean into him, lets me come to him in my own time. I love that about him, love so much that he waits for me to walk to him without beckoning me--yet wants me so voraciously that I always know. I always know that he wants me, even when he doesn’t say it. It just emanates from him like body heat.  

“Good,” he sighs, “now, will you start toasting the bagels? Looks like Bagman’s gonna need two.”

“You’re a good man, Rooster,” Hangman sighs from his spot, raking his hand through his hair tiredly, “a smart one, too. Perceptive, even.”

And the day pushes forward like that--very easily.

We all eat breakfast together, just the five of us. We eat on my grandmother’s china, pristine eggshell-colored plates adorned with dainty crimson paisley, and good silverware that used to be Maggie’s. There are linen napkins strewn about, serving platters of all shapes and patterns splattered with capers and egg yolk. Everyone is drinking orange juice from mismatched glasses, cream for the steaming mugs of coffee sitting in a glass jar beside the bouquet of fresh flowers that were delivered just after eight. It smells of grease and citrus and gardenia and friends here --smells like home. The sunlight pours in through the windows now, flooding the room, painting everything bright and merry.   

The house starts to fill up just after we finish washing the dishes, just as we are all breaking to wash our faces and brush our teeth. First it’s Coyote, holding a duffel over his shoulder and a cardboard box. 

“Cameras?” Bob asks from the landing as Coyote steps into the house, grinning. 

Coyote nods eagerly. 

“All thirty of ‘em.”

Then it’s Maverick, Penny, and Amelia that show next. They’re grinning, too, each of them fresh-faced and holding their own bags. Just after them, it is Fanboy and Payback, bringing our total up to a whopping eleven guests in my cluttered house. 

It’s all hugging and kissing and smiling as everyone comes up the stairs and reports to Bob for their assignments--which he doles out with a remarkable amount of gumption for a man with slick under eye masks pressed against his skin. Phoenix acts as his second in command, his muscle--she stands beside him with identical eye masks, nodding along with him, clutching her stapled schedule to her chest. 

By ten in the morning, everyone is busying themselves with their assignment. 

Coyote and Hangman are setting up my extensive collection of lawn chairs, dutifully unfolding them and dusting them off as they form rows on either side of the brick patio. Fanboy and Payback are moving the thrifted wooden tables outside, arranging them prettily among the wildflowers and nestled in the green grass. Maverick is dropping a disposable film camera in each seat and helping to set the tables with the china I’ve been collecting, placing silverware beneath dainty linens and colored glass goblets atop the thick wooden tables. Amelia is collecting the flowers, arranging the centerpieces carefully and neatly at the kitchen table in the abundance of makeshift vases I’ve been collecting. Penny is beside Amelia, plucking flower petals off their stems and collecting them in a wicker basket for the ceremony. Phoenix is constructing the flower crowns for the bridal party, looping chrysanthemums, carnations, baby’s breath, honeysuckles, and marigolds. Bob is overseeing it all, stepping in place whenever another pair of hands becomes necessary, and keeping the records turning. 

   Right now, above all the laughter and the glasses clinking and the orders and the conversations, Baby, I’m Yours by Barbara Lewis is playing the way I like it--just a little bit too loud.

The bathroom counter is cold beneath my bottom and thighs, a hardness I am braced against. I am just in a pair of white cotton underwear, my legs smooth and lotioned as they open for Rooster to step between them. He is only wearing a pair of briefs, too--his body is lean and tan, wide between my knees as they press into his hips. His hands, his rough and big hands, fall onto the tops of my thighs where he grips me.

He is close enough to me to drown me in his sweet, familiar scent, close enough for his nose to press into mine when he ghosts his lips over mine. He’s radiating warmth like a personal heater, goosing my skin. He’s smiling down at me, his eyes soft when they land on my own identical smile.  

“Hold still,” I whisper. 

He stills between my legs, kneading the meat of my thighs mutely. 

I bring the scissors under his mustache, very carefully trimming it, narrowing my eyes and leaning forward. His breaths hit my face in short, hot bursts as he rounds his top lip over his teeth to give me more leverage. 

“Doing great, baby,” I add softly.

He chuckles, squeezes my thighs. Little pieces of his sandy mustache flake onto my naked lap, over his splayed hands.  

“Y’take such good care of me,” he whispers, eyes watching mine. 

It makes my throat swell, swell with that love that chokes me. 

I pause my trimming, carefully angling the small scissors away from his cheeks as I hold his jaw in my hands. He is so beautiful, standing here between my thighs, grinning down at me in the golden morning light. His eyes are shining, his grin spreading.

I brush a thumb over his bottom lip, press it there gently. 

“You make it easy,” I tell him, a lump in my throat. 

He presses his lips to mine and we kiss, his hands moving to my hips, pressing me into him. And when his tongue licks a warm line across my bottom lip, I know that I have to be the one to pull away. I do so laughing, quickly bringing the scissors back to his mustache.

“Baby, we can’t,” I whisper, “sex isn’t on Bob’s schedule.” 

“S’cruel to me,” he mumbles, shaking his head. 

I quirk my brow, flit my eyes to his through my lashes as he stills. 

“Well, which is it?”

He pinches my hips again and I bite my lip. 

“So, your heels are blue. The dress is new,” he starts, chuckling when I roll my eyes up to meet him again, lip curving around his uneven mustache, “what about something borrowed? Something old?”

He’s right--I don’t have a plan set in place for either of the customs, something that had fallen off my radar in between thrifting tables and planting flowers.

“I guess I don’t have either,” I say softly, “but I can ask someone for a quarter or something. I’m sure that works, right?”

He’s just gazing down at me now. His eyes, a deep amber hue washing over them, study my fluttering eyelashes. He’s smiling softly, mouth closed. Carefully, he inhales then moves to pepper a soft kiss to my nose. Then his hands move up from my hips to my belly, which is nearly pressed against his. His touch leaves behind a trail of rose petals, the color of an open flame, tickling my skin and swelling my throat. 

He stills there, on my belly. His palm is flat against me, against my emptiness. His thumbs reach up and swipe to follow the curve of my breasts, lazily dancing under their heaviness. His touch feels good--very good, too good. Sometimes it overwhelms me to think about having this touch on tap for the rest of my life. It makes me woozy, dizzy.  

“Noted,” he whispers, “trim me up nice and good, baby. Gotta look my best today.”

It’s almost four o’clock when I step outside of my bathroom again, my heels clumping softly against the emerald tiles then sinking into the carpet. The room is washed golden, the ceiling fan churning the maple-scented air around the room with an empty reverence.   

I’m wearing my dress now, which Phoenix and Penny dutifully helped me slip into, my body almost entirely bare before them. They zipped and tied me, adjusting me, preening, carefully breathing so as not to disturb the delicate silk slinking down my body.

“Here comes the bride,” Penny gleefully says from before me, gesturing to me from her spot outside the bathroom, beckoning me into the bedroom and closer to her.

I have to bunch the fabric in my hands softly, pulling it up just so that it doesn’t graze against the carpet and under my heels when I walk. 

Bob stands to attention suddenly from his palace at the window, his burnt umber slacks pressed and cuffed immaculately. His hair is gelled and his glasses are resting on his nose politely, not a speck on their lenses.

“Oh, Bob,” I grin, “you look so handsome!”

Something happens when Bob sees me--his breath catches in his throat, his smile fades, his eyes flutter before they narrow. And he just looks at me with his mouth ajar, watching me walk towards him, the soft dress like feathers against my skin. 

“Isn’t she a beauty?” Phoenix asks from beside Penny, biting her lip.

My heart is throbbing in my chest as Bob’s eyes find mine. His are watery suddenly, searching my rouged cheeks and painted lips as I stand there before him: a bride. 

And it feels like the day has blinked suddenly by us. 

Bob has made everything so very easy, stepping into the room and guiding me from hair to makeup, bringing my garter to me on a small tufted pillow, showing me the rings in his pocket every half hour for the sake of his peace of mind and mine. He’s been the one to bring me granola bars every two hours, asking me an infinite amount of time if I want a smoothie or a margarita or a xanax.

My Robert from Major Authors--the one who feels like a child to me sometimes, the one whose hair I cut in college in my ugly galley kitchen, the one who has punched precisely one face in his life to defend my feelings, the one who has always loved me without taking more than I give him.  

“Bob,” I whisper, “if you cry, I’ll cry.”

Bob blinks rapidly, sputtering a dry laugh, turning his cheek.

“I’m afraid to know what happens when Bob cries,” Penny says softly, nudging him teasingly.

“I think a puppy would die or something,” Phoenix adds. 

I know this is Phoenix’s attempt at drying our eyes, confiscating our wet cheeks. I know that she would cry, too, if Bob cried--that is how much she loves him. That is how good of friends they are. We are connected in that way again--the common ground spreads and we step closer to each other. 

“I know, I know --no crying in the Navy,” he insists, stepping towards me, running his fingers along the shoulder of my dress, “but my best friend is getting married. S’enough to make a grown man cry!”

Everyone in here is grinning, laughing. The room is still bright in the afternoon light, sunlight painting the wallpaper and duvet. It smells like expensive perfume and hairspray, like sticks of gum and watered down lattes. 

“Why don’t you crown her,” Penny suggests, her voice very soft as she nods towards the flower crowns perched on my bureau, “and we’ll veil her?”

Bob nods, pulling his fingers away softly, his blue eyes big and round as he finds mine again. We just look at each other for a moment, inhaling this bedroom on this day, raising our eyebrows at the same time. You okay? Yes, I’m okay. Are you? I’m good. It’s that language of ours, the one that is all eyebrow and lip and cheek but never sound. 

“Right,” Bob says, clearing his throat, “I’ve got you, Faye.”

It is all very sweet, very ceremonious. Bob places the plush crown against my clean hair, carefully pressing stray strands from my lashes and cheeks, his touch the most gentle its ever been. He is close enough for me to smell the gum between his teeth, close enough for me to press my lips against his cheek, leaving behind a print of my pink lips.

“Thank you,” I whisper to him. 

And then Phoenix and Penny settle the cream-colored veil at the base of the flower crown, letting it flutter down my bare back and settle at the base of my spine in a sprawling cream-colored blanket of silk. 

Then they’re all three standing before me, eyes wet, smiles wide. It makes me flush, all of them looking at me like that, like their hearts are in their throats. So I grin, just grin, because there is an overwhelming sense of pride rushing over my entire being as I look at my bridal party. 

Bob and Phoenix in their corresponding colors, his dress shirt pristine and white, her dress olive-green and flowering around her calves in sheaths of velvet. Even Penny in her floral gown, her hair pinned up, her cheeks glowing. They make me a proud person to love and to be loved by them. 

“Knock, knock,” Jake’s voice suddenly echoes in the bedroom as he turns the handle and raps his knuckles against the door, “y’all decent?”

My heart stutters in its place. We haven’t spoken more than a few words since breakfast. But he was happy then, laughing between bites of bagel, eyes bleary and teeth especially white for the occasion. Other than that, other than his apparent joy, we have only slid past each other in the hallway, waved through windows. He’s been busy getting Rooster ready and I’ve been busy getting myself ready, separated by a few walls and a few members of our squadron.

Jake doesn’t wait for an answer--he comes into the room with a grin, whistling lowly at the bridal party before me, smoothly waltzing towards us with a small velvet box in his hand. 

“Y’all clean up nicely,” he compliments, his trimmed hair coiffed and his stubble trimmed, “where’s your veil, Bob?”

Bob rolls his eyes, not looking away from me, biting a grin. He looks very proud, very pleased.

“Gave it to the bride,” Bob teases back, breaking so Hangman can step between himself and Phoenix, “look for yourself.” 

And that’s precisely when Jake sees me. He stutters in his place, expression dropping completely in a single instant. Fuck. The grin thins and dissipates as his eyebrows slope, his mouth slack. I think I even see the breath in his throat catch, even see his Adam’s apple bob like a buoy in unforgiving, stormy waters.

His eyes wash over me slowly, starting at the flower crown and ending at the velvet toes of my heels. He’s looking at me like this is what he’s been waiting for all day, like he can’t believe that this is happening, like he has to see it to believe it. 

Fuck.  

And when his gaze finally meets mine, his mouth is still ajar and his cheeks are pale.

I think we are close enough friends for him to understand the crinkle between my brow. Please, don’t. Just be my friend. Please be my friend. It’s practically pulsing. 

He swallows thickly. 

“You’re a vision,” he says, his voice ragged. 

“Thank you,” I whisper, stepping towards him carefully, “everybody here?”

Phoenix is watching my face, Bob is watching Jake’s. I know they’re wondering--I know they’re trying to decipher, dismantle. I know they want to know what happened last night. But even if I did want to tell them, it makes a lump grow in my throat each time, makes me want to weep. And I am too happy to weep now--too dizzyingly excited, anxious to marry Rooster. 

“Yes,” he says dryly, eyes resting on my throat, “just came ‘round to tell you guys to take your places.”

He turns his cheek carefully, glancing at Penny, Phoenix, and Bob.

“I’ll walk Faye to the door,” he adds quietly. 

What he means is: leave, please.   

They nod, grinning, taking sharp breaths before squeezing my arms and carefully sweeping their eyes over me to make sure nothing is out of place. It’s Bob who catches my gaze again, asking in his silent way if everything is okay, reading the crease in between my brows and the pout in my lips.

Everything’s okay. Everything’s good.    

“See you out there, honey,” Bob says from the door, Phoenix and Penny already walking down the hallway, “you got this.”

Then it’s just Jake and I again. 

Except now I am in a wedding dress. 

The dress is, by far, the most perfect thing I’ve ever owned. It is made entirely of silk, the color of a freshwater pearl, and falls down my body in one heave of heavenly fabric. The neckline dips tastefully, a small portion of the place where my ribs meet peering through the fabric. The sleeves are billow and rouche just past my elbows. It is an elegant dress, a sweet one--one Bob helped me pick out in September, him and I sorting through yards of fabric and bustiers and bejeweled skirts until we found this dress.

“Faye, that’s the one,” Bob had said immediately when I stepped out from behind the velvet curtain, my hair pulled back with a scrunchie and my socks bunched at my ankles, “oh my, God! You look perfect.”  

I know that I look beautiful right now. I know without even studying myself in the mirror that I look beautiful right now. My dress is perfect, my crown made of flowers is handmade, my veil lovely and ethereal. My cheeks are rosy and my lips are pink, my eyes dusted lightly, my jewelry dainty and golden. I am spritzed in my favorite perfume and my hair falls down my body in precious, cascading waves. 

It’s the most beautiful I have ever been--I know this. And I know that if I were alone and to study myself in the mirror, at my face that is mine but also my sister’s, at my body that is twenty-eight now, then I would see her there with me. Perhaps I wouldn’t even be able to imagine her beside me if I saw how truly decadent I really look--I would just see her face staring back at me. That’s when I see her in me; when I am beautiful, very beautiful. 

And Jake’s wearing a pair of brown pants with smart creases, his leather shoes worn but polished, his scent that same papery-cologne from before. He looks handsome, too--like a cowboy. He looks like last night never even happened.

His cheeks are beginning to redden, his lips beginning to part. 

“You look,” he sighs, dragging his eyes up from my throat, “like a fuckin’ angel.”  

There’s only a few paces separating us. He’s gripping the velvet box so hard that his knuckles are whitening. 

My heart is jumping in my belly, pounding, prancing.

When he’s this close to me, all I can think about is his quiet insistence last night. All I can think about is the tequila that pulsed through my temple when he uttered his confession, when he said he wanted to fuck me, when he told me he couldn’t watch me love Bradley forever. All I can think about is him walking away and never looking back and me calling an empty voicemail every time the Cowboys win. 

And I shouldn’t be thinking about these things, not right now, not when I am about to get married. But he is my friend--I do love him. I will mourn him if I lose him.  

“Thank you,” I whisper. 

I wish that last night never happened. I truly wish that we could just stand in here as two friends and just be in the same room without that big, nasty thing looming over us, between us. I wish that he never said anything at all. I wish that he could just flirt the way he usually does, the kind that is easy to roll off the shoulders--but it feels different now. He hasn’t even come forward to kiss my head today like he usually does when he sees me.

 The air is thick with tension, with words left unuttered. 

I’m not sure if I want him to say everything or nothing. I’m not sure I want him to say anything at all, really.  

“S’beautiful out there,” he says, “you did a good job.”

I nod again because my throat is aching too badly to speak. 

He clears his throat again, then gestures to the velvet box in his hand. 

“From the groom,” he whispers, crossing the floor to press it into my palm. 

I wish that things were different now. I wish that we were still the kind of friends that could sit close together when I open this, wish that I could lean on his shoulder, wish that he could wrap his arm around me without feeling like we are hurting each other. 

It’s quiet. He presses the box into my hand and then doesn’t move. 

So I carefully open the box--breath catching in my throat when I see the simple, gold pin resting in the box, a white pearl adorning its head. It’s cold when I press it against my fingers, shining in the dying sunlight, gleaming up at me. 

“He said it was his mama’s,” Jake sighs, crossing his arms as he comes even closer to me, his shoulder brushing mine, “guess she wore it on her wedding day, too.”

I feel like I knew that as soon as I saw it--could imagine her wearing it, pinned to the frilly sleeve of a puffy dress, all grins and big hair and exuberance. And now it is mine, my something borrowed, my something old. From the mother that would’ve adored me, given to me by the son that I am completely devoted to.

It’s love that pulses through me then, love for Rooster, for what we have. It is a certainty, one that puddles in my gut, even when Jake carefully takes the pin from me and steps before me. The toes of his shoes are against mine now as he looms over me, eyebrows creased. 

“Here?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer again. His eyes flicker to mine and he looks genuinely pained, being this close to me without touching me, seeing me in a wedding dress. But that doesn’t stop him--he very gingerly pinches the thin seam that connects the brassiere of my dress, careful not to pull it away from my body as he pins the brooch to me. And then his eyes rest there, just between my breasts, just above the bit of bare skin of my ribs. 

“Jake,” I whisper, stepping back. 

He nods, turning his cheek, biting his lip. 

He inhales deeply there, just before me. And I think if his hair wasn’t gelled, he would rake his fingers there. But it is so he just wipes his palms against his pants. 

The vein across my nose throbs again. 

“I need you to be my friend, please,” I say softly, really meaning it, the absence of my sister growing wildly apparent with each moment that passes, “even if it’s just for today.”

He nods without looking at me again. 

“You know, ‘m always gonna love you,” he says, voice flat and quiet as he slowly shakes his head, “and ‘m always gonna be your friend.”

That makes me feel rotten.  

Now I am the one that sighs, that wants to run my fingers through my hair. 

“Shouldn’t have said what I did last night,” he adds, letting his hands grab his hips as his eyes burn a hole in the carpet at my feet, “shouldn’t have done that to you, Faye. Wasn’t fair.”

My spit feels thick as honey. 

“You’ve never been very good at saying you’re sorry,” I whisper lowly, carefully nudging him, “cowboy.”  

I am testing the water. He knows this, lets himself smile in that small way, lets himself exhale and deflate. It feels easier now--the air a tad thinner.  

“You know that I am,” he says softly.

“And you know that I forgive you,” I whisper, “I always do.”

And before I can really even process what is happening, before I can lean forward and press my hand against his shoulder, he has closed the space between us. He has his arms wrapped around me, his grip constraining and tight, hands securely pressed against my ribs on either side. His head is very carefully hovering above mine, mindful of my hair and my makeup. And he’s very solid, just like he always has been for me, just like he always will be for me. 

After a moment, I hold him, too--I wrap my arms around his shoulders, let my eyelashes flutter against his dress shirt. He’s inhaling me, breathing in my scent, stroking the fabric of my dress, hugging me to him as tight as he can. 

I almost cannot breathe, but I don’t say anything. I just hug him back.

Almost, I whisper that I’m sorry that I don’t love him the way he wants me to. Almost, I whisper that we have just missed each other in this lifetime. We passed each other in separate taxis, his south-bound and mine north-bound. We are not meant to be together. 

We say nothing. I am the one that pulls away finally, carefully dragging my fingers across his shoulder as I detangle myself from his grip, careful to keep the tears in the corner of my eyes right where they are. 

And then he’s giving me this pitiful grin and his eyes are wet and wide and his face is flushed. He carefully wipes his thumb beneath my lip, correcting a nonexistent smear of lipstick. Then he smooths his hands over my hair, my veil. 

I wipe a single, stray tear from his left cheek when it spills over his lash line. His face is warm beneath my hand, his cheek heavy when he leans into my touch. 

“You are a good man,” I tell him seriously. 

I know it is something that he does not hear often--I know that so much. 

He sniffles, bites his lip hard, nods mutely. 

“You’re an angel,” he whispers back.  

Then I let my hand fall and it’s quiet in here again, just the two of us with open wounds on our chests.  

I can hear everything happening outside the window suddenly. I can hear the record player from its perch on a kitchen chair just outside the backdoor, an old Frank Sinatra song floating through the winter breeze. I can hear Hondo’s kids playing with Warlock’s kids, all giggles and shouts and clamoring feet. I can hear everyone chattering in their seats, probably turned around to talk to whoever is behind them, familiar faces against familiar faces. I can hear everybody holding their disposable cameras in their laps, showing their kids how to crank the camera before capturing images, explaining the process of dropping the cameras off at the pharmacy and picking them up a few weeks later. I think I can even hear Bradley’s voice above everyone else’s, can hear him talking to the officiant, can hear him laughing lowly.

There are birds calling, California natives. They’re in my eucalyptus trees and fluttering past all the flowers we have been growing. Certainly they must be basking in the warmth of this winter sun, too--preening their feathers before perching on a branch. Maybe that is what Maggie is today; a calling bird, her song mournful and sweet, perched high above us to witness what she could not be a part of. 

Yes, that is what she is today. I’ve thought about it and so it must be.  

That’s when I know that we need to go. That’s when my palms start to itch because Bradley is waiting for me--he is standing in our backyard, at the end of the brick aisle, wearing a most handsome button down and pair of well-fitting slacks. I know that his heart must be jumping inside his chest, his throat aching as he waits for me there.

“I’ll lead the way,” Hangman says.

He moves his arm--offers me his bicep. He’s smiling again.

So I loop my arm through Hangman’s, squeeze him. He inhales, chest expanding, bites his tongue. I wrap my fingers around his bicep, praying that my touch doesn’t provoke pain. 

“Knew you’d come get me,” I whisper to him. 

My heart is steadily beginning to race. 

He looks at me, looks at me right in my eyes, and nods despite himself. He’s smiling a sad kind of smile, a smile that is almost wet, almost a frown.

That’s when he does it. Very slowly, he leans forward and presses his lips to my forehead. It’s a long moment that he lingers there, his lips puckered, his eyes closed. That familiar kiss--it makes me feel like everything is going to be okay.  

“My pleasure,” he whispers against my forehead, “now let’s get you married.” 

So he walks me down the hallway of my home, this home that I love so much. He walks slow, matches his pace to mine, flexes his bicep beneath my fingers. He walks with his spine straight, his jaw squared. I try to walk the same way, measuring my breaths as we emerge from the living room into the kitchen, when everyone is suddenly looking at us.

He squeezes my fingers as everyone’s eyes fall to mine, like he knows how tight my throat suddenly is.

“Right on time,” Bob grins.  

It’s much brighter here than the bedroom, the room made almost entirely of light and warmth. 

I have always loved this kitchen very much--have worked hard to love it very much. It is copper and green and lovely, a place that I find solace in. It is a place that my sister used to frequent, perched on the counter as I made us sandwiches after swimming all day, mindlessly thumbing through cookbooks on her lap. She used to bump her hip against the island every time she rounded the corner, every time groaning and moaning. It used to be one of the only rooms in my house with working air conditioning, used to be where I spent much of my time before I met Bradley, before he fixed all the broken things in my home. It is where I find Bradley in the middle of the night sometimes, leaning against the kitchen counter with a makeshift charcuterie board spread lazily across a paper towel, his eyes half closed as he chews pepperoni. It’s where we have danced together, holding hands, spinning each other out and in, my hair whipping against the cabinets and his socked feet sliding against the cold floors. This is where we ate breakfast this morning, all together, each of us grinning as salmon oil coated our tongues. This is a very happy room, yes. But seeing everyone here now, everyone with their top button done up and their dresses steamed and their hair pinned and their grins wide--it is the happiest I have ever seen this room. 

Bob and Phoenix are standing beside Maverick and Cyclone, each of them dressed very nicely, not a hair out of place. They’re all grinning at us, letting their eyes wash over me. 

It is a strange thing to know that I look beautiful right now. I know that I should be gazed upon right now. Every piece of my look has been carefully curated, crafted. The moon earrings, the opal necklace, the opal and diamond engagement ring, the pearl pin; they are all things that have been specially given to me in celebration of this day. 

“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” Maverick grins, coming forward to press a kiss to my cheek. 

I let go of Jake’s arm.

“Bradley’s a lucky man,” Phoenix follows closely, smoothing her hand across my veil, “and I’m sure he won’t ever forget that.”

“Certainly never lets us forget it,” Bob adds, pretending to roll his eyes.

Bob watches on like a proud parent, arms crossed over his chest, smile prideful and boastful.  

“Thank you,” I smile, “everything ready to go?”

☾☽ 𝐚/𝐧: yeeeeeehaaaawwwww the wedding chapter is finally here!! I split it up into two parts but this part is 25k..........so sorry about that. mental illness really popped off w this one!!!

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

[marvelobsessedteenager]

All The Hurt - Chapter 3

Pairing: Peter Parker x fem!reader

Warnings: ANGST, Peter was an ass, reader is a hurt and petty bitch, fluff to make up for the angst, curse words, lots of “coincidences”, horrible description of death and feelings lmfao I’m sorry

Word Count: 4.5k

A/N: dis a long one HAHAH

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You groggily twisted in your bed as you tried to find the nagging nuisance that interrupted your peaceful slumber that barely lasted five hours. Your vision slowly focused as you rubbed your eyes vigorously, still searching for that damned alarm clock that you couldn’t seem to find.

“For fuck’s sake,” you grumbled, turning on the lamp beside your bed and hissing at the sharp light that was out to attack your pupils. The alarm clock, which somehow made its way onto the floor, read 7:00 AM, September 14th.

You scratched the side of your head, wondering why on earth your past self decided to wake you up this early on a random day.

Until it clicked.

September 14th. The Academic Decathlon competition that was being held in D.C. - the one your team had been preparing for months on end.

With all the ruckus that’s happened in the past few months, the competition was filed under the “unimportant events” cabinet in your mind. Truthfully, you didn’t really want to go. The only reason you were in decathlon was because you and Peter had a competition going to see who could get into as many after-school activities as possible while keeping their grades up. Plus, he said your intelligence would be an asset to the team.

It was stupid, really, but you both found joy in watching the other succeed, and at the time, Peter thought it’d be a push for you considering you were demotivated to study.

After he left you, you quit everything else besides decathlon. When you tried to, they told you you weren’t allowed to due to your name already being written down as one of the team’s members. You slacked off and often avoided going to the after-school practice altogether, hence why you forgot about it.

However, right now, it wasn’t a burden you had to bear. You were grateful for the upcoming distraction, and you thanked God Peter was somehow able to spontaneously quit the team the other day, the 'Stark Internship' granting him access to do so. Luckily for you, that meant some form of escape without having to be around him.

You felt yourself become lighter already, and you quickly got ready for the fast-approaching competition.

Once found your team waiting by the bus, you were greeted by a disoriented-looking Flash, making you giggle as you approached him while giving everyone you passed by a smile. “You look like shit.” You commented when you reached him at the back of the lengthy bus.

“I feel like it,” he groaned, his forehead pressing into the side of the vehicle, “I’m so not a morning person.”

You rolled your eyes and handed him the iced coffee you bought for him on the way, “I know, that’s why I got you this.” You said, shaking the beverage and holding it out for him, "Drink up, Eugene. We got people to beat. And before you ask, yes it has almond milk in it.”

He lifted his head and looked at the coffee in surprise, then back at you, “You’re a lifesaver.” He said, engulfing you in a hug so suddenly you had to hold onto the side of the bus to keep you both from falling back.

You teasingly shook your head and patted him on the back, “I know, I know. I’m amazing.”

“I don’t disagree.” He said, pulling back and taking the coffee from your hands with a small ’thank you.'

You stared at him as he slurped on his drink and sighed in bliss, and wondered what it would be like if he treated everyone the way he treated you.

You knew of his past and understood why his actions came from a place of hurt and nothing more. During these past few months, Flash helped you open your eyes and made you more understanding of people. Especially those who tried to cover up their pain by pushing others away in self-preservation, in fear of showing others who they truly were because they were afraid of being hurt, taken advantage of, or even worse, mocked for it.

At the simple gesture of getting him coffee, he seemed shocked that you even remembered his order, let alone got him something. Your empathetic side was much stronger than you thought it’d be, you realized, your heart aching for the misunderstood boy who stood in front of you.

“What?” Flash inquired with furrowed eyebrows, capturing the metal straw once more (because plastic ain’t it).

You were about to make a joke about how you were staring at him to process how ugly he was when Abe gleefully yelled, “Hey, it’s Peter!” And pointed ahead of him.

You swore your heart stopped for a moment, the voice in your head repeating the word ‘no'.

Your eyes widened as you slowly turned around in astonishment to find that, yes, it really was Peter, in the flesh.

And he’s asking to rejoin the team, but you were still caught up in his presence.

And how much you hated it.

Of course he showed up. Last fucking minute.

Boiling anger shot up to your throat and escaped through your mouth with a growl, “No, no way,” you walked towards him, eyes burning with rage as he backed up, “You can’t just quit, make a grand last minute entrance and be welcomed back.”

Of course, he was welcomed back by all but you and Flash, but that didn’t make a difference to anyone else no matter how many times you whined and objected.

“One more smart team member couldn’t hurt,” Mr. Harrington said.

And that’s how he ended up taking his seat about two rows behind yours, as you and Flash took your designated spots in the front. All the memories of him being Spider-Man fogged up your brain like you couldn’t see anything but him in the suit. It was infuriating how just him being there seemed to fuck with you.

What really pushed you to the edge was that you caught him looking at you. And not just stealing glimpses, no, you mean full-on gawking.

The audacity, you thought, exhaling loudly through your nose.

You found it hard to answer Liz’s training questions correctly. How could you? You were consciously aware of his presence, and consciously aware that he could be hearing your thundering heart if he concentrated enough.

Okay, so you may have done a little bit of research about him and watched a couple of his one minute interviews with reporters. None of them explained how he got said powers, but in one he told the interviewer all his senses were far, far more advanced than normal humans.

You wondered if he ever got a sensory overload.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the ring of a bell and his answer that followed, his voice echoing in your head. When you answered incorrectly for the second time, you decided to give it a rest. You plugged in your earbuds, raised the volume as high as it would go, and wished you could tune out your thoughts like you did to the world.

You were already awake when you reached your destination. While the rest of the students were in awe of how big it was, you and Flash weren’t.

Once all rooms were assigned, Peter and Ned immediately dashed to theirs without waiting to hear Liz’s plans to "act rebellious as a group". Normally, that wouldn’t raise any suspicions, but now that you knew about Peter’s little secret, you were skeptical. They must be doing something related to Spider-Man.

You ignored the dull pain in your chest.

And as much as you wanted to find out, you were drained. Thinking had seemed to take up most of your energy, which was something you needed in order to win. So, you grabbed your spare key card to the room you shared with Sally Avril and searched the second floor for Room 249 together.

Sally and you weren’t exactly friends, but you talked a few times and said hello to each other via a nod when you passed each other in the hallways. She agreed to be your science partner for this quarter’s project, and you knew that she was incredibly bright for her age, so you didn’t mind rooming with her for a while.

When the both of you were out of breath and complaining about your backs aching from your heavy backpacks, you thankfully found your room.

And, what do you know? It was exactly across the fucking hall from Peter’s.

You annoyingly rolled your eyes and hastily swiped your card on the card reader, pushing the door with your foot and throwing your backpack onto the bed before flopping on it with a groan, your tiredness leaving you and allowing anger to fuel you instead.

“You okay?” Sally asked, always the sweetheart, shutting the door and placing her own backpack on the bed, taking her possessions out.

“Just peachy,” you sarcastically mumbled, your face squished between the pillows. You could only describe their scent as hotel rooms, but they were cool enough to help put out a little bit of the fire that you still had within you. You took a deep breath and pushed yourself up, leaning on your elbows, “I’m gonna go check the gym out.”

A while back, you learned how to manage your anger by using it to your advantage. The excess adrenaline helped pump your energy and allowed you to finish your workout faster, which in turn made you stronger and defused the storm within you. You took your gym clothes to the bathroom and changed before yelling out a goodbye to Sally and exiting your room.

As you shut the door behind you, you looked up in time to make eye contact with Peter, who stood behind his glass window and froze upon meeting your eyes. You scoffed and turned away, and he sighed and continued closing the curtains to his room, obstructing anyone from seeing him remove the tracker from his suit.

When the clock struck 10 pm, you heard a secret knock that meant Liz was here to take your asses to sneak into the pool as a group. You tiredly tied your robe around your body as Sally opened the door, squealing and giving Liz a hug. The group was buzzing with excitement, and you weren’t 100% sure of it, but you were certain this was the most rebellious thing they’ve ever done.

It was adorable how innocent they were.

While the students ran down the hall, you slowed your pace down to walk beside Flash, who waited for you at the end of the line they formed and handed you a snickers bar - your absolute favorite.

“Aw,” you cooed, finger tapping his nose, "Is this a thank you for the coffee this morning?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Flash scrunched his nose and flicked your hand away.

“What's up with you lately?” You asked, peeling away at the bar’s wrapper and taking a large bite, “You’ve been so touchy and caring. I mean, you’ve given me more hugs this week than you have in your entire life.”

Flash’s ears turned red as he pursed his lips and looked down at his bare feet, “I’m not being touchy.”

You stopped and turned to face him with a tilted head and cocked eyebrow. He sighed, “You almost died, Y/n,” he admitted with a small voice, tracing all your scars with his eyes, "I don’t know, I just...I don’t want to lose you, you know? It was scary.”

Your demeanor softened and you gave him a gentle smile. Flash wasn’t one to open up and express his feelings properly, but it warmed your heart that he tried to with you. You wrapped your arms around him once more, calmly rubbing his back, “I don’t wanna lose you, either.”

He snorted and pulled back, jabbing your side and making you squeal, “Yeah, who wouldn’t?”

You jokingly pushed at his shoulders, “I could give you a fucking list.”

The two of you laughed in the hallway as you looked up to see that you were almost at Peter’s door, where he stood there talking to Liz alone. Or, more accurately, both of them exchanging love eyes that made them fumble with their words and made a visible blush rise to their cheeks.

You rolled your eyes with disgust and gagged in revulsion while your heart clenched so hard you had to put a hand on your chest to make sure it was still beating.

And boy, was it beating, all right.

Flash was quick to notice your actions and tried to get them to separate, cupping his hands over his mouth, “Yo, loser,” he called out, making Peter turn, “Stay here. I’m sure Iron-Man is gonna need your help rescuing kittens that are stuck on trees.”

You let out a chuckle and grabbed Liz by her arm when you got close enough, “Come on, don’t waste your time with him. He’s got civil duties to get to.” You threw a deadly glance at him and dragged Liz with you to the pool, failing to notice Peter’s crest-fallen face.

Who cares about him, though? You were here to win a competition and get the trophy - maybe that’ll prove to your dad that you’re worth something, and if that fails, it’s still pretty cool to have accomplished something.

You ended up teaming up with Abe and successfully pushing Flash into the pool, high-fiving Abe before he canon-balled in himself. You giggled, watching your teammates gesture you to come in, but you shook your head and took a seat in one of the chairs.

“Oh, come on, Y/n. Just come in for a minute.”  

“I’m not a swimmer, Flash. I’ll be here, just not in there.”

Your body was aching from the lack of sleep and constant moving around. Plus, you really weren’t much of a swimmer. You quietly took a seat beside MJ as she read a book you once read as well, the chair making a screeching sound that made you cringe and alerted MJ of your presence.

“Can I help you with something?” She asked, flipping to the next page and reading on, but somehow she saw you throw a glance at her.

“Nah,” you crossed your arms and leaned back, watching as Liz got splashed with water by both Cindy and Abe, who then proceeded to dunk Flash’s head in the water and high-fived, “just recognized the book, s’all.”

She hummed and nodded, and you saw her peek up at you from the corner of your eye, “Good taste. I’d like you if you weren’t a bully.”

“Guess you’ll never like me, then.” You replied, monotony lacing your voice, immediately putting an end to the conversation that was only beginning to bloom. You knew she was going to transform it into another ‘what you’re doing isn’t right’ lecture, but you’ve heard enough of it from Jane.

A tense silence settled between you two as her words settled in your mind. A bully. That’s exactly what you were seen as. You guessed people don’t exactly see what caused the change in behavior, but they see the change itself.

You placed the back of your head against the concrete wall and stared up, looking through the built in glass that allowed the moon’s light to bleed into the pool, fully brightening it up until the shadow of a figure covered the view. Him.

Him clad in his latex suit with a backpack on, hands holding the mask that would hide his identity from the rest of the world.

You saw him staring at her.

You felt your heart fall to the pit of your stomach, where it seemed to only cause a burning sensation - jealousy. You were looking at him while he was too busy looking at someone else, and that seemed to have followed you your entire life, even when you weren’t friends.

You gulped and turned away before you ever saw his line of vision move over to you, wondering and wondering.

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The next morning, you stood in front of Flash’s room with your hands on his shoulders as you tried to calm him down.

“Holy shit. Holy shit, I can’t do this, Y/n,” He said, rubbing his forehead. His shoulders were rising and falling at a quick pace beneath your palms as he took shallow breaths, nerves practically spewing out of him.

Who knew Flash was a worry wort?

“Okay, Flash, listen to me,” you grabbed his face and tilted it towards you so you could look him in the eye, “This competition is just a competition. It doesn’t prove your worth to anyone.” That’s not what you thought of yesterday, "Your grades and results don’t determine how smart you are, all right? They’re just numbers and letters, and those don’t make up who you are. And besides,” you gestured to the group of people that were across the hall knocking on Peter and Ned’s door, “if you’re so worried, we’ve got a whole bunch of smart-asses who’ll make up for your stupidity.”

You gave him a teasing smile and relaxed when he shook his head with a chuckle.

“You’ve got this, Eugene.”

He took a deep breath and nodded his head in affirmation, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve got this."

“Attaboy! That’s the spirit!” You said, punching him in the shoulder and laughing when he held his arm in pain.

The concoction from the other side of the hall seemed to have risen above your laughter, making you and Flash exchange a look before running over.

“What’s going on?” Flash asked, causing everyone to turn.

“The boys won’t come out, and if they don’t we’ll be late,” Liz answered, checking the watch on her wrist and tugging the ends of her ponytail stressfully.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” You mumbled, rolling your eyes and elbowing your way through the crowd until you reached the door.

“Ned! Parker! Get the fuck out of this room or so help me God I will fucking break the door down!” You yelled, repeatedly slamming your fist on the door as it shook from the force.

To your surprise, the door immediately swung back to reveal a sweaty Ned and a missing Peter. Before he was going to say something, you asked, “Where is he?”

Ned stood there like a gaping fish, opening and closing his mouth with broken words falling out, “He..uh, he..won’t be able to make it?”

“He left?”

Ned took a shaky breath in and toyed with the hem of his shirt, “M-maybe..”

Typical Peter. Running away when he was needed.

“Of course he did,” you pinched the bridge of your nose then turned to Liz, “we’re just gonna have to leave without him.” You shrugged, watching as Liz’s shoulders deflated.

She looked mad, worried, and at the same time disappointed. You guessed it had something to do with whatever they were talking about yesterday.

You also guessed he left due to something that had to do with Spider-Man, but you didn’t have enough evidence to prove it to yourself. Regardless of how you wanted to feel, you started getting rather distressed. You wondered if he left after seeing you guys in the pool, where he was, if he was all right, why he hasn’t come back - all questions that could be answered by Ned, you realized. But you didn’t want to risk it.

So, you made your way to the competition with murmuring nerves and trembling hands. You blamed it on the competition, but you knew deep down that it was Peter’s absence that was troubling you.

Either way, you thanked God for MJ’s intelligence that won you the competition.

Hugs were being exchanged all around and pride flowed between your teammates as a golden trophy was handed to your team.

To celebrate, you made your way to the Washington Monument, where you’d be given a boring tour and promised an 'unforgettable view.’ However, there was a tugging feeling in your stomach as Flash asked Mr. Harrington if he could tell Peter that he was expelled. He still hasn’t shown up. Your mind raced with possibilities, and only got worse as the monument's elevator ascended.

Until it abruptly stopped and aggressively shook in its place, causing panic to spread among your group as dust fell upon everyone from the hole that seemed to have appeared above you, covering you from head to toe. Smoke began to fill the elevator’s confined space and-

And this was starting to feel like Delmar’s all over again.

You were frightened, hands shaking and tears welling up in your eyes as oxygen barely made its way into your lungs only to come out again. Your eyes were glued to the hole in the elevator’s roof, as if it’d somehow close up again if you stared at it long enough. It felt as if you were looking at the inside of one’s body - it was a sight you were never meant to see, and now, here you were, seeing it. You saw the wires and pulleys that kept the elevator in its place, and you couldn’t describe how wrong it was.

“Okay, guys, I know that was scary but our safety systems are working. We’re very safe in here.” The lady assured in the most tedious way possible. It was like you weren’t about to meet death himself. Like everything was okay.

It wasn’t.

“No, lady! No, we’re clearly not!” You yelled as you collapsed to the floor, clutching your head and rocking back and forth.

“Okay, Y/n, breathe, breathe.” Mr. Harrington crouched down to your level, inhaling and exhaling slowly as if that’d help you. You could hardly focus on anything but the fact that you felt like you were going to die.

Death seemed to chase you wherever you went, like you were cursed, and now these people were going to go down with you, with no superhero to come swooping in because you didn’t know where he was.

Oh my God, why is this happening?

Flash hastily looked around and pointed to a small opening on the side of the elevator, “We can open that! We can open that and get out through there!” He said, and the others got to work right away.

Ned carried the lady on his shoulders as she successfully pushed it open, allowing new air to come through, the group taking a large, collective inhale. Flash kneeled down beside you, and rubbed your back, promising you everything will be okay, which calmed you down enough to stand up.

You were still scared, hands were still shaking, but you knew you had to put others before you. So you concealed them from everyone’s view, and helped your teammates safely climb out to where a group of security guys was waiting to pull them out.

Cindy went up first, then Abe, Sally, and the dude with glasses you could never remember the name of, until you, Flash, Mr. Harrington, Liz, and Ned remained.

They all suggested you go first, but you refused and told them you’d be fine with assisting them. Flash was up next.

The minute he jumped off the elevator’s surface to grab ahold of the security guard’s hand, the wires which held the elevator in its place snapped and you began your fast descend, screaming into oblivion as your heart rattled inside your ribcage.

A strong force stopped the elevator from falling further for a second before it started falling again, not giving you enough time to catch your breath. It hit a large metal ground, hard, and that seemed to stop it and made you fall on your knees and bust the rest of the glass.

You breathed harshly, thinking it was over, basking in sweet relief until Spider-Man fell from the hole into the elevator and pushed it down even further, prompting the elevator to plunge at an even faster rate, and both Liz and Ned to let out an ear-deafening scream that made its way to your stomach, twisting and turning it while your knuckles turned white from the death grip you had on the railing.

There's your second chance at death, because apparently, one time wasn’t enough.

With his quick thinking, though, Spider-Man raised his arm and shot his web to the ceiling of the building, holding on as he planted his legs on the corner of the elevator, and pulling as it hung in the air.

He looked around the elevator, pausing for a second on your curled up body, before clearing his throat, “Hey, how you doin’?” He said, thickening his New York accent, “don’t worry about it, I got you.”

Ned - like he wasn’t about to fucking die - began fangirling over his best friend as he yelled out multiple 'yes's and bounced up and down, making the elevator’s wheels creak, threatening to fall once again.

"Hey, hey, hey, big guy! Quit movin’ around!” Spider-Man scolded Ned, his voice returning back to normal as he tugged on the web to slowly pull the lift up.

Your insides were still flipped and in all the wrong places, mind frozen as you sat on the ground, still rattled, with tears pushing hard against your waterline. Your breathing was loud and labored, which caught Liz’s attention.

“Hey,” she sat down beside you, voice husky, still half dazed herself, “we’re gonna be okay.” She said, almost as if she was trying to convince herself with her words, "We’re safe now.”

She paused for a moment, "I know what happened to you at Delmar’s-“ You saw Spider-Man’s head swerve towards the both of you for a second as you inhaled sharply. “-but you’re okay. We’re all going to be fine.”

You tilted your head towards her, tracing over her messed up hair and flushed cheeks, dirt painting her face but a small, hopeful smile sat on her lips. You managed to give her a nod and a squeeze of her hand in acknowledgment. Though it did nothing to calm you down, you were still grateful for her sincerity and effort in trying to do so.

“All right, everyone out.” Spider-Man demanded once you reached the level where the security guards were waiting. His grunting made it sound like he didn’t have as much time as he needed, and every person made their way out slowly but carefully.

You shakily stood on your legs, waiting for everyone to get out and counting down until it was your turn. Three, Ned was out first. Two, Mr. Harrington made it to the other side. One, Liz was safely out as she looked back at you and stretched her arm, palm open and awaiting your own.

You quickly skidded across the floor, and just as your skin touched hers, the web broke into two with a splick sound.

And for the next second you were falling to your death, all on your own.

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Tags: @peachescream06

[bluwails]

"No one's supposed to cry at a circus."

Palejester au belongs to @chipper-smol

You're just pumping these out like liquid gold, aren't ya chipper?

Yes i know

PJ has alreday developed a canon(?) Personality. but!!! this shot out of my brain before that and I was too slow 🐌 and by time I got around to put stylus to board PJ was sad boi clown .

So here i am, after the curve, with a happy clown short boi and brewing ideas.

I dub him Pale Jovial jester( PJJ) !

My thoughts are as following:

This takes place many years after Hallownest's fall and its now in the bouts of a Renaissance. Thanks to Hornet, Hollow and Ghost, working together as a monarch trio with the help of the qhite lady, they have renewed Hallownest recreating the bustling utopia under a more managed rule.

Ghost now has an older body thanks to better care.

Hornet rules over Deepnest with a better relationship with the mantids after beating the lords.

Hollow, still making peace with what happened, still works hard as knight even with their missing arm. (Ogrim returns as well cause the dungy boi is so sweet. He helps create a new batch of knights along with Hollow.)

The white lady returns and a new palace is built over the rubble of the old one. ( many depiction of PK were removed or moved to the new palace or kept in place for historic matters.)

New bugs have moved to Hallownest, so not many know or remember PK and those that do only speak of him in passing when bringing up the history of hallownest.

Hornet Hollow WL and Ghost did try to hold a quiet memorial for PK only to discover his body was gone from the dream palace.

How they discover PK is PJJ is because on one of the troupes round trips to Hallownest ghost invites Grimm and the troupe to perform ( and show off their good work) in the new palace only for the opening performer to be a familiar tiny pale wyrm juggling for them.

----

Like PJ,NKG completely revamped PK to better suit the troupes aesthetic. As well as wiping all memory of what happened in Hallownest along with the memory of those affected by his actions. Technically leaving PUJ with the bare honest minimum.

TMG, when introducing his new jester to the troupe, used a bit of power to keep their mouths shut about PJJ's past in Hallownest along with their memories of those he affected by his actions. ( even if they wanted to spill the beans to PJJ or an outsider their mouths would lock up tightly. The more one would try the more painful it became so they learned to make peace with the fact that the king of Hallownest was now a clown.)

Being a near complete blank slate , PJJ, through the long period of traveling through the wastes, managed to develop a personality completely opposite of his previous.

PJJ became, for the lack of better words, Jovial. They werent adverse to touches, they even welcomed them, allowing others to hold them and handle them as they pleased. Giving TMG MANY opportunities to carry Pjj around like a spoiled cat. PJJ, as his title suggests, was a master of calculated jokes, able to perform on their feet and Crack more tongue in cheek jokes for older audiences to the point he'dleave the lot cacklingand wheezing for breath. And finally, They honestly loved to perform to the point where they performed cheeky songs and numbers with Divine fitting the mocarbra circus theme.

Where the old PK seeps between the cracks is their mannerisms and perfectionism. They take great pride in their performance. Often practicing to exhaustion and finding fault in each retry (thou it is so seamless not a soul can tell if he truly messed up) . They still hold their interest in tinkering. creating props and equipment for others performances streamlining them. even managing to make a trapeze that could handle Divine and open up a new avenue for other performances. The way they walk and hold themselves is so similar to the point where even he cracks jokes about how uptight he must look.

( yes I headcanon that Divine can sing. Her trills are so pretty. As well as beinga possiblefortune teller you she can only see the misfortune. And giggles once she tells you. Lmfao)

(as a side I totally see them performing verbatim by mother mother together as divine uses a trapeze swing( kealoid stage stage style) and PJJ does slight of hand juggling.)

Meeting someone or seeing something they once knew is no problem. It would be like deja vu in a sense. But if pressed or up against someone that is able to clear the fog PJJ does suffer from great discomfort. Especially if they insist who they are (now) is not who they used to be. Causing them to have powerful headaches as they try to understand/remember ultimately giving into the pain and going to TMG to take it away.

Cause you can't ask for retribution from someone who honestly doesn't remember what they did and who they did it to.

(I imagine after meeting Hollow they would have such a headache that would incapacitate them with pain. Hollow's face being too familiar for them to handle. )

[thinkingisadangerouspastime]

So, this may sound weird, since I don't ship ZK, but I think the reason some dislike EIP is because they realize it was the first part of a busted enemies-to-lovers arc. EIP was part one, where Zuko and Katara see how others see them, and it weirds them out. Yet, Zuko insisted on sitting next to Katara and Katara pushes Aang away, suggesting there might be something there that they don't want to acknowledge. (1/3)

The first part of the finale was Part 2, where June reiterates the "Hey you're with your gf again!" Zuko and Katara deny it, but there likely should have been an undercurrent of 'Why do people think we're together? Do we act like it? Should we be? S/he is kind of cute.' During this time, Zuko defers to Katara and despite Toph likely being more helpful, asks Katara to be the one to take down Azula with him. (2/3)

Last part of the finale should have been the money shot, Zuko taking lightning for Katara, and in a parallel to CoD, Katara healing him. Dante Basco is right in that there probably should have been a kiss at that moment and the end scene of the gang at the Jasmine Dragon with Zuko and Katara shyly proclaiming their interest in each other. (3/4, sorry I have one more)

Again, ZK is not my ship, but EIP seemed to set up a ZK endgame that jumped the tracks at the end. By all the "rules" of a good narrative, Zuko and Katara should have ended up together, otherwise EIP should never have been countenanced or storyboarded. Full disclosure that I'm not a huge Kataang fan either, but Kataang was done a disservice by having EIP exist. It either should not have ever gotten written, or the ZK enemies-to-lovers arc should have been concluded. (end)

Disclaimer: I don’t care if someone ships Zvtara. Never have, never will. If the takeaway you (the general you, not anon specifically lol) get from this post is that Zvtara is “bad,” then I’m going to assume you didn’t actually read anything I wrote, because that is the farthest thing from my point here. Also, this post is strictly my personal response to these asks. I don’t expect everyone to read this and be like “YEAH” lmao. I am sure some people have different opinions, and that is a-okay!

In short, I think we will have to agree to disagree, anon.

Do some people consider EIP the beginning of a busted enemies-to-lovers arc? Of course they do, they’re “rabid zkers” who wear Zvtara shipping goggles 24/7 lmao. EIP couldn’t have been the beginning of an E-L arc because such an arc was never in the cards for them in the first place! Katara forgave Zuko in the previous episode. Trying to cram a romantic relationship into five episodes after months of hatred between Zuko and Katara would have been awful writing (and thus probably would have been a decision mercilessly criticized until the end of time, lmao). So it’s honestly better that Zvtara gets to spread its wings in fanon instead (much less pressure)! Also, realistically speaking, Katara and Zuko probably still had so many issues to work through in their friendship. Like yes, she forgave him and recognized he was trying to do better, but that doesn’t erase what Zuko has done to her and her friends. There is still plenty of forward progress they need to make before romance can even be considered between them. If that makes sense?

Also, let’s be real: EIP and bit with June afterwards were 100% ship bait. Just an attempt to add to the “drama” of who Katara would end up. A technique only effective while it was airing, for the record, because if you watch the show straight through, it becomes glaringly obvious that Zuko and Katara’s relationship - while gorgeous - was always meant to stay strictly platonic within the canon timeline.

Anyways. I’ll try to break down your ask one piece at a time!

“Zuko and Katara see how others see them, and it weirds them out”

Yes, they are definitely weirded out! The transcript says, “Zuko and Katara inch away from each other, slightly uncomfortable.” Which is just a longer way of describing that they were weirded out by the depiction of their relationship in EIP, lol. However, the play is not how others see them. The play is the Fire Nation’s imperialist propaganda, meant to demean the entire Gaang. I talk about in specifics how the entire Gaang is belittled here, but this is the key stuff I noted about Zuko and Katara:

it’s important to situate that and more importantly situate eip zuko and katara’s relationship within the context of the show. the fire nation is an imperialist country. the southern water tribe has suffered heavily beneath them. we know from “the headband” that fire nation individuals are fed pro-imperialistic propaganda from birth; that combined with zuko and azula’s degrading comment of “peasant” towards katara demonstrate very clearly how the fire nation views every other nation - put simply, they are superior and everyone else is inferior. that attitude is therefore reflected in the eip play:

- katara, an indigenous woman, is highly sexualized and portrayed as overly dramatic and tearful, because the fire nation objectifies women not of their own people and views them as less intelligent and less emotionally stable

- she is thus paired as having a “romance” with zuko in eip because naturally, via fire nation logic, zuko would be able to “score” an “easy” woman of one of the water tribes

- furthermore, the eip “romance” between zuko and katara emphasizes zuko’s position as a traitor to the fire nation; the implication is that as a traitor, he’d only be able to achieve a relationship with a “lesser” woman, e.g. a woman not of the fire nation

That is not how other people truly view Zuko and Katara’s relationship. That is how the Fire Nation depicts their relationship in order to degrade and dehumanize Zuko and Katara. To misinterpret that as “evidence” that Zuko and Katara should have been together romantically is… disturbing, in my opinion. (I really try to stay far away from zkers who use EIP as “proof” of supposed Zvtara interest in each other like honey that is imperialist propaganda please don’t 😭).

If you want to talk about how other people actually view Zuko and Katara’s relationship, look at the Gaang, who were around them most of all! They never tease the possibility of romance between their friends. Why? Because within canon, there wasn’t one. Simple!

“Zuko insisted on sitting next to Katara”

Nope! This is all the transcript says: “Zuko [Removing his hood.] Just sit next to me. What’s the big deal?” He doesn’t even mention Katara! Zuko is literally just like I’m already sitting. Why do I need to move? lmfao. It’s no thoughts head empty for our favorite firebender 😂

“Katara pushes Aang away”

I’m assuming this about the kiss, which I’m going to make a post about in the future because I am TIRED of the tomfoolery. Anyways, I’ll keep this brief - yes, she does push him away. She does not deny that she likes him. For Katara, the issue is the timing: “This isn’t the right time.” Both Katara and Aang know they like each other, plain and simple (which is why Aang doesn’t ask if he returns her feelings - he asks if they’d be together, because he knows their feelings are mutual). Katara pushes Aang away because, as she says, they’re in the middle of a war. She’s already seen Aang die once. He might die again. She doesn’t want that, of course, but it’s a reality Katara is forced to consider.

Anyways, her decision has nothing to do with Zuko. Lol.

“June reiterates the ‘Hey you’re with your gf again!’ Zuko and Katara deny it, but there likely should have been an undercurrent of ‘Why do people think we're together? Do we act like it? Should we be? S/he is kind of cute.’”

June’s assumption - especially because it is a repeat of a gag from earlier in the series, when it is incredibly concerning to assume a Fire Nation citizen would be with someone of the Water Tribes because of the war and its consequences - is comic relief. Not even good comic relief, lmao, because of the horrific implications I just mentioned that come with it, but it’s supposed to be comedy. There was no need of any “Zvtara” undercurrents there because a) Katara and Zuko had never expressed romantic interest in each other in the past, b) it wouldn’t track with the show’s narrative of Katara as Zuko’s surrogate sibling because of her position as Azula’s primary foil, and c) it just doesn’t make sense in general. Katara likes Aang. Zuko likes Mai. There was never a love triangle there, plain and simple. Fandom invented it.

And again, if you want to talk about how people actually see Zuko and Katara, don’t look at June, who has never had a proper conversation with either of them. As I said, the Gaang is a much better example, since they’re with the two 24/7. If they never tease Zuko and Katara about romance, why should we trust this random lady who doesn’t even know them?

“During this time, Zuko defers to Katara and despite Toph likely being more helpful, asks Katara to be the one to take down Azula with him.”

As I mentioned, Katara is Azula’s primary foil, so from a literary perspective she absolutely needed to be the one to take her down. Zuko needed to face Azula, but taking her down - again, from a literary pov - was always meant to be the end of Katara’s journey (she was the only person besides Aang who was ever a match for Azula, after all, as we see in CoD). Also, how would Toph be more helpful?? Not saying you’re wrong, btw, I just don’t understand what you mean. If I was Zuko, I also would have brought the waterbender that I’d already witnessed almost take down my sister already 😂. But even if Toph would have been more helpful, sometimes practicality must be sacrificed for a fulfilling narrative arc, lol!

“Last part of the finale should have been the money shot, Zuko taking lightning for Katara, and in a parallel to CoD, Katara healing him.”

Honestly, anon, this part of your ask baffles me 😂 I totally understand why rabid zkers might make this argument, but taking into account the rest of the show… It just doesn’t make sense? It’s been talked about a hundred times, but Zuko taking lightning out of romantic interest would ruin his redemption arc, regardless of if it was Katara or Aang or Sokka or anyone in the Gaang that he was taking it for, so that should be the end of discussion, full stop. I’ve talked about this issue here and here before, and someone else does a great job breaking it down in this post, too. But seriously. Zuko having romantic interest for anyone in the Gaang would ruin!! His!! Entire!! Arc!! I hate when people don’t understand that 😭 Zuko had to learn selflessness, to learn how to put others before himself, and to unlearn the imperialist rhetoric he’d been indoctrinated with from birth. Romantic interest during canon for Katara, Sokka, Aang, whomever, I don’t care, completely disregards all of his growth of breaking away from the Fire Nation. Plain and simple.

“Dante Basco is right in that there probably should have been a kiss at that moment and the end scene of the gang at the Jasmine Dragon with Zuko and Katara shyly proclaiming their interest in each other.”

I learned in a discord I’m in that Dante Basco apparently hadn’t seen the whole show until this year lmao. He didn’t know what energybending was nor did he know A:TLA ended with a Kataang kiss. Take that with a grain of salt, of course (you can watch the livestream this is revealed in here, and it was also mentioned in the recent StageIt A:TLA reunion), but I think it’s safe to conclude Dante Basco can be treated like any other Zvtara shipper. He likes the ship, which is totally cool, but he is not one of the writers, so his opinion meant naught in constructing the canon narrative.

ANYWAYS. My point is why would Zuko and Katara proclaim interest in each other if such interest would have to be crammed into five measly episodes?? Especially when four of those episodes were the finale?? That is awful writing, of course the A:TLA writers wouldn’t do that, lmao! They’d built up Kataang and Maiko already. Why scrap it and needlessly rush a romance from an excellent - and, important to note, a newly established - platonic bond? Nah.

“EIP seemed to set up a ZK endgame that jumped the tracks at the end. By all the ‘rules’ of a good narrative, Zuko and Katara should have ended up together”

Nope. Idk what rules people have been teaching you, anon, but they were lying!! You deserve better than people who would lie to you like that 😤. But yeah, narratively speaking, Katara and Zuko getting together would have made no sense. It would have undermined Zuko’s and Katara’s arcs, it would have completely disregarded Katara’s established feelings for Aang and Zuko’s for Mai, and again, it would have been totally rushed. Who wants that?? Normal people don’t, lmao. This might be hard to believe considering I occasionally rag about BNF zkers, but I actually have several friends who are Zvtara shippers! They agree that canon Zvtara would have made no sense, and that it’s better to play out a potential Zvtara dynamic in post-A:TLA fanon. I swear, it is only the rabid shippers who think Zvtara should have been canon, and trust me when I say no one should want to associate with them, lmao.

(And again, as I touched upon earlier, Zuko and Katara’s canon narrative relationship was surrogate siblings because of Katara’s position as Azula’s primary foil. The show wrapped their arc up perfectly! With a lovely bow and all. So no complaints from me!)

“otherwise EIP should never have been countenanced or storyboarded. Full disclosure that I’m not a huge Kataang fan either, but Kataang was done a disservice by having EIP exist”

What EIP did right:

- accurate (and horrifying) depiction of pro-imperialist propaganda

- recap of previous seasons

- a lesson on consent (Aang kisses Katara, it is depicted as wrong, and Aang reacts appropriately by admonishing himself and by giving Katara space afterwards. like, people call Aang an incel/entitled/whatever, BUT HE HAD THE PERFECT REACTION?? he literally backed off and never pressured her again. i would have killed for the guy who kept getting in my personal space during my junior year to have backed off when i told him to. spoiler alert: he didn’t)

- hit some good humor beats

What EIP did poorly:

- honestly it’s not very interesting just based on watching it (deconstructing it as propaganda gives it better depth), but that’s to be expected from filler

- stupid shipping drama

- not having an additional conversation/explicit apology between Aang and Katara

HOWEVER. This final point is actually very subjective. For one, A:TLA has a clear trend of not showing apologies on screen. Ex.: Katara doesn’t apologize to Sokka for what she said about their mother, Zuko doesn’t apologize for anything he did to the Gaang, Song, or really anyone (closest we get is “Hello, Zuko here” lmao), Ty Lee and Mai don’t apologize for putting the Kyoshi warriors in jail, etc. etc. So while an explicit apology would have been great, the lack of one admittedly tracks with the show’s pre-established standards. And two, while I of course would love a conversation between Aang and Katara (that’s literally MORE KATAANG. why would I refuse 😂), it isn’t… necessary, to be frank. Aang’s mistake is treated as such - kissing Katara was wrong and he should never have done that. Like I said, Aang acknowledges this error and gives Katara space afterwards. Thus, it is Katara who chooses to be with him when the war is over. She respects the time he gave her to come to a conclusion, and the choice she makes is that she loves him despite his poorly-timed kiss (I mean, she forgave Zuko for being complicit in Aang’s death. Katara is clearly a very forgiving person!). So like,, it gets to a point where if someone doesn’t recognize that, they’re probably the kind of weirdo who labels anything they don’t understand in a story as a plothole, lmao.

All of this is to say that EIP wasn’t a disservice to Kataang. It certainly could have been better, of course, and the kiss was obviously only put in to hype up drama (“will they, won’t they” blah blah blah), but overall it handled consent well for a kid’s show.

“It either should not have ever gotten written, or the ZK enemies-to-lovers arc should have been concluded.”

On the whole, EIP is absolutely an unnecessary episode, yeah. It was just a recap before the finale. The only important thing is its accurate depiction of pro-imperialist propaganda, but most people’s minds don’t immediately go to that, I’ll admit lmao 😂. And as I’ve already said, there was no Zvtara E-L arc - fandom completely made that up. Which is totally fine! That’s the point of transformative works. But they are still fanon. Plain and simple.

TL;DR - Zvtara was never in the cards for A:TLA. I wish rabid zkers would stop pretending it was and have fun in the sandbox like the rest of us 😭

And for the record, anon, you absolutely, 100% do not have to be convinced by any of this! It’s just my own, personal thoughts on the whole dealio. No worries either way!! 💛

[amourology]

You did not have to do anything to deserve to be told how amazing you are. You are amazing and are so nice and understanding. You are truly talented and amazing and should be told more often. So I will make a note to tell you as often as I can!

I was so upset when I had to delete the sims and then like a couple days (maybe a week) they announced snowy escape and showed all the stuff you could do with the pack. I thought it was really cool and loved all the new building options that came with it. I was so upset that this would be the pack they came out with right as I had to remove it lol 😂

Also yes Mr Kaz “calling my love interest an investment” Brekker would much rather have his partner/love interest think it’s an insult rather than let them know how he truly feels. 😂 Which you write perfectly.

I love the way you write Kaz! Both in Belladonna and Schat. It’s so good and accurate. But still really sweet and amazing!

Also that makes sense that these two stories take place in different “universes”. I love that you have more stuff planned for Belladonna!Reader. I love it so much and can’t wait! Also I think that’s a good way to identify that it’s in the same universe! But if you find something else you like better to identify it, go with that!

I am so excited to eventually find out what he said to her! I can’t wait for the blurb. Also I think it’s really cool and amazing that you are able to add your language into the stories. I think it’s truly beautiful, but understand that you may feel that way all the time. I hope you are able to find comfort in writing in your language and if there is anything I can do to help please let me know!

I am in Central Standard Time, but I work third shift several days of the week so I’m awake at night a lot, but then other days I’m awake during the day and asleep at night. Lol so yeah my schedule is chaotic.

Also (I ask this to a lot of people, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to lol) what is your favorite flower?

Also I think I’ve read Schat at least ten times and plan to read it many more times. Lol

Have a good day! 😊

-🗝

i swear 🗝 anon if u were here i’d ask for ur hand in marriage 😔✊🏼 one of the sweetest anons out there i swear

your love for both belladonna & schat literally are the highlight of my day already (and it just started lmfao)

also i may have made an abnormal sound at reading the “it’s so accurate” about kaz’s character bc i still think (i told u this before i think? idk) that’s literally the biggest compliment someone could ever give me about my kaz’s fics and i love u so much for it <33

as for my favourite flower! it’s actually kind of hidden in schat lol the flower y/n smells is a daisy, which is my favourite flower :) i love them they’re so cute & they grow on the field behind my house & i used to make flower crowns from them when i was younger and—yea i just love daisies :)

what about you? do you have a favourite flower? it’s such a cute question to me so don’t worry i was happy to answer it, love <3

hope you have an amazing day 🗝 & i’ll hopefully talk to u soon!

[pokefarm-q]

firewolf1117 refuckingceipts (it's all been removed now but people archived it)

this bitch:

When you say “All Cops are”, here’s what you’re really saying:

All Blacks are Criminals All Mexicans are Illegal All Americans are stupid, fat, and lazy All Rape Victims are liars All Suicide Posters are Attention Seekers All Muslims are Terrorists All LGBT deserve to die

Are you outraged yet? GOOD.It means I touched a nerve.

You would never, ever, EVER say those things about those groups of people because you KNOW that it’s not true, even in the slightest. There are so very very FEW Cops who are actually corrupt and using their power and position inappropriately.

So what gives you the right to say the same about cops? COPS! Who are practically SOLDIERS! EVERY DAY their family lives with the fear that they won’t return. EVERY DAY they put their lives in danger to PROTECT you! They, as a whole, deserve your RESPECT!!! MOST ALL “Brutality” cases are from the CRIMINAL fighting, disrespecting, grabbing a weapon, etc. If you’d just COOPERATE AND BE RESPECTFUL you’d be treated FAIRLY!! Cops don’t have the time to sort things out. Their snap second decisions PROTECT them AND nearby Civilians. You can’t possibly understand the FEAR AND TERROR they hold EVERY SECOND of EVERY DAY! So don’t you DARE judge them for mistakes.

and here’s the response of one brave user, this legend, this badass mofo, who replied to their bullshittery and got banned for a day for posting in the whiny crybaby bitch’s journal without permission:

Replying to this, because FireWolf1117 is intentionally spreading misinformation and hate. I don’t care if the staff is going to tell me off for this — for once, I care a little more about setting this right than following the Journal rule.

First of all, United States cops are legally not required to save civilians. It’s not considered unconstitutional, according to the case Warren v. District of Columbia (444 A.2d. 1, D.C. Ct. of Ap. 1981). To keep it short, cops can literally see crimes being committed and decide not to intervene if they feel like it. This has been quite common among police departments if you (objectively) compare the police’s actions during BLM protests and anti-lockdown protests.

Anyways, let’s get to your generalizing logic. I have to agree with you on one thing: generalizing is bad. No group should be generalized because of some rotten apples. However, this doesn’t count for cops. Here’s why not:

The police force isn’t a marginalized group. A police officer is a profession. A job. Cops are public servants. They work for the state, for the civilians. And that’s why they need to be held accountable for any misconduct they commit. Which is, unfortunately, is objectively not the case. According to statistics from https://mappingpoliceviolence.org, 99% of United States cops who have killed citizens have not been criminally charged, because police departments literally protect officers from getting tried. Of the 750+ shootings done by police this year, only four cops are getting tried. So much for “there are only a few corrupt ones”. Black people are also way less likely to carry a weapon compared to White people, while Black people get shot by cops thrice as likely.

What’s more, because the police force is a profession, people can quit being a police officer. This doesn’t count for most of the groups you mentioned: Black people can’t stop being Black, Mexican people can’t stop being Mexican, Americans can’t stop being American (also you including Americans kinda makes you look embarrassing lol no offense), rape victims can’t be ‘unraped’, Muslims (or even just Arabs in general) can’t stop being perceived as Muslims (even Sikhs get seen as Muslims nowadays…) and LGBTI+ people can’t stop being LGBTI+ (unless they discover they’re not). Police officers can literally take their uniform off and be perceived as normal human beings. As soon as they are on duty and take on their uniform, a huge responsibility awaits them. A responsibility that has been abused by them to the point that marginalized people will hesitate before calling the police, fearing that the police will either come too late or escalate the situation. Cops aren’t endangering their own lives. They’re endangering the lives of those they’re supposed to protect. No good person would shoot a man in his back SEVEN times for being 'aggressive’. No good person who claims to protect and serve would kneel on someone’s neck for eight minutes while that person was cooperating with them. No good person would shoot a completely innocent woman in her sleep because they raided the wrong house. (BTW, Breonna Taylor’s murderers are still walking free as if nothing happened.) No good person would shoot a 12-year-old kid for having a toy gun. No good person would kill a man in his car for… picking up his ID to show it to the cop. Just because you cooperate, doesn’t mean that you’re safe.

Your logic is clearly flawed, because you judge cops on their personality, and not on the bigger picture. All cops are “bastards” not because we see all of them are evil killing machines that shoot people on sight — it’s because they contribute to an oppressive system, whether it’s directly or indirectly. It’s more than 'just a few cops’: the government wants bad laws to be enforced, the prison system is getting used as a business model, minorities are forced to live in poor socioeconomic areas on purpose BY the government, gentrification exists, multi billionnaires are exploiting low-class working people even more, there’s a damn pandemic that’s not being taken seriously… And guess who’s at the front of keeping the fragile capitalist system intact? Right. The police. The face of the government, that’s laughing at Black people, people of color, disabled people, LGBTI+ people… No good cop exists, even if they’re nice to everyone. Good cops who speak out against the abuse of other cops get fired, because the police departments don’t want the truth to be exposed. If you truly want to be someone who saves people’s lives, then stop being a cop and get a better job, like a firefighter, an EMT, a psychologist… Anything that isn’t completely corrupted.

Even during the recent BLM protests, cops are showing off their power. They escalate situations without provocation more times than BLM protesters start shit. Also cops are committing literal war crimes by using tear gas and other chemicals against civilians (IT GOES AGAINST THE GENEVA CONVENTION FOR FUCK’S SAKE). Not so protective now, aren’t they? The only thing BLM protesters have hurt are cops’ ego. Trust me, protesters being a little mean to cops won’t ever be as bad as all the innocent lives cops have taken and covered up.

I want to go on forever, because I have a lot more to say (such as why “All Lives Matter” is reactionary and racist, how the police force was formed in the first place, how the effects of slavery and colonialism are still being felt by Black people to this day, how and why 'riots’ can be 'justified’), but I’ll leave it at this. At least I got to give counterarguments to your points. Take care and educate yourself! (Tip: stop watching FOX News and Infowars if you do that, you’re going to develop brainrot! ;__;)

ladies and gentleman of the jury, as you can see, this user not only came into this argument prepared, but they were civil and had links (that aren’t links now oop soz). they gave this bitch plenty of opportunity to learn and grow from this without attacking her.

but your bet your ASS the poor little white girl went crying to her daddy about people ATTACKING HER and BULLYING HER FOR HER OPINIONS!!!! she uses her anxiety as a get out of jail free card CONSTANTLY, bitching and moaning about how, and these are directly quoting from HER own journal:

MAY 29, 2020

I log in to this game to have fun and escape the stresses and problems of real life. I do NOT want to be going about my business, and see “BLM” in someone’s Trainer Card, and have to deal with a surge of overwhelming emotions (whether positive or negative). I simply cannot handle the Anxiety that results.

This is a GAME site. NOT a place to share your political, racial or other stances. PLEASE keep ALL such topics OFF this site. I understand you want to talk about them, and that’s fine. But out of respect for people like me, can you please do so in private with the people you know WANT to see and discuss it?

just admit you’re racist dude.

She uses CSS. SHE CAN FUCKING HIDE OTHER PEOPLE’S FUCKING CARDS. PEOPLE CAN TALK ABOUT WHATEVER THEY DAMN WELL PLEASE ON THEIR OWN DAMN PAGES. THE WORLD DOES NOT REVOLVE AROUND YOU.

Also! You know she only put “whether positive or negative” to quell any hate she might’ve gotten because ANXIETY is usually not a positive emotion. There’s not even a positive CONNOTATION. and she hopes to be published by the end of the year lmfao yeah right.

and then, on JUNE 16, 2020:

I WAS going to make a post in response to the most recent announcement, but now I’m just too frazzled and upset about it. Still making a post. I’ll just be posting it off site so I can say things how I want to say them, and so I don’t have any in game repercussions.

Honestly, though. I log onto this site to ESCAPE reality. I do NOT want to see ANY stance on ANY “cause” ANYWHERE. NONE OF IT BELONGS HERE. NONE!!!! Because of this “decision”, I’m going to make one of my own. I am gone from this site until current affairs are resolved. Heck. Perhaps even after. I will NOT be a part of a site that allows…Ugh. NOT going to get into this here.

but like… she came back a month later lmao

OH AND!! Earlier this month on AUGUST 6, 2020 she posted this!

It really breaks my heart seeing derogatory remarks against Cops in people’s Trainer Cards. It’s upsetting that you feel that way, and even more so that you make your hatred so vehemently known.

Personally, I don’t know why any of those Cop comments are allowed. If someone had something in their Trainer Card against Religion, LGBT, or POC, I guarantee that statement would be removed. So why is it alright for people to make hateful, vile, disgusting remarks against Cops? Despite it being someone’s personal opinion, it’s still Hate Speech, and shouldn’t be allowed.

this bitch is part of the lgbt+ community. she’s part of a marginalized group.

The “"derogatory remarks”“ she’s talking about? #AllCopsAreComplicit #CopsStinky #AllCopsSuck

which brings us back to Exhibit A, ladies and gentlemen! Her equating #AllCopsAreComplicit and #CopsSTINKY to "All LGBT deserve to die” and a Shitton of other stereotypes. Well fucking done.

Despite bitching and moaning about I DONT WANNA SEE ANYTHING, despite there being ways she can fucking hide it HER DAMN SELF she chooses instead to bitch piss moan bitch piss moan bitch piss and fucking moan and then when someone calls her out on her genuinely harmful bullshit, pulls the wounded gazelle gambit, claims she’s being attacked, and puts in her Card that “anxiety attack! again! waaaah!” like anyone has a shred of sympathy left for her ugly ass. She can’t handle looking like the bad guy so she plays the anxiety card. She bitches about never having any friends, only depression and anxiety, and it’s like bitch no fucking wonder.

Both the top posts have been taken down, but the user who responded to her has gotten nothing but love for her mad courage in saying something when no one else dared.

Firefurrywolf made a halfassed apology (August 30, 2020) which I won’t go into but there is one line that sticks out to me because it’s such a goddamn lie:

When I state my opinion, I usually do so with grace and eloquence. I did not think about my actions this time.

… do you?

This is a GAME site. NOT a place to share your political, racial or other stances. PLEASE keep ALL such topics OFF this site.

Do you… really?

I log onto this site to ESCAPE reality. I do NOT want to see ANY stance on ANY “cause” ANYWHERE. NONE OF IT BELONGS HERE. NONE!!!!

I don’t think so. You vile, disgusting, manipulative, obnoxious, PRETENTIOUS, racist, terfy bitch.

Oh, before I forget, yeah. Terf. She looks like one too. All over her insta. Gross.

NOVEMBER 19, 2019

My response to a LGBT post in one of my writing groups.

I don’t know most of these terms within the community. Don’t really care to know either, cause your preferences won’t change my feelings about who you are. I probably should, though, cause the Its and Xes really confuse me.

I knew I was a Demi-Ace for a few years. I’ve also known that I was Poly since I was early teens. But I’m also attracted to beauty and care more about who you are as a person than your preferences, so apparently I’m Panaesthetic as well?

Also firm believer of “True Love Knows NO Bounds”

Her journal got moved to 18+ because there was a post talking about sex. Might’ve even been alluding to rape. On a CHILDREN’S SITE. In her CHILD-FRIENDLY journal. It sat there for at least two months. TWO MONTHS. But I will not be posting that here, but it’s still there if anyone wants to snoop. All of this is public. Well, it was. But at least minors won’t be exposed to this histrionic little whiny whitey who is absolutely drowning in her white privilege.

Just because she changed her pfp from her face to a shitty drawing she did doesn’t hide the fact that she’s white, and the worst kind of person with little to no actual coping skills.

She claims to be an artist, a writer, all this, blah blah, but then why doesn’t she channel any of it into her work so she can get fucking better at them? She says she’s working on losing weight, so do that. Instead of shrieking and stomping your fucking feet like a toddler at the peak of their terrible two’s, throwing tantrum after fucking tantrum on a CHILDREN’S SITE about your shitty stances, go for a fucking walk. Punch a fucking punching bag. Literally anything else. You’ll feel better, you’ll lose weight faster, you’d be keeping your vitriol to your damn self and no one will “attack” you.

“Are you ourtraged yet? GOOD. It means I touched a nerve!”

She fucking wanted a reaction. But couldn’t handle it when she actually got one. I’m so embarrassed. Grow some fucking thicker skin, you’re older than I am. Grow a pair and shut the goddamn FUCK up.

For now, the evil is defeated, and I rest my fucking case.

[brujoenlafrontera]

hi!!! I’m a puertorriqueño/nicaragüense enby looking into resources for learning bruja stuff, any good place you know to start?

I’ve gotten a couple of asks about this lately, and i’m so happy to know there are more latinos finding their way to the practice, tumblr’s brujeria tag often gives the impression that theres so little of us out there reclaiming our practices but getting asks like these brings me a lot of faith that thats not true :) first and foremost:

GETTING INTO BRUJERIA IS HARD.

it really is. baby brujos like us know that better than anyone- getting started, is often the hardest part of doing anything, and its no different with brujeria. it can feel so overwhelming and feeling lost is natural. from my experience, although i am still a newbie ive been able to find a lot of information out there, here are the best places to find info, sorted by priority:

FAMILY! a little self explanatory, but brujeria at its best is truly is an inherited, familial practice. If you can, before delving into internet resources, definitely connect w your family if you’re able to and ask them for guidance and about their experiences!

Your family is always the best resource over anything you can find online; theres so much misinformation out there or information not relevant to your region and if someone in your family already has established practices, always trust them first

 Do some thinking back to all your cultural traditions, quirks, stories, and superstitions that you’ve  learned from your family across time and never thought too much about- and rediscover them under a new light

KEEP IN MIND: brujeria is NOT a singular , concrete practice w concrete rules in itself, the term blankets a lot of traditions across latam, the caribbean, mexico, but imo its always best to stick with brujeria related to your heritage and where your connection is.

this can be hard for people (like me!) with huge family taboos toward brujeria that make it unsafe to ask around about, and/or limitations in family connections (also like me unfortunately). I personally can really only get the tidbits and stories that my family accidentally slips out when I occasionally see them. i try to write them down as much as possible, but the info i can get is limited... and thats where the following comes in.

ONLINE COMMUNITIES. i.e, youtube, tumblr, instagram brujx communities. notice I haven’t said “internet” in general- the reason why i trust community based social media more than random individual websites you find on google is because, in the case of brujeria and honestly any non-european craft, you’re often gonna find a LOT of white people writing blogs, books, etc about their “spiritual experiences” in latam countries and wrongly/incorrectly taking ATR or indigenous traditions (like with smudging). I know, with social media, although those same white people are also on insta and tumblr, it’s a LOT easier to see the face behind the accounts and differentiate who to trust, who’s legit and has real experience to share, rather than a nameless, faceless, website that is actually some colonizer sharing colonized ideas who thinks theyre on a spiritual journey taking traditions all willy nilly. And the fact that in social media, its much easier to find a lot of good brujas at once bc they tend to follow each other lmao.what ive personally done to find information tho is essentially SCOUR tumblrs, insta accs, and watching tons of youtube videos for posts, accounts, videos, etc, and narrowing down good info from there through , namely:

CHECKING WHO YOUR SOURCE IS!!!

ASKING YOURSELF FROM WHAT EXPERIENCE THEYRE SPEAKING FROM

ALWAYS TAKING EVERYTHING WITH A GRAIN OF SALT

AND STICKING TO INFO FROM CULTURES OPEN AND RELEVANT TO ME.

again, brujería is different depending on where your family is from in latam, and if you have an established connection to indigenous and/or black roots, so it’s useful to use keywords relating to that when searching (like if ur black, you can look into ATRs(african traditional religions) which tend to mix deeply with brujeria, if ur indigenous, finding other people from your tribe is great, and if youre not pursuing your already learned traditions you can think about connecting to them more deeply(altho indigenous traditions are their own thing, sometimes they do mix with brujeria too), and apart from familial roots, if ur catholic/christian and/or want to explore it, saint work/catholic brujeria might be a good fit for you!)  

tumblr: there are a couple of fantastic brujxs on this site with great blogs and resources who have sadly left the site, but i still go through their posts heavily for spells, rituals, scraps of info! etting started w brujería is hard bc there’s really not that much info out there right now, but i compile as many good brujeria posts i find on my acc.

@brujeria-n-bongs great for catholic brujeria, now at @Upliftherbs on instagram

@brujeria-lost @barberwitch @reina-morada @highbrujita

@naomi121406 is by far the most active and informative tumblr resource ive found, shes an afro-indigenous diaguita curandera from argentina so shes also really helpful if ATRs are in your path!

Im not black myself and dont follow ATRs so i don’t really know many good blogs for afrolatine brujxs out there but if anyone would like to tag some in the replies thatd be awesome!

instagram: Ive found that instagram #brujeria tags has a pretty healthy active stream of posts. You’re gonna have to sift through a lot of them to get to the good stuff though- imo a lot of hispanics use the brujería tag not to mean “latine brujería” but just the spanish word for witchcraft, so a lot of white hispanics will put wicca/neo witchcraft in the tag. imo that’s really not something i’m personally interested in bc it’s not true to brujeria’s traditional nature, is very white/eruropean , and that wicca shit basically just got here. its a relatively a recent thing😭 so i try to stick to bruja accounts that aren’t influenced by that.

youtube: The youtube brujería tag is hit or miss? and again, contains a lot of wicca. But there are some good practitioners on there like The Mexican Witch! You just gonna look around, and dont be afraid to click on videos by really really small youtubers; they often are the ones with the most informative and legit things to say!

Everyone’s path as a bruja/o/x (sjdf trying to be inclusive w gendered language is difficult) is different but here are some topics i think are great to look into as a beginner!

ancestors: start at the bottom and figure out who they are, where theyre from, and set up an altar. it’ll help you a lot with figuring out your identity and path as a bruja later on.

setting up a grimoire

divination: tarot is actually what got me into brujeria at first! tarot isnt strictly traditional and is european in itself but its a wonderful tool for connecting to dieties, saints, etc as well as super fun and helps a lot with introspection

ritual abrecaminos, aka road opening spells!

amarres (love spells... proceed with caution)

limpias, mal de ojo

saint work: even if you’re not catholic (im ex catholic), a growing number of us (especially lgbt latines like @/upliftherbs on instagram) are starting to take back and decolonize our view of saints like La Virgen Maria and removing her from the rigid european/colonized interpretation thats been forced into us

candle spells in general (i fucking love candles tbh, cheap, easy, fun, and WORKS)

spiritual colognes, how to cleanse

finally, here are some helpful posts yall should definitely read and think about moving forward!

about using tumblr as a resource

about looking into brujeria as a part-white part latine

bruja psa + about reclaiming lost indiginety

honestly naomi’s entire brujeria tag is great and super informative for beginners and basically holds answers for almost anything at this point

hope this post helps yall out!

EDIT: oh lord now that this is posted the outline format i tried to use is all kinds of fucked up please dont mind the odd numbering lmfao tumbr hates organized formats

[bigskydreaming]

TFW you realize you relate more to a fave character than you ever actually consciously realized, lmao. 

So I was just having a remote therapy session, and we were focusing on just some mental pain management techniques since my stupid metabolism makes most pain meds largely useless and my head has been waging all out warfare on me for the past week and a half, lololol. And we were delving into one of my personal fave rants, which is the fact that so many people - including vaunted medical professionals - just fundamentally don’t seem to get that having a high pain tolerance does not mean you don’t like, FEEL pain unless its really a lot or intense. Its just that you’re hard-wired/trained/geared via stuff like an abusive childhood, lol, to not SHOW or DISPLAY any visible or audible pain cues unless the pain reaches a certain high threshold where its impossible to hold them back.

But particularly over the past four or five years, with my ongoing medical shit, its super obnoxious trying to get your doctors to display a sense of urgency about your condition because they’re just fundamentally not grasping the degree of chronic pain you’re dealing with every day, since, y’know....I can literally be sitting there in the doctor’s chair and conversationally talking about the fact that no, I definitely am currently feeling like, an eight or nine out of ten on the pain scale, please don’t be confused by the fact that I’m literally LOLing as I describe this to you rather than gasping and moaning in a more obvious indication of it. 

Its like, I’m not TRYING to undersell it or anything, its just, when you grow up since the time you’re like five or six years old, knowing damn well that the only appropriate response to someone asking ‘oh am I hurting you’ that won’t earn you MORE pain is a completely casual or cavalier sounding ‘nope, I’m fine, all good here, no problems.’......like, at a certain point in your development, that becomes pretty hard-wired in, like, you can’t shake it just because you consciously WANT to. (Though it is one of the things I’m trying to unlearn and ‘rewire’ in therapy now, via EMDR techniques aimed at like, literally reprogramming my nervous system and how I react to various stimuli. Its.....slow progress, lmao, but I mean there is some progress so its all good).

But point being, when you’re a physically abused kid and your physical abuser doesn’t want to believe or accept that they’re hurting you, and so they tended to just get angrier and MORE dangerous if they thought you were indicating or even just ‘implying’ that they were in fact hurting you.....you get pretty damn good at not showing even the slightest hint of pain or distress unless its literally a level you’ve never experienced before and thus have no practical experience in hiding or distracting yourself from.

But that doesn’t mean you don’t FEEL every bit of it. It doesn’t mean you’ve found a magical off-switch that means you can just mind-over-body yourself from acknowledging or being aware that you are in fact in a shit ton of pain. You just.....have learned the importance of masking it, and found ways to do that by necessity.

Except, even much later in life when you are in a safe place or more control of your situations or surroundings, there’s no easy way to just....stop putting that mask on by default, the second you’re experiencing any type of pain. And so even when dealing with medical professionals, too many of them just don’t GET that their vaunted ‘tell me how much pain you’re in from one to ten’ scale isn’t really the be-all and end-all of pain measurement, because its subjective and arbitrary as HELLLLLLLLL.....and one of the defining parameters for what that pain scale looks like and feels like for YOU, is....your personal history with pain and how you’re ‘comfortable’ displaying evidence of it. (And I know there’s a ton of people and even groups of people who can relate to this for entirely different reasons, I just can only speak to my own of course). 

But its definitely frustrating and invalidating as hell to be in more pain than many people ever experience in their lives, and TRYING to convey that as openly and honestly as you can.....and literally being able to SEE the doubt and dismissal in doctors’ eyes, because all they’re seeing is the visual cues you’re putting out there and which they equate to ‘can’t possibly be in THAT much pain, not if he’s acting this casual about it’.....

And so the frustrating irony is that you end up dismissed as like, a pain ‘lightweight’ who is complaining about an apparent degree of pain that’s barely anything in their ‘professional’ estimation. And thus they’re disinclined to take your requests for heavier or more effective pain medication seriously, or not impressed by your attempts to imbue a greater sense of urgency in their approach to your treatment plan or procedures, etc......when in reality, the only reason you’re showing those cues of not being in that much pain is because you’re MORE used to and familiar with even extremely high degrees of pain than anything a lot of them are accustomed to.

Its invalidating as hell, being treated as though you have no idea what you’re talking about when you say “I am actually in a shit ton of active, ongoing pain, hey thanks, can we maybe do something about this,” when actually, the disconnect comes from you having MORE experience with MORE pain than some of them can even fathom. You just....also have more experience with reasons not to SHOW that pain, if its at all avoidable to any degree whatsoever.

THAT’S what high pain tolerance actually means, and the sheer volume of medical professionals who just flat out don’t get this, or worse, just don’t care or are too proud to reassess their viewpoints on this matter if that carries the implication they don’t actually know as much as they think they do......god, it grates.

(Once, when I was around twenty-three or twenty-four I think, I got caught up in the periphery of a bar fight that resulted in me getting a shard of glass embedded in the back of my forearm. Still have a pretty sizable scar from it. And it absolutely hurt like fuck, but I was conscious as paramedics arrived on scene and when going to the hospital to have it removed and stitched up, and like......kinda cracking jokes about it the whole time because I was uncomfortable as hell and didn’t really know what else to do or how to react, y’know? I mean, I had a few inches of glasses jutting out from the top of my forearm, lol, what the hell are you supposed to do or say about that? There’s not really a protocol, lmao. Problem was, they took one look at me sitting there with this spear of glass sticking out of my arm and making dumb jokes about it like it was no big deal......and they decided this meant I was in shock and kept trying to treat me accordingly. And it was just like.....useless, because lol no I wasn’t in shock, I had none of the physical symptoms of being in shock and benefited from none of their assumptions that I was.....I was just a dude with a shard of glass in his arm that hurt like fuck and I really wanted it out as soon as possible, and I was in full awareness of what had happened and everything I was feeling, I just didn’t know how to convey this in a way that they would believe, because I couldn’t come up with anything to say or do other than laugh about how fucking surreal the whole situation was.)

Anyway, so circling back to the point, or as much of one as I ever have, so today I was just learning and practicing various mental pain management/coping techniques with my therapist and discussing my issues with doctors and the High Pain Tolerance Quandary. Basically like, I would really truly like to know or learn how to display the ‘expected’ physical and visual/audio cues for being a person who is experiencing a ‘4′ on the pain scale, versus a person who is experiencing a ‘7′ or a ‘10′.....so they can stop fucking treating me like I’m only at a 4 when I’m actually at an 8 or 9, just because I look and sound like a person who really is only at a 4 no matter what they actually CLAIM to be feeling.

Course, easier said than done.

But yeah, so as she was coaching me through various techniques and surveying what I was doing with my body and facial expressions and cues, etc, she pointed out something that I had literally never noticed about myself before, even though once she DID point it out I could recognize that its something I’ve been doing for as long as I can remember, well back before I was ten and no doubt stemming from smack dab in the midst of the worst of my childhood abuse.

So, y’know on Teen Wolf, how Scott and Liam and various others are at times shown digging their claws into their palms and drawing blood to ground themselves with the pain? (And ironically, how I was just talking the other week about photo doubling for a similar such scene with gashes in the character’s palms, lmfao). Well, obviously I don’t have claws, and part of why I’d never really paid much attention to when I was doing it is because even my therapist wasn’t comfortable classifying it as a kind of self-harm or anywhere near punitive enough to carry that kind of weight or associations.....

But like, I’ve always kept my fingernails fairly trimmed but not completely. Like, just enough of an edge to them that at times, particularly when I’m in physical pain or distress already, I’ll just like....dig my fingernails into the pad of other fingertips, and use that little familiar spike of pain to not ground myself but rather distract myself from whatever else I was feeling. Like, she wasn’t comfortable calling it a self-punitive technique because as we got into it, it was clear I was never doing it to CAUSE myself pain....rather, its something I only do when I’m already in pain, usually far more pain than anything that brings up.....but by deliberately doing that and creating a focal awareness around it, even just a largely subconscious one......I’ve apparently long been using that to hook my attention up to a very specific, very manageable sensation/focal point of pain that lets me and my ADHD brain relegate whatever other pain I’m feeling (even if its much much worse) to the back of my mind for at least a little while, as I distract myself by focusing on this more obvious and consciously directed bit of lesser pain. 

And a big part of why I probably never noticed I was doing this, we eventually concluded, is because as a kid I probably came up with it as a kind of survival technique specifically BECAUSE it was something I could do to distract myself/manage my pain covertly, without drawing my abuser’s attention to what I was doing either. And by extension, without the fact that I was doing it at all 'betraying’ that I was in pain or trying to manage or cope with painful sensations in the first place. A lot of other pain management techniques, like even just deep, deliberate breaths, tend to be a lot more obvious and noticeable, and thus would have been counter-productive for my specific purposes. No matter how much they helped me manage whatever physical pain I was feeling, they would have at the same time inevitably drawn attention to the fact that I was trying to do that at all in the first place....and thus only invite more pain. 

Merely digging my fingernails into my fingertip pads, not enough to draw blood or make me cry out or anything like that, but rather just to distract myself and deliberately focus me on a source of pain I could deal with and more easily handle, as well as being ‘low in intensity’ enough that focusing on it didn’t bring any other obvious visual or audio pain cues to the forefront.....that I could do without anyone noticing. And thus this is likely why it came to be my go-to move whenever I was in any kind of pain at all, as just a quick and easy way to wrap my head around my physical sensations and shift focus to something more easily dealt with or managed (even if it didn’t actually dismiss or get rid of whatever other pain I’m feeling entirely). And just the low-key nature of it in general likely being a big part of why it became such an unconscious instinct for me until now, something that barely even registered in my conscious mind as I built up/hard-wired instinctive responses that incorporated it without me having to consciously direct myself to do that.

I mean, its still obviously not an ideal response, especially when I’m long past being stuck in any kind of external situations or need to fall back on that and the covert nature of it. So now its another of those things to just be aware of and work on rewiring on an instinctive level, making it a priority for me to focus on consciously using more helpful and positive methods of pain management.

But it was just interesting to me to have it pointed out as something I’ve been doing all this time, let alone being as unaware of doing it as I’ve apparently been. And its not hard to draw obvious parallels to when characters in media I consume do similar things even if for not quite the same reasons or in quite the same ways. So now I’m just kinda contemplating that and wondering how much even just some degree of unconscious awareness that I do that might have made me more alert to when characters or other people do similar things. Made me more attuned to noticing or even fixating on moments when they do things like that, that I related to even on an entirely subconscious level.

*Shrugs* Anyway, that’s all, like, literally not going anywhere with this, was just unwinding and felt like mapping my way through that all contemplatively, because oh no, inexplicable strangeness, therapy puts me in particularly contemplative headspaces, whodathunkit, lmfao. *Shrugs* Just struck me as particularly interesting, so felt like sharing for anyone else who can relate/see similar parallels themselves.

Or just chalk it up to random anecdotal wtf-ery from your friendly (err, mostly. okay sometimes. FINE ideally, let’s go with that) neighborhood over-sharer. 

[dollsorwhatever]

Disney Bloodbath

Today was a very, very exhausting day lmfao  Long semi-interesting doll story and pictures of the new LE Ariel under the cut!

I stayed up all night waiting for Disney Store to list the new Limited Edition Ariel doll online, which usually happens at midnight PST (3am my time), but she never showed up lmfao. I guess they’ve recently changed the launch time to 7am PST (10am my time) for the newer dolls, but rather than risking the chance of losing her online (and worried about defects) I decided I didn’t need to sleep and instead would go to the mall at seven AM with my mom, wait for them to open the doors, and then sit outside of the Disney Store until they opened at ten. So... three hours of literally standing there doing basically nothing but waiting for Disney to open the door lmfao.  I actually snuck into the mall through the service entrance but was caught by security, and they had me wait outside of the mall until they actually opened the doors, then I could go wait at DS until they opened lol I’d never actually purchased an LE doll directly from a Disney Store location so I was really confused about how to do everything, but the 3 people waiting with me were pretty helpful-basically you go to the front of the closed-up Disney Store and line up, then once the store opens the employee will tell you what they have in stock and then give each person a ticket, reserving their items for them (starting at the front of the line, so first come first serve), and then you just go to the register once the store opens, give them the ticket and they sell you the doll. Apparently it’s sometimes different for Designer Dolls (they’ve done right-to-buy lotteries a few times) but the ticket system is always done with the 17′‘ dolls.  Ofc I didn’t know about the line thing until after two people had already started the line, putting me in third place and...wow, what luck lmfao.  Lady finally comes out after two hours of standing at the entrance to tell us how many they have of each doll. They had two Vanessa dolls, and the two people in front of me just happened to want her as well lol so I was fucked with Vanessa (they only made 2000 of her, half of which were for Europe, meaning the US only got 1000 dolls for the entire country-yikes), but they had eight Ariel dolls and one was reserved for me (I almost had my mom get another one for me too but I didn’t want to be greedy, there were like ten other people behind us by the time the store opened) I was a little sad about Vanessa, but I only decided I wanted her, like, yesterday, so I wasn’t invested in her enough yet to really care so I laughed it off and took my Ariel. Plus I already had a list of other dolls I wanted from the DS so I knew I’d end up with a pretty good haul lol. I’ve decided to just pay the scalper prices for Vanessa for Christmas since I really do want her, but she can wait! After picking and purchasing my Ariel I decided to go with the new Ariel and Her Sisters mini doll set because they’re soooo well designed and detailed, and I have a huge thing for both mini dolls and mermaids. Also I still regret never getting the Wreck it Ralph Princess set when ti wasn’t 300$ and figured this would soften the blow lol And then I looked around at the Animators dolls, since I had Moana and the new Rapunzel and Ariel dolls on my list, but Ariel looked crosseyed in person and all of the Rapunzels had really thin hair, so I passed on them and went with something else that I’d been eyeing for a little bit.  Don’t laugh at me it’s SUCH a silly purchase lol

Baby Rapunzel!! Okay, it’s not really that dumb, because she’s fucking adorable but I really have no use for a literal baby doll and a crib, logically speaking lol. But I’ve wanted a doll of this scene since Tangled had first come out, and this is the best baby Rapunzel ever done. Look at her lively little face! And her thick shiny hair!! The detailed little crib! UGH she’s even cuter than in the movie. HER EARS ARE BLUSHED TOO OMG

Oh also she was 80$ so...yeah SILLY My only disappointment with her is that she’s like a baby doll baby doll, like her body is plush with a vinyl head, arms and legs, when I assumed she was all vinyl. Kind of weird and makes it really hard to style her hair when she’s flopping around, but she’s fucking adorable sooooo idgaf But back to the doll that has now deprived me of 42 hours of sleep, Ariel!

I love her so much, I’ve been impatiently waiting for Disney to replace her old 17′’ head sculpt with something new, with a new screening, and they finally delivered this year! I took like, two pictures of her freshly deboxed and mint before I did my usual blasphemy and stripped her down for some hair styling:

Miss Fish, who do you think you are, coming into MY HOUSE with crunchy ass hair like that?? Some tidbits about her outfit- the jewelry is all metal, you need to remove her hands to get off the (gorgeous) bracelets, and the halter on her bra doesn’t have a clasp- I had to undo the chain to remove it, but the connector rings are pretty large so it was easy as hell and I put it right back together once I took it off. The back of the actual bra fastens with velcro, though.  And the flower ornament? demonic. It has strings of pearls hanging down, done with clear thread to make the pearls look like they’re just stuck in her hair I guess. Whatever, it was tied into her hair in several sections and I literally pulled off all of the pearls to remove it, and I’m gonna add a clip to the flower to use on it’s own. They also did some tweaks to the 17′’ body, though I’m not sure when this happened- the elbows have improved articulation as a result of them shaving off the back of the elbows a little more, making them less like Barbie Fashionista arms and more like Pivotal or FR arms. I’ve also noticed this change on the 12′’ dolls, so that’s great.  The upper leg joints look slightly different too, but Idk if that’ss my imagination. I haven’t tried to make her sit so I truly don’t know.  And I really really need to talk about these HANDS. They’re so beautiful. Gone are the ugly graceless hands of the old dolls, say hello to these beautifully sculpted hands (though Vanessa still annoyingly has the old hands lol):

Now all they need to do is get rid of those HIDEOUS hinged knees, replace them with pivotal knees and give the body some better feet- I hate the articulated feet on this body, they’re MINISCULE and have the ugliest shape. Please Disney save the lower half of this body!! After about five seconds of enjoying her stock look, I stripped her down and washed her hair:

I really need to know how they made her hair so crinkly and frizzy, because the natural texture is clearly a smooth, soft wave. I don’t know if this makes me a fake fan, but I actually despise Ariel’s bangs, especially on dolls. They’re IMPOSSIBLE to keep organized, especially with nylon hair, and I wish they left it all long instead of doing the bangs.  Luckily, they actually do look pretty nice on this doll and I’m certain I can make them look good even when they’re dry.  This is how she’s looking right now, while I’m letting her hair dry. Will likely flat iron it some but I’m really shocked and pleased with how nicely it washed out:

And once again showing off those stunning hands. I love them so much.  I’m tired, I’m hungry and I am very broke now, but I’m very happy and proud of myself for pushing so hard to get this doll and the adorable baby Rapunzel, along with the Ariel And Her Sisters set.   Definitely need one of the Vanessa dolls next month, and perhaps even the D23 Ariel because I hate myself lol.  Hope ya’ll enjoyed the longest post in the history of mankind!

[anninhiliation]

Thunder and Rain

A/N: lmfao I just want to read some sin but I read all i could find so here I am donating my filth to you. I as usual own nothing. This was inspired by season 2 episode 3 (as you could tell by the direct line quotes!) 

Warnings: its sex. Under my user it aint ever gentle unless requested.

Masterlist

Even though you were a Northsider, Toni Topaz was still your best friend. The two of you met in Kindergarten when you still lived on the South Side. Your father was given raise in the middle of that school year and your parents thought it best if you finished the year there and over the summer move to the North Side. Thus that summer you moved out of Sunnyside Trailer Park and onto Elm Street, becoming neighbors with Archie Andrews and Betty Cooper. You were friendly with both, but you never felt like you truly belonged with the group. You spent most of your childhood having sleepovers and play-dates with Toni anyways. Even though the two of you were best friends, you guys kept your south and north side lives private with each other. That is until one day when Toni invited you to help her and Jughead out to clean up the Red and Black offices. 

“Well it’s no New York Times,” Jughead commented after opening the dusty curtains. 

“But, hey, kudos on finding your safe space, Snowflake.” Toni responded

“It could be worse!” You chirped in as you blew the dust off of an old computer. 

“Yeah! All I need now is a photographer with an amazing eye and a hunger for social justice. And I think I’ll be set.” Jughead persuaded. 

You looked over at Toni wiggling your eyebrows. Suddenly the door busted open with three tall and muscular South Side Serpents. The one standing in the middle spoke

“Topaz. Let’s bounce.” He said quickly looking at her and then putting his attention on Jughead. 

He's so unbelievably handsome. You thought to yourself. 

“Jones, you wanna come with? We’re going down to the quarry.” The boy spoke with a mesmerizingly sexy deep voice. 

“Uh, I don’t have my beach bod yet,” Jughead said softly, looking away from the boy. 

Anger sparked in the boys' eyes. 

“What, you’ll ask for help from the serpents when you need it but you won’t hand with us? Don’t come crawling to us hat in hand when some Ghoulie decides to earn his stripes by taking out FP Jones’s kid.” He hissed.

“Duly noted. Thank you, Sweet Pea. I appreciate what you and the Serpents have done for me and my dad. I do. But I’m done. Okay? No more favors coming your way.” Jughead shot back. 

Your eyes went wide as Sweet Pea began to get closer to Jughead.

“Hey, hey, hey. He made up his mind, okay?  Take the hint, Sweet Pea. He’s just not that into you. Let’s motor.” Toni intervened. 

“Y/N come on,” Toni said as she turned back looking at you and Jughead. “Catch you later Jones.” 

You quickly grabbed your small (y/f/c) leather backpack, waved goodbye to Jughead and powerwalked up to Toni. The two of you caught up with the rest of the Serpents who were all waiting on their bikes ready to go. 

“Whose this Topaz?” Sweet Pea questioned leaning on his bike looking directly at you.

“Y/N.” You spoke up and smiled at him. 

“Sweet Pea.” Sweet Pea responded and drove off. 

You looked over at Toni who was already on her bike. 

“Get on girl!” She said.

You hopped on Toni's bike and grabbed on to her waist. The drive to the quarry was fairly quick and uneventful. As you got off her bike your legs were a bit wobbly, as you have never ridden on Toni's bike before. The young serpents had gathered around a makeshift of benches from old logs and a self-made firepit. Sweet Pea was sitting on a log with a tan boy laughing and drinking a beer. 

“C’mon!” Toni said pulling you away from your thoughts.

You followed her towards Sweet Pea and the tan boy. 

“Sweet Pea, Fangs, meet Y/N. Play nice as I go get us a beer.” Toni said as she swiftly walked away. 

“So where are you from?” Fangs asked. 

“The Northside.” You replied and Sweet Pea quickly huffed clearly annoyed at the answer. “But I was born on the Southside and moved after kindergarten. How long have you guys known Toni?” You added trying to lessen the clear hatred from Sweet Pea. 

“Since the 1st grade, we were all sat next to each other.” Fangs said cheerfully smiling.

You smiled back and as swiftly as Toni left, she returned with the two beers. 

“Here Y/N.” Toni said as she handed you the beer.

“Thanks!” You smiled at her taking the drink.

The three of you engaged in multiple conversations and Sweet Pea stayed quiet. As the sun set, rain began to fall. 

“The Wyrm?” Fangs suggested.

Sweet Pea nodded as he stood up, and walked to his bike. Toni agreed as well and you were curious on what the Whyte Wyrm looked like. Once again you hopped on Toni’s bike and she drove the two of you to the Wyrm.

“Is Sweet Pea always quiet?” You asked Toni as you slid off her bike. 

“I've only seen him as quiet as he's been around new people or when he's upset. He's a pretty reserved guy. Why do you ask?” Toni questioned.

“Its nothing really, he just didn't seem like type when he was talking to Jughead.” You pointed out as the two of you headed inside the Wyrm.

Toni made an mmm noise as the two of you spotted Fangs and Sweet Pea by the pool table.

“What kinda drink do you want?” Toni asked as she walked over to the bar.

“Jack and coke please!” You shouted as you walked over to Fangs and Sweet Pea.

“You play?” Fangs asked as he hit the cue ball which rolled knocking the 9 striped and 10 striped into the hole.

“I have before. I'm not good though.” You said as you climbed up on a spectator chair. 

Toni sat down next to you and handed you your jack and coke. You sipped quietly and observed the boys playing pool.

❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧

You were on your third drink, and tipsy and Sweet Pea was up to his second game playing another Serpent for money. It was raining harder than before, making you dread it when you would have to leave. Suddenly, the police barged in, grabbing Serpents and handcuffing them. The four of you ran out, all running in different directions as the police went to grab all of you. There you stood in the parking lot of the Wyrm with the rain beating down on you, instantly soaking you. Since you did not really know where you were you stubbled in a random direction. Out of nowhere, a motorcycle stopped next to you. 

“Get on Northsider.” It was Sweet Pea who removed his helmet and handed it to you.

You hesitated, but nodded and slid onto his bike. He drove fast, which made you hold on tighter than you did with Toni. The fast driving suddenly halted at a red light. That is when you realized, the vibration coming from the motorcycle which was hitting the right spot against your jean shorts, you being tipsy and the mysterious knight in leather was kind of a turn on.

“You okay?” Sweet Pea asked cutting the silence and breaking your train of dirty thoughts. 

“Oh, yeah I'm fine.” You responded. “Where are we going?” You added on realizing you had no idea where you were or where the destination was. 

“My place.” Sweet Pea said as the light turned green. 

Before you could finish your daydream of riding more than the motorcycle it stopped for the last time outside a trailer. He got off and began to walk towards the door until he heard a thump and saw you on the ground giggling to yourself. He swiftly turned around and helped you up. 

“Are you okay?” Sweet Pea asked, and for the first time, he genuinely sounded worried. 

“Yea, the mud was there to catch me.” You joked. 

“So why did you bring me to your place and not to Toni’s or back to my house?” You puzzled.

“The storms going to get worse and I don't know if Toni is home or was grabbed. This isn't the first time the cops came into our turf, take my family, and interrogate us about some bullshit and try to coarse us to rat out some bullshit confession of our own.” Sweet Pea replied slowly getting angrier. 

“So the less you guys know about where everyone is the better?” You assumed.

“Yea.” He mumbled as he unlocked the front door.

Inside the trailer was clean and cozy which surprised you. Sweet Pea walked away into a hallway, as you took off your shoes and left them by the front door. You did not make it far from the front door as a framed picture that hung on the wall caught your attention. It was a young boy, presumably Sweet Pea with an older man wearing a leather jacket and a woman.

“Here. There's a bathroom down the hall towards the left.” Sweet Pea spoke, watching you stare at the picture. 

You nodded, grabbing the folded tee shirt and sweat pants. You walked slowly towards the bathroom as you wanted to look at every detail. The bathroom was small and simple. You took off your dirty, soaked clothes and put on the teeshirt only as it was huge on you. Inspecting yourself in the mirror you looked like a hot mess. Your hair was all wet soaking the teeshirt where it laid. Your makeup had smudged a bit which you wiped away with toilet paper. You folded your clothes and took them in one hand and Sweet Peas clean, dry pants in the other. 

“Hey, do you have a plastic bag or something for my clothes?” You asked Sweet Pea finding him in the kitchen. 

“Give them to me, I own a dryer you know.” Sweet Pea said chuckling. 

You handed them over, never breaking eye contact. 

“And the sweat pants?” You questioned.

“Was there something wrong with them?” He asked taking the pants back.

“No, I just hate pants.” You replied fiddling with one of your rings.

You followed Sweet Pea to his laundry room which turned out to be a closet hiding the washer and dryer. There he added his dirty clothes with yours and grabbed a blanket from the top shelf. He then shut the closet doors and walked back to the front part of the trailer placing it on the couch. 

“You can have my bed and I’ll sleep on the couch.” Sweet Pea stated.

Thunder and lightning abruptly struck. Causing you to jump and latch onto Sweet Pea. Quickly realizing what you had done, you let go. 

 “I’m so sorry!” You said repeatedly biting your lip. “Also you take the bed I don't mind the couch! I really don't mind and I don't want to impose!” You nervously went on as the thunder and lightning continued making you more nervous. 

“So a group of bikers, and riding on a motorcycle with someone you barely know doesn't scare you but a storm does?” Sweet Pea asked smirking.

“I’ve known Toni for years and shes a biker! And you're friends with Toni so I knew it was safe!” You quickly defended. “My mom died in the middle of a storm like this when I was little and my dad was on a business trip. When the ambulance came to take her they left me behind and the power cut out.” You added on, fidgeting with your ring. 

“I'm sorry.” Sweet Pea said awkwardly. “Want me to put on a movie? It could help distract you.” He added.

❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧

Sweet Pea ended up playing a movie that neither of you was really interested in. One thing led to another, a few conversations sparked but there you were in Sweet Pea's trailer, on his couch sitting on top of him making out. His hands went to your lower back and even lower finding their way to gripping your ass. You let out a moan as you pulled on his bottom teeth with your mouth. He picked you up swiftly and carried you to his bedroom dropping you on his bed. He quickly pounced on you forming love bites on your neck. 

“Fuuuuccckkk” You moaned out leaving a trail down his back with your nails. 

Sweet Pea roughly took the tee shirt you wore off. You grabbed the hem of his shirt and removed it as well. And hungrily went after his sweat pants. There his member sprung out and you ravished it. Quickly licking up the shaft and sucking on the head. Sweet Pea hissed out a moan as he pulled your hair. You went deeper and gagged on him. When you went up for air, you bobbed on his rock hard cock a bit more. It didn't take much after that for Sweet Pea to cum in your mouth. You swallowed it down as you locked eyes with him. 

“Baby girl that's so hot.” Sweet Pea cooed as he bent down bring you closer to him. 

You felt his breath against your beating core. Smirking, Sweet Pea attacked your core with his mouth. 

“Sweets” You moaned out

That boy’s tongue was sent from the gods. His fingers came in contact with your core immediately finding your g spot and nerve endings. One hand grasped his raven locks and the other outstretched in the sheets. 

“Pea please fuck me” You whimpered. 

“Beg baby girl” Sweet Pea purred.

“Pea” You cried out. “I need you inside me.”

You began squirming underneath him and the lust in his eyes grew deeper. He reached over to his bedside and grabbed a pair of handcuffs. He then grabbed your hands and placed your hands through the cuffs, the chain passing through the bed frame. You’ve never been tied up before, but it just made your lust for Sweet Pea deeper. You spread your legs wider, begging for more. Sweet Pea adjusted himself and slowly inserted his member in you. He gave you time to adjust, by pacing himself slowly. 

“Faster” You whimpered biting your lip. 

He did as you asked causing the bed frame to slam against the wall. You held on tight to the chains on the cuffs, allowing incoherent moans to escape your mouth. Sweet Pea began to leave love bites on your neck and collar bone driving you crazy. 

“Baby girl you taste so good” Sweet Pea cooed in your ear as he nibbled on it. 

By now a thin layer of sweat began to glisten on both of your bodies. 

“Sweets I’m going to cum” you managed to moan out.

“Cum for me baby” Sweet Pea purred as his thumb worked on your clit.

You released as Sweet Pea rode you out, and once you were done he released himself all over your abdomen. He then bent over and freed you from the handcuffs. 

“Round two in the shower?” you asked biting your lip.

[rigginsstreet]

Clay Evans, Eric Matthews, Kevin Keller, Bailey Salinger

clay:

How I feel about this character: i only watched one season with him in it and like... he truly was not contributing anything 

All the people I ship romantically with this character: nobody

My non-romantic OTP for this character: nobody

My unpopular opinion about this character: i dont know what anyones opinions of him are lmao i mean i guess i see people shipping him and quinn so they must be invested on some level. i cant relate to that

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.: that we just got lucas (and peyton) instead of having these obvious replacement characters but also i understand why chad and hilarie left but also god i missed them....

eric:

How I feel about this character: what a fun guy. HES A HIMBO! im always like “oh i dont have any himbo faves cuz thats not my cup of tea for characters” but like... eric matthews is a himbo. at least certain versions of him are

All the people I ship romantically with this character: jack

My non-romantic OTP for this character: also jack lmao i wish this question just said brotp or something. anyway. i love him and cory too

My unpopular opinion about this character: im not mad at how stupid he was in the later seasons. like... yeah he was dumb but he was still a good guy who just wanted his friends to get along and keep the peace. also he was always dumb. rewatch the early seasons... boy is dumb. they just amped it all the way up to 11 at the end because will friedle is a comedic genius. i respect that.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.: with that all being said... i wish he was treated better on girl meets world. they didnt need to do ALL that. like he still couldve been the zany uncle but dialed back

kevin:

How I feel about this character: hes.. certainly there, isnt he lmao i dont have strong feelings about kevin but i can say he is like one of two tolerable teens on riverdale so good for him. 

All the people I ship romantically with this character: im not invested in his love life like that but i do respect all his pairings because i just pretend its fredsythe lmfao

My non-romantic OTP for this character: literally the only other character on this show i like is archie and have they even spoken to each other? lmfao fuck if i know but they should be friends.

My unpopular opinion about this character: people seem to hate on him a lot for being a “bad friend to betty”. those people can choke on my dick i am personally inviting you to

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.: i mean his storyline truly does not affect me in any way shape or form but selfishly i enjoyed joaquin so i would have liked them to have had more of a story

bailey:

How I feel about this character: yall i never even finished party of five and netflix took it off im so mad lmao ayway bailey is... hes there too. definitely present

All the people I ship romantically with this character: nobody idc about him like that

My non-romantic OTP for this character: same answer as above (also keep it mind its been a LONG time since i watched anything so im very removed from any feelings i had lol)

My unpopular opinion about this character: dont have a single clue what anyones opinions are

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.: um.... i got nothing

[tenacious-scripturient]

a run-down of / my thoughts on the novel ‘trade secrets’

so! i’ve recently finished this beautifully written novel by @bettsican​, and am anxiously anticipating for the second book in the trilogy! (seriously, give it a read. it’s a great lgbtq+ thriller and mystery story, i promise you’ll love it!! you can find trade secrets in many places, including amazon, where it’s only $6)

as i was reading it, i noted down all the thoughts i had. it was fun, interesting, and kept me on the edge of my seat!

oh, and spoiler warning, of course.

Chapter One

okay. this is interesting. why are they in paris? or rather, why are they NOT in paris?

2080. damn.

who is cooper hall and why is he important i want to knowwwwwwww

Chapter Two

HOLY FUCK

CHAPTER ONE WAS A PROLOGUE

OKAY IF I DIDNT NEED TO BEFORE I HAVE TO READ IT NOW

-ahem- anyway

nate literally everything you think of has to relate to smoking, doesnt it?

clyde you absolutely bitch raccoon

im sort of piecing together what’s happening here? either way this is a SUPER interesting concept.

i love the idea of every word being important

nate look at you being a nice guy. testing the CAPS before giving them to ur clients

or maybe it’s just good business

but whatever

okay, so credits are money in this world. but how do people get them? obviously there’s what nate’s doing but what’s the legal way to get them? ill probably find out soon

if it wasnt explicitly said by betty that nate ends up with another guy (i forget his name. cooper?) i would have thought audry was the romantic interest

audry you loving caring hypocrite

i feel like she’s gonna be one of my favourite characters

who is this young man that dares disturb nate’s slumber

cooper? cooper.

Chapter Three

nate get up

u turtle get up and hurry down the stairs

or—okay you can fall into that drywall that works too

ohhhhh so nate is a detective. that’s interesting

i also love this idea of keeping secrets (haha trade secrets)

dude are you sure that your embarrassing entrance wasn’t the ONLY reason you blushed? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

HEIGHT DIFFERENCE HEIGHT DIFFERENCE HEIGHT DIFFERENCE HEIGHT DIFFERENCE HEIGHT DIFFERENCE HEIGHT DIFFERENCE HEIGHT DIFFERENCE HEIG—

nate ur spending an awful lot of time looking at his features you funky little bisexual

oh damn ur smarter than u seem, just watching him take a single breath and you’re already making connections. i guess that’s why he’s a detective

im gonna assume this is cooper, even tho it never explicitly says so

i feel like we aren’t gonna get his name for a while, bc clients and whatnot and not getting attached

Chapter Four

NATE WEARS GLASSES???????

that’s kind of cute

im lowkey gay rn

anyway

NATE CALLED HIM SWEET-FACED AND PRETTY-FACED O K A Y

oh he has curly brown hair

and oh the glasses aren’t real glasses. oh. the use is actually pretty cool!

so from what im gathering civilians are people who don’t live in sanctuaries, and lemnis are people who do?

cooper sweetie why do u need so much money what have u done

nate’s pretty clever

HAH I WAS RIGHT WE AREN’T GONNA GET HIS NAME FOR A WHILE

well that’s that i guess

Chapter Five

he’s so timid awh

hehe he’s on nate’s bed

sorry

goddammit man calm down or else you’re gonna get everyone in a 5-mile radius around you arrested

wait…. zero-credit balance?? didn’t he just have a few hundred thousand credits???

OH THIS IS A FAKE PROFILE HE MADE

so cooper isn’t his real name either

oh

Chapter Six

oh we’re back to 2080

oh they’re back in the apartment??

it was obvious before but at this point it’s confirmed that they’re going to be doing some travelling together or something

Chapter Seven

this is getting really interesting i dont wanna stop reading and type everything that comes to mind

these are gonna be shorter now hehe

“i’d been a petri dish of mixed emotions and wild chemical changes for half the day” I LOVE THAT METAPHOR LMFAO

what happened with nate’s mom

i want to know

my prediction: she wanted him to either change up or completely remove the chip bc she did something horrible? or maybe she just wanted to leave idk im bad at predictions

either way it said she was crazy

o h

that’s why he’s terrified of cutting the chip

poor nate

Chapter Eight

oh this is strangely intimate

very intimate

i feel that, because cooper has such high pain tolerance (or doesn’t show pain), he has some backstory for it

Chapter Nine

lmao nate just went off didnt he

THEIR FLIRTING IS CUTE FHJKJDLSKAJDKLSJAK

also is being lgbtq+ widely accepted as the norm in this setting? bc nate considered cooper to be flirting with him

ughhhh it’s so good so far, from the character interactions to the suspense, especially in this chapter

Chapter Ten

rude cooper is rude, rude nate is even more rude

F E D O R A

“coop”

Chapter Eleven

aw i love jimmy already—

WHAT THE FUCK COOPER

EXCUSE ME

JIMMY

WHAT

HOW COULD YOU

goddammit

what the fuck is cooper hiding

cooper oh my god

you

you’re playing a dangerous game, mate

are you really that heartless

“deceptively innocent eyes” you got that right

this chapter hurted

thanks a lot jess

Chapter Twelve

“like a weeping wound on the canvas of my home” this has got to be one of my favourite similes ever omg

the way nate’s describing cooper makes my heart hurt awh

i feel like butterflies have some sort of symbolism

maybe being ugly on the outside and beautiful on the inside, or vice versa? the vice versa was basically cooper lol

aye we finally get to meet audry!!

PEANUT BUTTER AND TRICYCLE I WANNA HEAR ABOUT THAT

i love audry omg

IT’S NATE’S BIRTHDAY?? HAPPY BIRTHDAY YA SMOKEY CONMAN

“bright eyes” is the cutest nickname ever

Chapter Thirteen

oh we’re back to 2080

wait what they’re trapped together

is this story gonna have a sad ending

please no

Chapter Fourteen

OH IT’S THE LINE ON THE COVER

i like that

nate’s back to where he left cooper

also if it wasn’t obvious before, it’s definitely obvious now that nate and cooper or gonna find each other again. hm. not sure how i feel about that

kind of pissed at cooper but also we need him for the story to progress

O H

COOPER IM ONLY KIND OF PISSED AT YOU NOW

IT MAKES SO MUCH SENSE

NATE IVE SAID IT BEFORE BUT YOU’RE PRETTY CLEVER

also who is ‘her’?

COOPER WANTS TO BECOME A?? LEMNIS?? GODDAMMIT MAN

I CAN FEEL THE PRESSURE RISING

nate’s in danger

wow this chapter is

a lot

i need a break

-cue a break-

Chapter Fifteen

i’m back

eisley is a cool last name

oh wait so even people outside of sanctuaries can become a lemniscate

i’m still not 100% sure what a lemniscate is

it’s so ironic elijah’s last name is king, but i assume you did that on purpose. i also like the slight nod to royalty by his first name

OH

COOPER’S BACK

why hello there

Chapter Sixteen

they’re

competing

to become a lemniscate

and one of them dies

do they fight back?? is that why they end up in prison??? so many thoughts are going through my head right now

nate, your fantasy about becoming a lemniscate is surprisingly dark. i’m totally down for it

Chapter Seventeen

oh wait so joshua is cooper’s blackmailer?? Interesting that it’s a lemniscate

i keep forgetting nate is wearing glasses

cooper, my dude, calm the fuck down. you’re gonna get yourself and nate killed

it’s the return of soft™ nate

Chapter Eighteen

oh there’s another one

oh this is very ominous i don’t like

Chapter Nineteen – Twenty-One

okay i was eating while i read so i couldn’t type here but just know that these chapters were really really good

Chapter Twenty-Two

wait fuck what’s happening this is all happening so fast

cooper brought out his gun,,,, it’s aimed at ivonne,,,,,,, they’re walking,,,

OH IT WAS A FAKE KIDNAPPING

nice

i like ivonne a lot

Chapter Twenty-Three

the entire story just changed course

this isn’t just about cooper and nate anymore, it’s about a corrupt government

NATE AND COOPER ARE HOLDING HANDS AS THEY RUN THROUGH THE BARRIER THAT’S SO ROMANTIC

also the line “only the dead are ever truly free” is beautiful

THAT’S WHERE PARIS COMES IN

THEY ALL GO TO FRANCE DON’T THEY

I’m so curious to find out where this story is going

Chapter Twenty-Four

this is doin me a confusion

but tbh these hints/ visions of the future, if you could call them that, are giving just enough information to keep me super interested. props to you

Chapter Twenty-Five

AUDRY STOP TEASING NATE

just joking keep doing it, this might actually get their relationship somewhere

ivonne is definitely my favourite character so far. she reminds a little of melia from xenoblade chronicles, in that they’re both ‘royalty’ that rebel. also they’re badass and smart

oh fuck the brother is here

okay thank god he’s not an asshole

oh god things are happening again

Chapter Twenty-Six

nate stop ogling at cooper when you’re in a life-or-death situation

holy shit the lemniscate are messed up

this crew is pretty great, it sucks that it’s almost the end of the book

WAIT I FORGOT THERE’S A SECOND COMING SOON HECK YEAH

anyway

YES COOPER PULL THROUGH

awwww yiss

Chapter Twenty-Seven

oh

oh

O H

oh my god i ship them so hard

THEY KISSED

THIS IS SO STEAMY

this chapter was art thank you so much for this

Chapter Twenty-Eight

AHAHAH AUDRY

once again, i’d like to state how much i love her

oh the tension just grew twentyfold

this is… great

oh god nate what are you planning, you just got together with cooper and now you want to leave him?

Chapter Twenty-Nine

what’s with all the dancing?

Chapter Thirty

oh god the description

so he’s going around and giving people credits, all the while confessing things that would help the lemniscate track him down. i assume this means he’s going to die, but why?

just what are you planning?

oh we’re back to clyde, the guy who started it all. it feels full circle

Chapter Thirty-One

OH

HE’S MAKING HIS CHIP SHOW THAT HE’S DEAD

that’s much smarter

FUCK

NATE YOU IDIOT—COOPER’S REAL NAME

SHIT NOW KING IS HERE

everything’s going downhill now isn’t it

Chapter Thirty-Two

wait that took an even darker turn

there’s so much happening right now i can’thandlethis

cooper and nate are couple goals

Chapter Thirty-Three

king isn’t as horrible as i thought

still horrible, but not a monster

NEVER MIND YOU’RE A FUCKING MONSTER WHAT IS THIS BS

cooper

actually

shot

nate

Chapter Thirty-Four

OH MY GOD

WHAT

THIS IS HOW YOU END IT

I CAN’T

HOW DARE YOU

NO

NO

NO

NO

i need the next book

like right now

what the hell

Final Thoughts

okay so this book was SO good, and so well written. like damn

aside from that horrible ending how could you do this to me

i’m joking, it was an incredible and emotional ending, i loved it and hated it at the same time

it very rarely felt static, and especially in the first half, there was a good mix of action and backstory/description. it was never boring

the story is just,,, so unique. i seriously haven’t read anything like it, EVER

the world-building?? Is?? so vast?? and insane??

the increasing tension and speed as the story progressed is perfect, i felt my heart beating faster the more i read

anyway that’s all from me

this book was amazing i cannot wait for the next

[thepuckishrogue]

*blows the dust off of my account just to post this*

Not me arriving to the party, ahem, fashionably late lmao.

10/10—highly recommend if poly-Kiribaku is your thing (as always, mind OP’s tags and minors go away).

Lots of spoilers/rambles/me general fangirling over my friend’s writing under the cut, as per usual…

Okay so right off the bat I am already in my feelings.

Removing his shoes, setting them to the left of yours as he always did.—that shit right there? Perfection. That whole paragraph, really. idk there’s just something about that level of comfort and domesticity that always makes me so damn soft. Making a home with someone, creating habits and routines that are specific to you? UGH. Fucking end me now.

Starfishin’ Kats, starfishin’ Kats, STARFISHING KATS!! ((sorry, I had to get that outta my system lol. that’s so damn cute as well as on brand—you just know that man takes up all the space, like he’s trying to establish dominance even in his sleep lmao. if he’s not doing that then he’s completely curled around you like you’re a safety blanket, there is no in between))

Kiri barely managing to last a day before going full on heart-eyed simp is so damn funny to me. Honey wears his heart on his sleeve and sees no point in trying to mask his emotions overmuch and honestly I love him even more for it; one of us has to be the more emotionally intelligent and it sure as shit ain’t gonna be me or Katsuki lol. ((also what purpose do those sleeves—the actual, non-metaphorical ones—serve anyway?? does he vibe with early 2000s emo/scene styles or…? lmaooooo))

Fuckin’—OF COURSE Kats gets hot over us putting Hatsume in her place. Basic tsundere ass mf (affectionate)

Oh no—we’re such an excitable little bean, running off to the dorms at the crack of dawn to show of our designs!! Cute~ Yeah, I see why they want us lol. Also loving the fact that Kiri still calls Kats Bakubro despite the fact that they’ve been dating for like a year lmao; peak couple energy, we love to see it. But the Katsuki had to pull his ‘idk how to process my emotions so I default to being mean because that’s easy and safe’ bs and totally kills the beat. But omg, when Kiri took off that croc I got instant flashbacks to that one vid where the lady manages to beam her daughter from down the block with a fucking flip-flop; ong it was like that shit had honing abilities or sumn lmfao. Anyway, mf better be glad I like my (anime) men ~emotionally damaged~ lol.

But he makes up for it! He’s trying!! Sis, the growth!!! We really do love to see it, truly. ((but uhhh… I have a terrible astigmatism so I legit thought that Kats had decided to call us a gd Twink and I was gonna fucking lose it. idek where my eyes pulled that fucking ‘w’ from, but now there are tears pouring down my cheeks I’m laughing so fucking hard seND HELP)) Also I have no idea how I’m handling HtH training with that man; between my thirst and total lack of physical aptitude I’d be dying in the gd streets, ngl.

Oh shit, we’re in our feelings. Double shit, a proposal has been made. And third times the gd charm ig because our dorm just fucking collapsed with us in it. Yes, this is fine. ((it is NOT fine)) ((well ig it’s kinda fine, since we’re all together now—but still lol))

Kiri’s fucking eye crinkles—fucking BYE. A lifetime’s worth of eye crinkling smiles’ll definitely do that to ya (but Scar, did you have to do it to us? The correct answer is yes, yes you did lmao)

We called him Kit-Kat, yes!! I’ve always loved that nickname for him, mostly because I’m convinced that he would hate it so damn much—well until he realized that he could flip it on ya. Ya know, some “Then come ‘n’ take a bite, Princess” type shit that wouldn’t work if anyone but him tried it. And he’d be such a cocky lil shit about it too, all self-assured smirks and arched brows, with the only tell that he wants this just as much if not more than you being the way his eye are smoldering with want… Okay, lemme stop lmfao

Anyways!

-the next several paragraphs have been REDACTED due to the reviewer’s attempt to keep up the appearance of having at least some sense of decorum- ((but I see you, pandering to my oral fixation lmfaooooo))

So in conclusion I’m crying, I’m sweating, I’m punching the gd wall. Any questions? No, good, because I have no coherent answers. Head’s not empty tho, it’s so very full of thots lmao…

Excellent work as usual, dear ((tho now I’m hella sad that I’m not married to these men for real ;n;))

Head Over Heels

Pairing: Bakugo x Kirishima x F!Reader

Warnings: SMUT! Minors go away. Earthquake. Blood. Swearing.

Contains: Poly Relationship. Porn with Plot. Slight soft dom tendencies, nipple play, biting, DP, one hole, unprotected sex, voyeurism (kinda), fingers in mouth. Pet names/nicknames: baby girl, good girl, baby, princess, Tink (per Bakugo), slut.

Summary: You were assigned to work with Kirishima and Bakugo as a part of your support course training at UA. What you didn't plan on was developing crushes on the hero course couple and you certainly weren't prepared for them to have crushes on you but, it's funny how things progress and life happens.

SMUT happens post UA.

W/C: 5,395

A/N: This stemmed from a conversation that @thepuckishrogue and I had the other night. I hope you all enjoy these two beefcakes as much as we do <3 I really didn't edit this at all, by the way.

It was nearly three in the morning by the time Eijiro unlocked his front door. He'd showered at the agency after his patrol because there was no way he wanted to risk waking up you and Katsuki. And, to further ensure he didn't, Eijiro tiptoed as quietly as he could through the house.

Removing his shoes, setting them to the left of yours as he always did. He didn't bother turning on any lights, he knew his home perfectly by now and certainly didn't need any lights to tell him where to go. Leaving his bag slung over one of the dining room chairs since the table was covered in your gadgets and other work before making his way down the hall to the bedroom.

When he nudged open the door, his heart swelled at the sight before him as it did damn near every time he laid eyes on the two people he loved most in the world.

Katsuki was starfished out as he usually was with arms and legs splayed wide, leaving you clinging to his body like a little koala.

You'd all been together for roughly seven years though, he'd been with Kat for just a year longer. It didn't really matter though, he was head over heels for the both of you, just as much as he'd been at 17. The girl from the support course that he and Katsuki had been assigned to, charged with helping them with all their technical and support item needs.

He thought you were cute as a button, he couldn't help it, and Katsuki was quick to catch onto his crush, we have to work with her so don't make it weird, Shitty Hair. So, he did his best to keep things strictly professional, just like a real pro would do.

His best lasted a day, 25 hours to be exact.

"You're ripping these sleeves to shreds every other day, Kirishima!"

Just because you'd been recently assigned to each other, didn't mean you didn't know about him. It was just that you specifically were now tasked with fixing his sleeves and anything else they needed.

"I-I can't help it!" He told you standing in the doorway of UA's lab, "I use my arms, like, a lot! And the fabric rips no matter how careful I am! And if I have to go Unbreakable, yeah, there's nothing left of 'em at that point."

He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks as he watched your nose crinkle with thought. Damn if it wasn't the most adorable thing watching you work. The way you paced around examining, muttering words he didn't even understand, he even thought the pen kept constantly behind your ear was cute! He was a goner.

"Alright. I'm gonna figure this out! I just know it. I just gotta think... I'll have another pair of these ready for you tomorrow, two actually so you have a spare, so swing by before training but, I'm gonna make something that'll actually last you. Might take me a while though."

And it did. Not days, not weeks, even after a month you hadn't figured it out completely. Bogged down with other tasks and assignments. Eijiro didn't mind though. It gave him an excuse to visit you, to get more sleeves, and also to check up on your progress. Sitting with you to keep you company and helping when you let him.

"That can't all be for you?" Katsuki caught him walking out of the lunchroom for the third day in a row that particular week.

"Uh, it isn't. Y/N, she's been working really hard trying to update my suit, and, well, she usually works through lunch. Figured if she's working that hard for me, bringing her brain fuel is the least I can do. Wanna come too?"

Anyone else, anyone but Katsuki Bakugo, would have been jealous of how much time their boyfriend was spending with another person. But, Eijiro knew damn well Katsuki had a crush on you too. He saw it in Katsuki's eyes when they'd gone to pick up a prototype gauntlet you made for him.

Hatsume was hovering, pointing out other attachments and modifications you could have made to better your baby. You kept quiet, kept focused only on Katsuki, fitting the gauntlet to his arm, making a minor adjustment here or there, and letting her babble incessantly the entire time.

When she touched him though, touched the item you created, Katsuki looked ready to blow her mouth off but you beat him to it.

"Alright, I need you to back off! He's assigned to me, not you. Why don't you worry about the 500 projects you have for Iida and Midoriya before you go worrying about what I'm doing for these two. Okay?"

She walked off in a huff, muttering about how you needed to be more creative while you just kept working and Katsuki, well, he was grinning like a damn fool.

"Fine! Yeah, I like her! That what you wanna hear? I'm with you though! Not gonna leave you just because I got some crush!"

He'd badgered Katsuki the whole way back to their dorms that night, Eijiro kissed him because he was so damn cute when he was flustered. "Katsuki, you don't have to leave me to be with her you know."

At first, Katsuki balked at what he was insinuating, but, if the redhead was being honest, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about the both of you for weeks now. But, he let his boyfriend sit with the idea for a while, meanwhile, he just kept building a friendship with you.

Until one morning, a Sunday, his day off, his phone started to ring at five in the morning. There were very few people he'd answer for that early, you just happened to be one of them. "Y/N? You good?"

"Kiri! Kiri, I did it! I figured it out! I'm outside, I didn't think, I just sort of came right to your dorm but now I'm thinking that probably isn't really allowed this early but I've got your sleeves, you know, the ones that have been a massive pain in my ass for like three months, and I'm out here because I didn't think about what time it was. I just finished at the lab and came right over-"

He opened the front door and you stopped your word vomit. "Get inside! It's cold this morning."

You both quietly moved through the dorm, whispered giggles in the elevator all the way up to his room where he slipped the fabric onto his arms while you went over specs and technical jargon that were utterly lost on him.

"Okay, now, it's not invincible," You were telling him, "But, it's the most elastic material I could put together but was still able to withstand the texture of your skin in its most rigid state. Now, as that increases, I'll probably have to make more modifications, probably find a new material altogether with the way your progression has been over the last year alone but," You finally took a breath, "but, for now, I think this should work. I hope it'll work..."

You looked up at him with wide, eager eyes. "Could you try it, please?"

He'd been hanging on every word you'd said, so caught up in the sound of your excitement that he had to shake himself from the trance you put him under and shift the skin on his arms.

You moved around him, manipulating his arms this way and that, something he'd gotten very used to in the last couple of months. "Okay, so far so good. But, we both know this is practically child's play for you. I need to know if this can stand up to your Unbreakable."

"I won't go that far in my dorm. I can be a bit clunky when I get like that, and just, big."

Of course, you knew that though. You'd watched their training enough times to know his skillset.

"Yeah, I figured you'd say that." The small pout of your lower lip while you inspected your work had this heart aching. So, he pushed himself just a little further. The collar of his shirt ripped and the little gasp you let out in shock sent an ache right to another body part.

He ignored it though, as best he could at least, and instead looked at his arms. He could see the jagged ridges, the plates of his skin that would usually be poking through were well contained. "I'll be damned. You really did it!"

"Did you doubt me, Kirishima?"

"No, not for a second."

You'd been running a hand down his arm, looking for any kind of tears or split seams, thrilled that you couldn't feel any sharp edges when Kirishima's door opened. "Shitty Hair! The sun's not even fuckin' up what the hell- Oh. Oh, you're here."

"Bakubro look!" He held out his arms, "Y/N did it!" He hugged his boyfriend with his quirk active despite Katsuki trying to shove him off.

You hurried over to your bag. "I didn't forget about you, Bakugo."

"I don't need any modifications."

"Just because you don't need them doesn't mean I'm going to not keep trying to help you."

Eijiro couldn't even hide his shit-eating grin.

"These are strictly experimental and should only be tested outside for the time being." You gently passed him three glass vials. "You already store your sweat in its original form inside your gauntlets which is great for those big attacks but I got to thinking, what if you could have more of a surprise element, something that would help you with stealth."

"'M not really a stealth kinda fighter... quiet ain't me."

"This might be able to change that. See, I think I've found a way to transform your sweat into a gaseous form. A sort of vapor trapped inside these little vials. My rough analysis estimates they linger in about a twenty-foot area for about two minutes without losing potency. And the gas can live within the vial itself for close to a week without losing potency."

He held the seemingly empty glass tube up to eye level. "So, find a way to distribute the gas prior to a fight and-"

"Boom." You and Kiri said together.

"You really only need a tiny spark to set it off but if you ignite it with an AP Shot, I'm estimating an increased damage range of 30-40%."

Eijiro's eyes darted between the two of you, waiting for Katsuki to say something but, his boyfriend only turned on his heel. "Okay. Just keep it down in here. Some of us are still trying to sleep."

And that look that washed over you, that settled into your eyes when Katsuki shut the door behind him, Eijiro decided at that moment he hated it. "I- I thought he'd be happy. He's always looking for new ways to apply his quirk and improve his technique..."

"Hey, I'm sure Bakugo's gonna really like it. He's just grumpy when his beauty sleep is interrupted."

You nodded your head but sure as hell didn't look like you believed him. "Well, I'll let you go back to sleep, Kirishima," You gathered up your bag, throwing it over your shoulder, "If you need anything else, ya know where to find me."

He thanked you about a dozen more times while walking you back to your dorm before marching back to his own and practically knocking down Katsuki's door.

"The fuck is your problem!"

"My problem! What's my problem! She worked hard on those and the best you can do is, Okay, keep it down." He mocked and took off his croc, "Seriously, man, what's wrong with you!" Launching the shoe at him.

"I didn't ask her to do it!"

"So! People can still do nice things for someone without being asked and, it's a really good idea!"

"Yeah, I know it is."

"I'm surprised you hadn't thought of something like it already. You should really be thankful."

"Yeah, I know, I am."

"Y/N looked so tired, bet she stayed up all night again working on stuff probably because of us."

"I said I fuckin' know!"

Eijiro stopped talking then, watched his boyfriend pull his knees up to his chest and look out his window. "Crap, Kats, you actually really like her, don't you?"

"'M not good with these things, Ei. Never have been."

Eijiro sat at the foot of his bed, a hand coming to rest atop his with a soft smile on his face because he, of all people, had first-hand experience knowing how not good Katsuki could be with these things. "You're getting better every day though. You can admit to liking her. That's a pretty big improvement!"

"Yeah, but every time I wanna say something nice to her it gets stuck in my throat! So, I don't say anything and I look like a bigger jackass than I already am!"

He just leaned forward, kissing Katsuki's brow before promising him that they'd work on it together. And it was a promise Eijiro took very seriously.

It took a while, but, Katsuki eventually did start opening up to you. Letting you see little bits of himself outside of the lab. He even started joining you and Eijiro for lunch, beating him once or twice and already in conversation with you by the time Eijiro arrived.

The day he gave you a nickname, Eijiro was smiling from ear to ear. "Always messing with something... tinkering... damn tinkerer... Tink."

Eijiro noticed Katsuki's training times had lengthened and Midoriya, whom he usually stayed late to train with, was already back at the dorms. "Tink, she wanted to learn some basic hand-to-hand combat stuff. Mentioned it once during lunch, so I, ya know, offered to help."

He couldn't have been more proud of Katsuki's progress.

Before he knew it, you weren't just befriending Katsuki but the rest of their little group of friends too. Soon enough, the boys didn't just see you for hero needs or in the lab but simply because they wanted to. Inviting you to movie nights and shopping trips. Anything they could do to be around you and you were always in such a wonderful mood around them, all smiles and laughter. Welcoming hugs and playful touches.

Things were great, like, really great. And that was why Eijiro had been so damn confused the day he heard crying coming from Mina's dorm. "-they're with each other so why do I feel like this? It's so fucking stupid, Mina! 'M gonna ask someone to switch pairs with me, I can't do it anymore."

That look on your face when Katsuki broke your heart months ago in his dorm had nothing on that moment. Eijiro felt the world slip under him, felt everything slipping through his very fingers. He burst through Katsuki's door. "We've got a problem!"

The pair raced back to Mina's room but just found her alone in the room. "I just walked Y/N out but, guys, I think we should talk-"

"Later!" Eijiro shouted. Bakugo already pushing the door open to the stairwell hoping to catch you.

"Tink!" Eijiro heard him yelling after you, saw you turn and wipe your cheek trying to hide the evidence of what happened in Mina's room.

"H-hey guys, what's up?"

"W-wh..." Katsuki choked on the words again but before Eijiro had a chance to explain, Katsuki finally got them out, "We like you too."

You looked dumbfounded. Taking a step back from Katsuki, your head shaking with confusion.

"He's right," Eijiro added once he caught up, "We both like you, like, a lot."

"Both of you?" They nodded in sync, "Like me?" Nods, "But, you're with each other..."

Eijiro was the one to propose the idea of a poly relationship to you, and like Katsuki, you needed time to think, to process. They could practically see the gears turning in your head trying to sort it all out.

"Take all the time you need. And whatever you decide, we'd still like to be friends, if that's alright."

You gave a weak little nod and that was the last they saw of you for two whole weeks.

Katsuki was grumbling something in the evening about how he was going to sabotage one of this own gauntlets just so he had an excuse to see you when they felt the ground rumble. Everyone looked outside and saw the three dorms furthest way collapsing, the fourth starting to shake violently.

"Villians?" Someone asked.

"Feels like an earthquake!"

But panic overtook both guys because they knew the second building, that was your dorm. One look shared between the two was all it took, both of them racing towards the rubble remains.

Katsuki was faster, explosions propelling him forward. Eijiro had to stop along the way despite not wanting to. The fourth building was cracking, falling in large chunks and students were still running for cover. He shifted, holding up as much of the entryway as he could until the last of them were out.

By the time he caught up with Katsuki, you were already bundled up in his arms. Blood coated the right side of your face, trickling down onto Katsuki. He could see your shirt torn open, blood pooling from there as well. "I-Is she?" He was so scared to even ask.

"Her pulse is fine. Passed out a second before you got here. Just gotta get her to Recovery Girl. Gotta get her for a lot of people..." Katsuki gingerly passed you over to him. He didn't even have time to process how small you looked in his arms because he could feel the warmth of your blood from another wound on your back. "Take her somewhere safe and be mindful of aftershocks. There are more still inside."

He remembered telling Katsuki to be careful before taking you and a few others off to safety.

An infirmary had been set up in one of the gyms, temporary sleeping quarters in another since six dormitories in all had been destroyed in the earthquake.

Recovery Girl assured them both that you'd be fine, maybe some scars but fine. They still refused to leave your side until you woke up though. And, by the following morning, you had stirred. Eijiro hugged you before your eyes had opened fully, Katsuki had to shove him back, reminding him that you were probably sore as hell.

You muttered something about how fast Katsuki had been, how gentle Eijiro was when he held you, he hadn't even been aware you knew he did that... but you grabbed both their hands, "Thank you. Both of you."

They intended on leaving you to rest now that they knew you were okay. But your hands tightened in theirs, "Stay, please."

And so you did. Together, you all stayed for the last seven years. The good and bad, you went through it all together.

>>><<<

Eijiro tugged off his shirt and tossed it along with his jeans into the hamper, letting his hair fall free of the tie he had it back in while memory after memory played through his mind.

You could feel the bed dip beside you under Eijiro's weight, never able to get that deep sleep until both your husbands were home safe and sound. You smiled sleepily when he placed a kiss on your temple, carefully leaning over you to give Kat one too.

Most nights, he'd settle in beside you, snores quickly filling your bedroom but some nights, like tonight, he was restless. Too much energy that he didn't burn off during the day. On one hand, that meant work was quiet, on the other, he'd be fidgeting for hours unless something was done.

And so you rolled off Katsuki and into Eijiro, "Eiji, baby,"

"Awe, lovebug, did I wake ya?"

You shook your head, "You know I don't really sleep 'til you're home."

He wrapped thick arms around you. "You've gotta quit doin' that."

Your nose crinkled. "You've known me for how long? You really think my sleep habits are gonna change now?" His rumbling laugh was quiet but you could see his eyes crinkle at the corners even in the darkness. It was such a small feature, the subtlest sign of aging and it filled you with warmth. "You should get some sleep, Ei."

"I don't think I'm gonna be able to yet. Not that tired."

"Want me to help with that?" Kissing the hollow of his throat, moving to the junction of his shoulder and neck, one hand snaking between your bodies so your thumb could brush his nipple. Teasing him in the best ways that had him squeezing you tighter. "Is that a yes, Eiji?"

He slipped a meaty thigh between your legs, bumping it up to rub against your core so you'd give him your little gasps he'd always been weak for. "When you give me such a compelling offer, how's a guy supposed to say no?"

Eijiro drew you closer, smiling before his lips met yours as they so often did. It was a familiar dance that you loved. The way his sharp teeth would so gently tug on your lower lip when he rolled on his back, placing you atop him. His hands grinding you down by the fat of your hips letting you rut against him while you kissed down the center of his chest, playing with each nipple and hearing him hiss before returning to his neck.

"Think I should wake up Kit-Kat?"

"Let 'em sleep, baby girl, he's only got an hour before he wakes up anyway."

The two of you scooted to the far side of the large bed, hoping your activities wouldn't wake up your blonde husband. It was one thing to wake him up for sex but another thing entirely if he was woken up by sex.

Eijiro marveled when you pulled off your shirt, well, Katsuki's shirt technically. Letting it slide soundlessly onto the floor while he brought your tits to his mouth. Swirling his tongue around sensitive nipples before playfully nipping them, sucking harder when your hand dipped below his waistband and wrapped around his hard cock.

Biting down on the fatter part to suppress a sinful moan with how you stroked him, swiping the pre that had accumulated all around his head before gliding all the way down to his base and back up again.

He let you tease and play, bouncing you still on his thigh until he couldn't take anymore. Eijiro flipped you onto your stomach, his hands running over your skin, the curves and divots he knew by heart, and hooked his fingers into the flimsy band of your panties. With a single hardened finger, the fabric tore without a single sound. "You didn't really like these, did you?" His breath was hot on the back of your neck, kissing just behind your ear when you whined. "Yeah, I didn't think so."

His cock rested playfully between your ass cheeks, moving ever so slightly, his hips lazily rocking while he explored with his mouth, making you moan when his thumbs ran over the sides of your tits, and sending goosebumps all over when he kissed your back, halfway down and just slightly off-center, where you had the faintest scar from the earthquake Katsuki pulled you from.

Finally, his fingers made it back to your hips and he hiked your ass right up in the air, those fingers gathering the slick he'd caused and spreading your folds so they could dip inside. "Did Kit-Kat play with you before bed?"

You shook your head. "He had a headache so I got him off so he could go to sleep."

Eijiro pulled you up to him, your back to his front. "We have the best little wife," His fingers sinking in deeper, "You know that, don't you?" Fingers curling against that sweet spot. Eijiro has to use his other hand to cover your mouth. "Oh, I know it feels good but you've gotta stay quiet. Nod if you understand. Yeah, that's my good girl."

He brought the hand slowly down your body, trailing over your nipple, squeezing it just slightly before abandoning them to pay close attention to your clit.

You had to bite down on your lip to stop your cries, screwing your eyes shut while Eijiro set his pace. Just as he felt you tip over the edge, your walls spasming around his digits, he removed them leaving you empty for only a second before popping the head of his cock in your dripping hole.

"Fuck! Eiji-!" You tasted yourself on the fingers he was quick to shove in your mouth.

"Baby girl, I told you, you've gotta be quiet so you don't wake Kat. You've gotta listen."

He sank you down further on his cock, your walls still fluttering around him, still toying with your clit. Eijiro was halfway in when his teeth pieced your shoulder and a moan ripped from the both of you. While he was busy fucking you through your first orgasm, you had your tongue coiling around his fingers. Licking and sucking your juices right off him, starting to bounce your hips, eager to hit that high again.

"Shit, you feel so damn good, so fuckin' good. Take my cock perfectly every damn time." He jammed his fingers further in your mouth, "Take 'em, babe, I know you can." Biting your neck this time so you squirmed on his dick. "Fuckin' perfect's what you are. Ngh, yeah."

The sounds of wet, sloppy skin filled the air around you, and yet the both of you were too engrossed in the other to notice the glaring set of garnet eyes watching the show.

Katsuki thought it might have been a dream at first, one that had him groggily waking up with a painfully stiff cock. He watched with eyes slightly unfocused, Eijiro lifting you up, your tits on full display for him. His husband's fingers buried deep inside your cunt, all nice and warm. Mmm. He wanted to be all nice and warm.

He palmed his own cock when Eijiro told you to be quiet, so thoughtful and you were trying so hard to for his sake. Gods, he loved the both of you so damn much. He wrapped his fingers around himself when your body twitched, and when Eiji teased you with his fat cock, he smirked. But, it was when the redhead shoved those long, thick fingers right in your mouth that Katsuki started pumping.

He took you both by surprise, how quickly he moved to pull you forward towards him. "Get those fingers out of your mouth right now. I got something else you need to suck on." Katsuki tapped your cheek and Eijiro slipped his fingers free.

"Sorry, babe."

"No, you're fuckin' not."

Eijiro laughed, fully this time, no longer needing to hold back. He slammed into you from behind just as Katsuki entered your mouth making him collide with the back of your throat in one go.

"I guess work was uneventful?"

"Ngh, yeah, boring night."

They talked nonchalantly above you. Katsuki's hands teasing your tits so you'd moan around his dick for him. And after a minute or two, Eijiro stopped holding up his end of the conversation. "She got you feelin' good, huh?" The larger man whimpered, "It's so easy to please you, lay the fuck back."

"But-"

"Take her with you, dumbass."

He pulled himself from your mouth with a pop. Strings to spit fell down your chin and the shift in positions had you moaning, now laying on Eijiro's chest while Katsuki loomed above you both, "You blew me right to sleep, Princess. I didn't get to fuck you earlier. Be our good little slut and take us both in one go, yeah?"

It wasn't something you often did. You saved it for when you didn't have to work the next day because of how sore you always were but Kat knew your schedule, knew it was your day off, and so you muttered, "Y-yeah, y-es, sir."

Katsuki went slow, he had to with how full Eijiro already had you. "Damn, Kat. Don't fuckin' break her."

"I got 'er."

You could feel them both sliding into you, Eijiro had an arm around your middle, his other hand was smoothing back your hair while he whispered about how well you took them both. Katsuki's tongue toying with your nipple to aid in distracting you, scarred fingers on your clit, so very different from Eijiro's rough calloused ones and yet, making your moan all the same.

All three of you were panting, coming to a rest with both men stuffed inside you, both pausing to check on you, waiting for the okay to continue on.

Small thrusts at first, barely snapping hips, working opposite each other so you were never left without. You'd tried lifting your head, wanting to see them both but Katsuki hit your sweet spot with a snicker making your head fall back on Eijiro's chest again.

Eijiro barely had to do anything at all, Katsuki's rocking had the two of you moving with him. Though, he did have to throw a hand back, onto the floor, to keep the three of you stable and not let Katsuki fuck you all right off the bed.

The blonde rested his head right between your breasts. "Damn it, Eiji, you're so fuckin' big. Can feel every inch in here. You take it so fuckin well, Princess."

You watched Eijiro run a loving hand through ashy blonde locks. "Yeah, we love you too." Their cocks twitched at the statement.

He gave a hard thrust and you both grunted. "Shut up, Shitty Hair. Or I'll make you cum right fuckin' now."

This time you felt the laugh bubble from Eijiro, "Yeah, think I'm gonna be doing that regardless." He lifted his hips, lifting both you and Katsuki on a slight incline so he could fuck properly. "Maybe I'll take you with me."

A large hand held you in place while he thrust, his voice, low in your ear. "Come on, baby, let's make 'em cum."

"Guys, oh shit, ah fuck!"

Both of them felt you squeeze their dicks, pushing them closer together. Eijiro's hand went right to your clit, his hips picking up the pace while Katsuki latched onto the opposite tit this time moving his own hips, matching Eijiro perfectly. Hitting you so deeply, Eijiro's cock reaching just a bit further.

"'M not gonna last," Eijiro grunted and his teeth on your shoulder sent you over the edge. Katsuki groaned feeling the two of you let go and joining in. Before Katsuki collapsed on your stomach, he pulled Eijiro back fully on the bed so he could properly relax.

You were effectively sandwiched between the two, Eijiro waited for Katsuki to settle and then wound his arms around you both. "You've gotta get ready for patrol soon." His hands trailed down his spine.

"Don't remind me. Didja eat?"

"Had dinner around nine."

Katsuki kissed your cheek. "Did you work up an appetite, Princess Tink?"

The nickname had you smiling. "If you're making breakfast food, you know I'll eat."

"Gotta lemme outta your vice grip so I can make it to the kitchen."

You wrapped your arms behind Eijiro's back and let them both pull free with a grunt, "On second thought, showers to clean up this fuckin' mess, then food."

"Can I have pancakes with whipped cream?" Eijiro asked Katsuki who was already walking towards the bathroom.

"You want whipped cream, ask Tink real nicely. She's fulla cream."

He'd scooped you up in his lap, wiggling his eyebrows, knowing damn well your legs were shot. "Eiji, baby, no."

He pouted that adorable lower lip that could get him just about anything he wanted. "Maybe for dessert."

After a warm shower, Eijiro set you down on the sofa, pulling a dark blanket around you with a kiss atop your head.

"Thanks for putting on a show for me," Katsuki commented just to Eijiro when he walked into the kitchen. "Choking on your fingers was a nice fuckin' touch."

Eijiro kissed his cheek, "Thought I'd give you something fun to wake up to, Blasty. Glad you enjoyed it."