#sighs. takes drag of candy cigarette. sometimes you need to see a guy covered in blood

[ectoplasmer]

i haven’t even played the game and i already want that white haired guy so bad ohh my god

[god--baby]

what isn’t and what should be ch7 (sfw)

vic criss x ambiguously gendered reader

this fic’s masterpost

my general masterpost

previously on: you and patrick and vic go shopping for dresses and skirts. you all go to Henry’s land to distract him from his chores. you and vic fuck.

summary: you and the gang get high. patrick and henry finally come together. 

word count: 3622

tag list:  @bowers1989 @hyperdontia2580 @badbitsh13 @candy-grape@cmonsonnyboy @zudyblr @not-uh-author @apossiblegentleman@violetdawn-k @the-official-trash-can @bellacherries @kotabug1211@sarah-bow-beara @baddestbitchmgk @milevenandreddiefordays @somesayimvague@xoteaguellif3 @jordan-writes-occasionally @iwritefanficnotprophecies@painfullythiqq @mads---world @thegirlyouworryabout @liddlehoneybee@madhatterweasley @littleevilme03 @noctsgay @ordinarily-weird@alwaysforgivingneverforgetting @agespenst @pixelcube0@bettertohaveneverlovedatall @yaboicringe @turtlebabeparadise @rakelmaria @soyoucanthrowmetothewolves @serpent-princess @illegalcryptid@sugarfree-sugarbaby @softcrybabyboy @snek-shit @purplezebra68@cutegoat-boy @xxmcr-trashxx @zabee113 @hana-the-bored-idiot @reddie-freddie @spiderman-2013 @catastrophictyranny @lgaristocat @muppmeep@pngash @cheesy-nachos @hearthellkandi @idoticcabbage @cordysblog@leoniabitch @shamelessvegas @itsjulzandmydiamonds @extrasadbish@smallcheez-its @mikki-dee24 @octosapiens @maybe-lucky-clubs@sociopathicpiglet @sweettravelmuseumslamp @1975pxris @mylove-mylord@butternutsitstandsforrbutternuts @puffkitten-lexa

The next day, Patrick slipped into your room, wearing his new black pleated skirt and that cartoon cat shirt he was constantly in. You were sitting up in bed, clutching a cup of coffee from the pot you’d just made.

He stood next to you, hands out as if to say what do you think?

Looking him over, you thought about it. Then you nodded.

“It’s good,” you said.

It was. The skirt didn’t quite reach his knees, hanging a few inches above instead. The shirt worked with it surprisingly well.

He grinned.

“I know,” he said.

And then he climbed in bed beside you, jostling you so that you had to hold your coffee up out of the way as he pulled the covers over his legs.

“How’s it look with your boots?” you asked.

You’d seen it yesterday and promptly forgotten.

“Good,” he said. “Badass.”

“Nice,” you said. And then you took a sip of your coffee.

“So,” he said, leaning his head down on your shoulder, “what did you do yesterday with Vicky?”

You snorted into your coffee, disturbing the surface with ripples.

“We fucked,” you said.

“Mm. I thought so,” he said.

After you’d finished fucking around with Vic, you’d hung out at his house for hours, even greeting his parents when they got home, sticking around for dinner, and hours after, too. When you’d come home and gone to bed, Patrick wasn’t home, yet.

Patrick lifted his head off your shoulder and looked at you.

“Look at you,” he said. “You’re glowing.”

You blushed, unwanted, and then rolled your eyes. At yourself, at him.

“I am not glowing,” you bitched. “Besides, you’re using that wrong. People say that about pregnant chicks, not people who just got laid.”

“Oh, but it’s true. You are.”

You shook your head as he took your coffee from you, gulping down a third of it as you made a pissed off noise.

“There’s plenty downstairs, asshole,” you said.

“Yeah, but I’m not downstairs, am I? I’m here.”

Rolling your eyes again, you got out of bed.

“How was he?” Patrick asked, staying in your bed, drinking your coffee.

“Mm?”

“Vic. How was he?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Can’t say I haven’t thought about it,” he said, shrugging.

“Jesus. Is there anyone you haven’t thought about fucking?”

You started getting dressed as he pretended to think about it. And then he slurped the last of your coffee and shrugged.

“Not many people,” he said.

Huffing out a laugh, you pulled a shirt over your sleep-messy hair.

“He was good,” you said. “And that’s all I’m saying about that.”

“No,” he said, stubborn. “I want to hear details.”

“Dude, c’mon.”

“Tell me. Now.”

Sighing, you went over and plucked the empty coffee cup from his hands.

“I rode him,” you said. “And it was really, really nice. Happy?”

“Incredibly,” he said.

You left the room, going downstairs. You weren’t sure that he was following you until you heard his feet on the stairs behind you. You smiled.

You led him to the kitchen, where you poured another cup of coffee. You decided not to bother with getting him his own cup.

He went to the living room, sitting on the couch and tucking his legs under him to the side. You arrived with the fresh cup of coffee and sat next to him, curling up to him as you heard your parents moving around in their room.

You both stayed silent for a few minutes, passing the coffee back and forth, until the door to your parents’ bedroom opened. Together, they walked into the living room on their way to the front door.

Stomach growing tight, you watched as your father’s eyes narrowed at Patrick. You looked between your parents and Patrick, waiting on the worst.

“Patrick,” your father said sharply. “What are you wearing?”

“A skirt,” said Patrick, lifting the coffee cup to his lips.

You found yourself holding your breath.

“Why are you wearing a skirt, honey?” your mother asked.

“Felt like it.”

“Take it off,” said your father.

“No.”

“Take it off right now.”

“No.”

“I’m just trying to make you the best man you can be, Patrick.”

Patrick just looked at him, dead-eyed and silent.

“I don’t know why I try,” your father huffed, throwing his hands up and walking away. Your mother followed him with an apologetic look.

The front door slammed behind them as they left for Mass. You let out a long breath, and Patrick looked at you.

“What?” he asked.

Then, surprised at yourself, you laughed.

“What?” you chuckled. “You don’t wanna be the best man you can be?”

He snorted.

“Yeah, right.”

You took the coffee cup from him and bumped him with your shoulder.

“So, did anything happen yesterday with Henry?” you asked.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah.”

You stayed silent for a moment, then bumped him again.

“Well, fucking tell me, asshole,” you griped.

“I kissed him.”

“What?” you hissed.

“I kissed him.”

“Yeah, I heard you. Tell me more.”

“I kissed him. He kissed me back, and then he got scared and swung at me.”

You snorted and then took another sip of the coffee.

Shaking your head, you said, “I knew you shouldn’t have messed with that.”

“Mm. Like that would stop me.”

“Mm.”

“C’mon,” he said. “It’s time for my morning smoke.”

He got off the couch and pulled you up by one hand, leading you out the back door to the porch, picking up his pack from the ground and lighting up.

“What I don’t get,” he said, “is why they don’t make skirts to have pockets.”

You grinned, noting that he was changing the subject.

“Why don’t you just admit that you don’t get Henry?” you asked.

“I get him just fine.”

“You don’t understand anyone who doesn’t want to screw you.”

“He wants to,” he said.

“What makes you think so?”

“The way he fucking looks at me, now. Like he’s itching for something.”

“How do you know he’s thinking about fucking you, not about beating you up?”

“I just know things, sometimes.”

You took the cigarette from him and took a drag, nodding. It was true enough. Sometimes he just… knew. He could read just about anyone. You the most, but other people, too.

“So maybe he wants to fuck you. Think he ever will?”

“If I push him in the right direction.”

“What does that mean?”

“When’s the last time we played truth or dare?”

You laughed, handing the cigarette back to him.

“I think it was about a year ago, when Henry dared Vic to shave off his eyebrow,” you said

“That was a good look for him.”

“Very mysterious.”

“Mm.”

“So, you’re thinking we dare him to kiss you?”

“Gotta get high, first. Wanna do that today?”

You thought about it. You and Patrick, together, had enough weed to get everyone high for a day. Should be fine.

“Sure,” you allowed.

“Good.”

You pulled out your phone and shot a message into the group chat.

10:32am. To: Belch, Henry, Patrick, Vicky

Come to ours. We have weed.

In moments, you got replies.

10:32am. From: Henry

Better be good weed

10:33am. From: Belch

Yeah okay

10:34am. From: Vicky

Okay baby

“They’re coming,” you said to Patrick.

Looking up from your phone, you saw him nodding.

You shot off another text to Vic.

10:33am. To: Vicky

Here’s the plan. We all get high. One of us dares Henry to kiss Patrick. Boom.

10:34am. From: Vicky

I see we’re abandoning all ethics today

10:34am. To: Vicky

You got it, sugar

You fucked around for another hour as the boys slowly arrived. Patrick put on a full face, wearing the nude lip gloss.

Vic was first, and he kissed you hello. You made another pot of coffee, and he had a cup, nursing it gingerly, obviously exhausted.

You regretted it a little bit, how you obviously woke him up. He was a deep sleeper and a sleeper in, but he always left his text notifications on high volume, just in case the gang needed him.

Finally, after Belch had breakfast with his mama, he went and picked up Henry, and soon they were in your kitchen, helping themselves to coffee. Henry claimed he drank it black, and you held back laughs and snorts as he held back making faces as he drank it. He stole your heavily milked coffee from you and sipped at it, and then, just then, you allowed yourself to laugh.

“What?” he snapped.

“Nothing,” you chuckled.

“Uh huh,” he said.

“Uh huh.”

Patrick picked up the cup that Henry had been working on before he discarded it in favor of yours, and he carefully placed his lips on the rim. Though you weren’t sure, the look on his face said that that was where Henry’s mouth had just been. He stared Henry down as he drank the black coffee.

“What?” Henry asked.

“Pussy,” said Patrick.

“What?”

“You can’t actually handle black coffee,” said Patrick. “You always steal someone else’s halfway through yours.”

“I can handle black coffee,” Henry argued. “I just like pissing you guys off.”

“Do I look pissed off?” you asked, smiling.

He looked at you for a moment, then rolled his eyes.

“Whatever,” he said. “We gonna smoke out, or what?”

“Yeah, let’s go,” said Belch.

“Fine, fine,” you said, taking Vic by the hand and pulling him toward the garage, leading the way for the rest of the gang.

“Be there in a minute,” said Patrick.

“’Kay,” you said, getting settled in the arm chair next to the couch, Vic sitting down first and you settling in his lap. He played with your hair and you sighed, smiling.

“You two,” said Henry, shaking his head.

“What about us?” asked Vic.

“Fucking made for each other. It’s disgusting.”

“You didn’t think it was disgusting when we won you twenty dollars,” you pointed out.

“Uh huh. Well I didn’t know how you two were gonna be, yet. It’s gross.”

“Hear that, babe?” you asked, turning to Vic. “We’re gross.”

“Hell yeah, we are,” he said.

And then he kissed you, short and sweet, running a hand through your hair.

Patrick finally came back with the weed, carefully rolling a joint with Henry and Belch sitting on the couch on either side of him.

Thirty minutes later saw you all gently baked, laughing at some story Henry was telling about the last girl he’d fucked.

If you knew nothing about the situation, you’d think he was just telling a story. But you knew about his kiss yesterday with Patrick, so you knew that he was trying to recover his heterosexuality in the only way he had at hand.

You knew him well enough to know that if he hadn’t been promised a high he didn’t have to pay for, he would be finding a girl to fuck.

You grinned, thinking about it. Sometimes, Henry was just too easy.

“Let’s play truth or dare,” Patrick said after the story and all its nitty-gritty, dripping-tight-pussy details was over.

“Yeah,” said Belch.

He looked at Henry.

You all looked at Henry.

He thought it over.

“Yeah,” he said slowly, taking the second joint from Patrick. “Let’s do it.”

So you did.

Belch, I dare you to pick up me and Vic at the same time. Only if you think you can. Chicken. Vic, tell us about the last time you got laid in extreme detail. Before you two started going together. So I can see you get jealous, why do you think?

Finally, it was your turn. You pretended to think.

“Henry,” you said, dragging out the y, “I dare you to kiss Patrick.”

The look he sent you was as angry as he could get when he was high. Which is to say, it looked like a kitten had been snubbed.

“Why the hell would I do that?�� he snapped.

He held out a hand and opened and closed it over and over again until someone handed him the joint.

“’Cause I dared you to,” you said simply.

“You’re a fucking bitch,” he said.

“Hey,” Vic started.

You turned and kissed his cheek, silencing him.

“Why am I a bitch?” you asked.

“’Cause you probably know,” he said.

“Know what?” Belch asked, taking his hat off for a moment to run his hand through his hair. He seemed to get caught on the feeling of that, and kept doing it.

“No, never mind,” Henry said quickly.

“Fucking tell them,” Patrick commanded.

“No,” Henry said.

“Henry.”

“Patrick.”

“We kissed yesterday,” Patrick said, getting up and getting a water bottle from the half-empty case in the corner.

“What?” Vic and Belch asked in unison.

You turned to look at Vic and laughed.

“Jesus,” you chuckled, “I forgot to tell you.”

“We didn’t kiss,” Henry said over you. “You kissed me, you fucking fag.”

“You kissed me back,” said Patrick. “Fag.”

“I had to punch you to get you to stop.”

Patrick laughed. “You didn’t even lay a hit on me, Henry.”

“Gentlemen,” you said, holding out your hands. “The dare still stands.”

Henry pursed his lips and then took three hits off the joint. Then, he handed it to you.

“All right, Jesus,” he said. “Come here, Pat.”

He probably meant for Patrick to return to his seat next to him, to turn and face him. But instead, Patrick climbed into his lap, straddling him, pulling his skirt up just a little bit.

“Patrick,” Henry scolded.

“Shut up and kiss me,” Patrick said.

Henry leaned up and pressed his lips to Patrick’s in a chaste kiss. Then he pulled back.

“That’s not a kiss,” Vic said. “That’s like… nothing.”

“Yeah, Hen,” said Patrick. “Kiss me like you mean it.”

“What, you want me to fucking make out with you?”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

“Ugh. Fine,” Henry said.

Then he put his hands on the back of Patrick’s neck and pulled him down until their lips met. It started out slow, but got sloppy after a moment. Sloppy, and heated. Henry’s hands left Patrick’s neck and went to his waist as Patrick rocked down on him. Patrick moved Henry’s hands from his waist to his ass.

As Henry pushed up the bottom of Patrick’s skirt so he could really get at him, you realized how far gone Henry was. And then Patrick pulled Henry’s hair and Henry groaned, and you looked at Vic with wide eyes. He looked back, a laugh waiting behind his smile.

Patrick took one of his hands away from Henry and held it out. You handed him the joint and he pulled away from Henry’s lips to take a hit. He squeezed Henry’s jaw until Henry opened his mouth again and shotgunned the hit to him. Henry closed his eyes, sighing the smoke back out again.

“Knew you fucking wanted this,” Patrick hissed, shifting his ass in Henry’s hands.

“What?” Henry asked, slowly opening his eyes again. He tried to look uninterested, but you saw one of his thumbs rub a circle over Patrick’s ass. You grinned, lifting your eyebrows at Belch. He blushed and looked away, always bashful when he was high.

“You know what,” Patrick said.

“It’s not like I wanna be your boyfriend, Patrick,” Henry said. “It’s — you just — I dunno. This bullshit looks good on you.”

Patrick grinned. “I bet this bullshit would look better on the floor, huh?”

“Maybe,” Henry allowed.

Patrick handed the joint to Belch, then clambered out of Henry’s lap and grabbed his hand, pulling him to stand up. When he was up, Patrick pressed him into a deep kiss, winding his hand again in his hair and pulling. You wolf whistled at them and Henry flipped you off, making you and Vic laugh. Then the kiss ended, and Patrick pulled Henry to the door leading into the house, saying, “c’mon. I’m gonna blow you.”

A look of shock slowly flowed onto Henry’s face, making you grin harder.

They left, Henry kicking the door closed behind him.

“So,” said Belch, exhaling a cloud of heady smoke, “I’d bet my right arm that this was a set-up.”

You laughed again.

“Don’t bet on something I’ll tell you freely,” you said. “Though, it was Patrick’s idea.”

“Huh,” he said.

And then he scooted to the middle of the couch before laying down. Sitting up, he handed the joint to Vic, who took a hit and handed it to you.

Five minutes later, Patrick and Henry came back, neither of them wearing their shirts. Like Adam reaching out to God in that one painting, you reached out and handed Patrick the joint. He took it with a slow, dead-eyed grin and put it to his lips.

“I’m hungry as fuck,” Henry said. “Let’s go eat somewhere.”

“Why not eat here?” Belch asked from where he was still laying down, his feet propped up on the arm of the couch.

“Coupla reasons,” you said.

“First,” said Patrick, “is we don’t have enough food for that.”

“Second,” you finished, “we don’t have the food we wanna eat.”

As if realizing that neither you nor Patrick — and Henry, Jesus, who could forget Henry — would have money for it, Vic ran a hand down his face.

“I’m buying,” he said.

“Aw, thanks, Vicky,” said Patrick.

“Don’t make me regret it.”

“Me? Why, I’d never.”

“Whatever.”

“You gotta get dressed before we go,” you pointed out, flicking a wrist in Patrick and Henry’s direction.

“Fuck, yeah we do,” said Henry, smiling at Patrick.

“Don’t look at me like a lovesick girl, Bowers,” Patrick said, easy.

Henry barked out a laugh, the expression disappearing.

“You got it.”

You all trailed back into the house. You went upstairs to change into something that didn’t smell like you’d rolled around in a field of burning weed. Vic followed you, watching you hunt around for something kinda clean. After you got changed, you wandered out onto the landing, holding Vic’s hand. You looked into Patrick’s room to find both him and Henry wearing shirts and kissing again.

“Hey,” you said, pulling their attention away from each other. “Let’s go. C’mon, let’s eat.”

“Fucking fine,” Henry said, patting Patrick once on the shoulder before splitting from him.

He walked past you and you grinned at Patrick, who was pulling down his skirt. He was wearing his boots with it, and you looked at them with appreciation. He looked damn good. He grinned back, then winked. Letting out a guffaw, you pulled Vic down the stairs, hearing Patrick following you.

Ten minutes later, you were all piled into a booth in Lucky Day, bickering over what the best high food was. Belch was firmly in the camp of pie, Patrick was on his side, but Henry favored a plain and dry cheeseburger. Extra grease.

Rolling your eyes, you turned and faced Marcia, your waitress, as she approached the table.

You all ordered, and as you waited, sipped eagerly at your drinks, battling the chronic dry mouth that came with weed.

“So,” said Vic, turning to Henry. “Pat blew you, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Henry said, looking at his hands, the tips of his ears turning pink. He was coming down from his high, and obviously didn’t want to really talk about it. Or at least, talk about it in public.

“How was he?” Vic asked.

You looked at him, mouth agape. He finally caught your expression and laughed.

“What?” he asked. “It’s not like I’ve never wondered before.”

“Oh my god,” you muttered as Patrick winked at him. “Hey, slow your roll, Pat. I’m not sharing my boyfriend with you.”

“You wound me,” Patrick said, throwing his arm around Henry’s shoulders. “What makes you think I need your boyfriend?”

“It’s never been about what you need, Patrick,” you said. “You want something, you take it. That’s how it goes.”

“Well, not to crush your dreams, Vic, but I’m a little busy right now.”

Vic laughed as Patrick pressed a kiss to Henry’s temple and Henry pushed him away.

“Not in public, asshole,” Henry said.

“Mm. Fuck you,” Patrick said. And then he kissed his temple again.

“Do it again and I’ll fucking choke you out,” Henry hissed.

“Ooh. Promise?”

You all groaned and threw your napkins at him. Your group high was quickly disappearing, and with your sobriety came the desire to be too fucked up to be bothered by Patrick.

Truth be told, Patrick wasn’t just the means of your constant fucked-upness. He was also the reason. Sure, you all liked being fucked up. But it was easier to deal with Patrick when you were drunk or high.

(No one ever thought about you when it came to this — you didn’t just share time with the gang with Patrick, you shared all your time with him. The times you were without him were few and far in between, far outweighed by the time you spent together.)

(It was always you and him. Always. And that gave you a damn headache sometimes.)

“Jesus,” you said. “Anyone got any booze? I’m so not ready to be sober.”

“Actually,” said Belch. “I was saving this one bottle of rum for a rainy day. Can’t think of a reason why it can’t be today.”

“You,” you said, pointing at him, “you’re my favorite right now.”

“Hey,” said Vic.

“Hey, nothing,” you shot back. “You gotta bottle of rum you can share?”

“No, but I am your boyfriend.”

You leaned in and kissed him and everyone groaned again, at least one of them retrieving their napkins from their earlier destinations to throw at you.

Your food arrived, and in near silence, you all ate.

You watched Patrick and Henry, just thinking. Just wondering.

[jobethdalloway]

Sapphic September Challenge! Day 4: ““Look, I might be evil but even I have standards.”

Pairing: Hevelyn (The Incredibles 2)

Someone disposable. Something harmless. Nothing that would call too much attention to her or her plans.

The paper boy looked like he might’ve been walking around wearing kooky glasses he’d sent away for, courtesy of a comic book ad. It took him less than ten minutes to walk to the drugstore, steal a box of Good & Plenty, and return to Evelyn’s new apartment. When he knocked on the door to give them to her, she took the glasses along with the candy and sent him on his way.

This was her tenth successful venture with hypnosis. She hadn’t wanted to get her hopes up the first few times, sure that a mistake had to be coming, but it was all going like clockwork now. Vengeance was finally within her grasp, if not in the immediate future. Evelyn chuckled at her own genius, throwing herself onto her bed. Now it was time to formulate. She should’ve had more faith in her own abilities; it hadn’t occurred to her to start planning this far ahead because she hadn’t been sure the mind control would really work. But it did. And now she could make those damn skippy Supers pay. 

At times during her experimenting, a doubtful voice would prick its way into her mind to tell her she was crazy for thinking her plans could work. Now the voice was going at her a different way, attacking a far more sensitive spot:

You know what you could do with this, don’t you? 

Yes, obviously. End Supers for good.

Or...you could take back the worst mistake you ever made. You could bring her back, and make sure she never left you again. Make her yours, forever, and you could make her give up the superhero act, too...

Evelyn sat up. Goosebumps were prickling her skin as she thought back to her first encounter with Helen Parr--well, Helen Truax back then...

New Year’s Eve, 1955. 

It had been Winston’s idea to host a party while their parents were out of town. Not that the Deavors’ would’ve minded some kind of soiree, but Evelyn was sure he felt freer to be more loud and obnoxious in their absence. As far as Evelyn was concerned, there was far too much pressure to enjoy oneself on that holiday, and if she had her way she’d have just stayed in her bedroom all night long. She just wanted to be alone, but the sounds of the raucous party downstairs made that difficult. Going out was another option, but she doubted she’d be able to find a place where she could be left alone. 

It was around 11:00 when she thought it might be quieter outside, at least. She made her way to the second story balcony, a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. She took a drag on the cigarette; it was much more peaceful out here. Music was still wafting her way but at least she couldn’t hear the partygoers. 

At least, not until--

“Phew! Mind if I join you out here for a sec?”

Evelyn turned to say she minded very much, but then she saw who the drawl belonged to and fell suddenly mute. The girl sauntered towards her in red slacks and a silver top, wearing a dazzling yet unassuming smile. She sat herself down next to Evelyn, mimicking her posture: legs dangling between the bars of the rail, leaning back and resting her weight on her palms. Evelyn was aware that she was staring and felt her heartbeat starting to race, but she couldn’t will herself to look away. 

“You’re Win’s sister, aren’t you?”

Lord have mercy, at least she could still speak: “How’d you know that?”

“Oh, he’s very fond of you, y’know,” the girl said. “Also, your picture’s up all over the house. Your folks must be fond of you, too.”

“How do you know Winston?”

“Let’s call him a fan. I mean, a friend. I’m Helen.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow but decided not to push it. “Helen...hello. I’m Evelyn. Um, happy New Year’s.”

“Same to you! So, what’s got you out here instead of dancing the night away with all the other cool cats at this party, huh?”

At this, Evelyn scoffed and could finally look away. “Did Winston send you up here to get me?”

Helen sounded genuinely surprised. “What? No! Truth be told, I needed some space myself. It was gettin’ too crowded down there for my taste and I needed a breath of fresh air. This is quite a place your folks have got! I didn’t see this balcony was occupied until I opened the doors. And now I’m sitting here and I’m thinking, what’s a pretty girl like you doin’ all on your lonesome up here?”

For the life of her, Evelyn could not remember the last time she had blushed- or, for that matter, the last time someone had called her pretty. She’d been told her hair wasn’t short or cute enough for a pixie cut, and that it made her look mannish. Her mother severely disapproved not only of the hair but of her taste in clothes, which was none too feminine, and which Mrs. Deavor strongly suspected was one of the reasons Evelyn had graduated with an MRS degree. 

“Mom, I know your heart is in the right place but Smith is a women’s college!”

“I know that, I know, but there are some courses open to students from other schools nearby, some of which do in fact allow men to register! Please, dear, just keep an open mind.” 

“Oh, trust me, my mind’s plenty open already.”

Helen’s voice drew her out of her reverie. “Evelyn? Hey, anyone home?”

“Yeah, sorry, um... yeah. Winston’s much more of the social type than me. Throwing the party was his idea, and I’m not enough of a killjoy to have stopped him. Although trust me, it was tempting.” She nodded at Helen. “What’s your deal, square? You a party girl?”

Helen laughed, and Evelyn hated that she had been cursed with the propensity to fall in love and fall hard at the drop of a hat. “Square? You think I’m square? Check out that hog down there.”

The lights from mansion’s windows shone bright on a line of partygoers’ cars, and Evelyn followed Helen’s gaze to a motorcycle sandwiched between two Buicks. “The Indian?”

“Fire Arrow, newest model.” 

“Is it your boyfriend’s?”

“Ha! Now I’m starting to think that you’re trying to insult me!” Helen chuckled, and Evelyn grinned. “The bike is mine, and incidentally, I’m flying solo these days.”

Evelyn gasped for dramatic effect, but her surprise was genuine. “Well! What’s a pretty girl like you doing single?” 

The response was another airy laugh, but Evelyn was watching closely for the smallest signs of betrayal - hollowness, tenseness, a brief widening of the eyes that would indicate Helen had been asked this a lot and was tired of hearing about it. Maybe Evelyn was projecting, but she could swear she saw her own tiredness reflected in Helen’s lovely face. 

“Listen, you find a guy who wouldn’t mind taking the backseat on my bike and maybe then we’ll talk.” 

Evelyn scoffed and mashed the cigarette on the balcony. She wasn’t drunk, but she’d had enough of the whiskey to get brave - reckless, in someone else’s words - and she had talked her way out of enough scrapes barking up the wrong tree that she felt it was time to throw caution to the winds again. 

“I leave finding guys to other women. It’s not something I care to take up my time with.” She took a sip of the whiskey, emboldened by the way Helen was looking at her. “If you’re interested in finding someone to ride behind you, though, I could maybe think of someone.”

Helen drummed her fingers for a moment before inching them closer to Evelyn’s hand. “Ever ridden a motorcycle before?” 

“Mm-mm. Always thought it looked neat, but learning to ride a car seemed easier.” She sighed and took another sip for bravery. “That’s human nature, I guess. Bet you get a more satisfying ride on that bike than you would a car, huh?”

“Oh, top quality,” Helen said fervently. 

“Now see, that’s the trouble with most people. We choose ease over quality. I did that for years before I...” Evelyn paused when Helen’s hand covered her own. “Before I had a particularly persuasive roommate who made me realize life is supposed to be the other way around. The good stuff is sometimes the hardest to get. You know what I mean?”

Helen nodded. “I’ve never been a girl for taking the easy way out. Whaddya say, Evelyn? Wanna ditch this party and go for a ride?” 

She moved to stand up at once, her legs weak. “God, yes.” 

They made their way back downstairs, where Evelyn’s main goal was to avoid being seen by her brother. Fortunately the party had gotten crowded and rowdy enough that it was very easy to avoid being detected. Evelyn ducked outside while Helen went to track down her jacket. 

But it seemed Evelyn hadn’t gone quite as unnoticed as she’d hoped. She was zipping up her own jacket when she heard a young man from the party call out to her. He’d followed her down the front steps, probably intoxicated, and not at all deterred by the look of disgust on her face. He stumbled over to her, putting a heavy hand on her shoulder. 

“Hey, baby, you gonna ditch the Deavors’ already?”

“Buddy, I’m giving you to the count of three to take your hands off me. One, two...”

“Aw, c’mon, be a good sport, honey!”

He’d been warned. Evelyn whipped a lighter from her pocket- but instead of igniting a flame, it sent an electrical zap through the man as soon as it made contact with his arm. The mild electrocution sent him flailing to the ground, and Evelyn tried not to laugh. The device still needed work, though, if it was to be as thoroughly effective as she wanted: he was still able to get to his feet, shaking his head but ready to go for her again. 

All of a sudden a fist came flying out of nowhere, punching the guy square in the jaw. He swung on the spot, trying to grab his bearings, and an arm with stunning elasticity wrapped itself several times around his neck and pulled hard, spinning him like a top back up the steps to the open front door. And there was Helen, kicking him over the porch railing where he lay sprawled out in a small pool of his own vomit. 

“Are you okay?” Helen asked, hurrying over.

Evelyn felt winded. “Christ! Y-you’re--but--”

“I know! Doesn’t it look cute in these slacks?” Helen asked, twisting around, but that did little to change Evelyn’s stunned expression. The jig was up. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I”m a Super. Your brother invited a few of us to the party; I hope that’s all right. You looked like you were ready to handle that guy all right yourself, maybe I should’ve left you to it! What’s that gizmo, anyhow?”

It took a moment for Evelyn to regain her powers of speech. “Oh, well, it still has a few kinks to work out, I guess. I call it the Zippo Zapper. Made it myself.”

“You made that?”

“Wow, did I really impress Elastigirl?” 

“Don’t get too cocky. I’m still amazed by the concept of an electric mixer.” 

It felt good to laugh. “Well, I’m amazed that there’s a superhero here who didn’t show up in costume.” 

“Eh.” Helen shrugged. “Making a scene just for the sake of it isn’t, well, my scene. Truth be told, I think your brother and your folks are a little too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when it comes to Supers, but I suppose ...well, never mind. I’m flattered by the attention but I don’t do superhero work to get fans.”

“Why do you do it, then?”

Helen slipped into her leather jacket and started walking towards her motorcycle. “Because I want to help people! I want to do good with the powers that I have. Y’know, my mother just about wanted to disown me when I said I was gonna get the mask and the gear and all that to fight crime. Can you beat that?”

“What? Why? Isn’t she a Super, too?”

“Nope, but my old man was. Mother figures superhero work is a man’s job. Thought I should just find the right guy and settle down.” Helen scoffed, straddling the bike. “Settle down, are you kidding? I’m at the top of my game! I’m right up there with the big dogs! Leave the saving of the world to the men? I don’t think so!”  

Evelyn’s form of teenage rebellion had been to distance herself from her parents’ worship of superheroes, but by her twenties she’d grown nothing stronger than indifference towards them. But Helen, wow, she was really something else... 

She took the few remaining steps to the bike, but didn’t climb on just yet. “I may not have superpowers of my own, but I still like to take jobs now and then that are typically prescribed to men.”

“Oh? How’s that?” 

Helen’s heart seemed to skip several beats when Evelyn leaned down and kissed her. Evelyn was daring; she took Helen’s face in her hands and deepened the kiss. She liked the idea of catching a Super off guard, almost as much as she liked how clearly Helen was into this kiss. Helen’s instinct was to break it off so she could stand up and properly take Evelyn in her arms, but the tiny part of her mind that was still cognizant of the world beyond Evelyn’s surprisingly soft lips knew that making out in full view of the mansion’s windows wasn’t the best idea.

“Did you have any... particular idea of where you might like to go?” Helen asked between heavier-than-normal breaths. 

Evelyn smirked. “It was your idea to bust out of here. Not mine. Where does Elastigirl like to spend her nights out on the town?”

Helen patted the bike. “We’re staying in and going to my place.”

That relationship had lasted almost two glorious years. Well, glorious in retrospect, maybe; it was easy to glamorize the past. Evelyn sat up, scowling. That kind of romanticization was Winston’s thing, not hers. She and Helen had had their fair share of arguments, which had ultimately led to Evelyn breaking things off because she couldn’t take the stress of dating a Super. They’d had a shaky reconciliation as friends that had weakened enormously when the Deavors died, and Evelyn had become a recluse. 

And now here she was, primed to tell Winston they could get going on their plan to get Supers out in the open again... all so she could ensure they stayed buried forever. But part of her wanted so badly, so desperately, to use her newfound gadgetry for something that might’ve been even worse.

You know the last time you were happy? With her. You can have that again. Put some goggles on Helen and she’ll be and do anything you say. None of the superhero drama, just the two of you, all the time... it’d be so easy.

Easy.

The word reached out and hit her like a slap to the face. Scary easy, but no quality. Nothing that really mattered.

Taking Supers down forever was going to be hard enough, and dodgy enough, too, but at least it served the greater good. At least she could tell herself she was ultimately helping others to become self-reliant by ridding them of these costumed crusaders. Yes, this was a noble goal. Someday history would look back and smile on her for restoring America’s can-do spirit and rejecting so-called saviors. Some people might look at her as wicked, but she chose to see it as a necessary evil.

Contrarily, using her device as essentially a high-tech love potion for purely selfish reasons was depraved. She may have hated Helen for what she became, but romantic agency was not something she would ever take from her.

Sure, I might be evil...but even I have standards.

[kootenaygoon]

So,

Suddenly everything was upside down.

My eyes snapped open in the oily darkness of Brendan’s basement, and as things began to haze into focus I realized that my light fixture was mounted directly below me, in the middle of the floor. Holy shit. I’d been having a dream that I was being chased through a forest full of Tim Burton trees, their branches dangling to snag me, when a bolt of electricity blasted me into hyper-consciousness. My first thought upon awakening was the handstand push-ups from CrossFit. Maybe I’d done too many? And what was holding me here, was it some sort of anti-gravity? Would I fall as soon as I swung my legs out of bed?

As a journalist and a photographer, I’ve always believed that perspective is everything. If you want to understand something, if you really want to see it, then you have to observe it from every imaginable angle. Sometimes that means standing on a chair so that you’re higher than whatever you’re shooting, sometimes it means pretending you’re dumber than you are to lure an interview subject into a false sense of confidence. For years now I’d been exploring every facet of Nelson, every nuance, but it had never occurred to me to try things upside down. It was the sort of bonkers idea that would only occur to me if I was high, which I was, off a particularly potent indica joint I’d enjoyed post-workout.

When my phone rang, buzzing on my nightstand, it felt like a kick in the head. I reached out desperately to silence it, then turned it over to see who it was. The number was unlisted so I stared for a moment, dazed and blinking, before picking it up.

“Is this Will? Can I talk to Will, please?”

I coughed, sitting up carefully, the room around me doing a slow twirl. “Yeah, it’s me. I mean, this is Will. Who the fuck is this?”

A deafening roar filled my ear, like an engine running in overdrive, followed by a plaintive honk that disappeared into the night. “Will?”

“Yes, it’s Will. Who is this?”

The voice on the other end was mouse-like, barely audible. “It’s Maya.”

Now she had my attention. It had been a few months since I’d road-tripped with Steph’s 15-year-old daughter to the coast, since I’d made my mental vow to be her ally. So far that didn’t entail much more than asking about her at Breakfast Club with Brendan, Lyra and Steph or liking her posts on Facebook. I knew she was having a hard time, and I had learned enough of her secrets to know that she needed positive adult role models in her life. As far as I could tell, she was safely enjoying her high school years, but now it sounded like she wasn’t safe at all. It sounded like she’d narrowly missed being hit by a car. Wind fuzzed the receiver.

“Are you okay? Where are you? What’s going on?” I asked, my stomach surging with concern. She had become my adopted daughter. Was she in danger?

“Can you come, please?”

“What do you mean? Come where? Are you okay?”

I heard muttering, a few sobs, voices in the background. “I just need you to come, okay? Can you come, please?”

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where are you? I can come pick you up, is that what you need? Where are you?”

“We’re on the highway, by the big sign, right near the turn off for Blewett.”

“Okay. I know where that is.”

“I need your help, Will. I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

By this point I’d thrown off the covers, becoming more and more accustomed to being a human stalagmite. I crossed the room in a crouch and flicked the light switch as I struggled into my jeans and sifted through the laundry pile for a T-shirt that might be clean. I found my pink anti-bullying one from the Rosemont flash mob, and put it on. 

“Maya, I don’t understand what you mean by that. Can you tell me what’s going on? Have you been drinking?”

“A lil’ bit.”

“Okay, I’m going to hang up and I’ll be there in like eight minutes, okay? I’m heading out the door here.”

Walking out of the house was terrifying upside down, with the yawning void of purple sky opening up below my dangling head. Purple was the colour of the Targaryens, the dragon-riding kings of Westeros. It was the colour of magic, of violence, of imagination. If I could wrap my mind around the reality of being upside down, what else could I imagine? 

As I struggled with the gate going out of Brendan’s backyard, I saw that my RAV had an open passenger side window. Andrew Stevenson was taking a deep drag off his cigarette under the mustard-coloured glow of the streetlight. I’d been binge-watching this new Netflix show called Stranger Things, so my surroundings now had an 80s Spielberg shimmer. I would be the one who legitimately cared that Barb died, though nobody seemed to notice. I would be the one pedalling my bike into the sky with E.T. in the front basket.

“I’m going to have a passenger.”

“So?”

“So Maya gets shotgun, and you’re being demoted to the backseat.”

Andrew sneered, annoyed. He’d been in a pissy mood all week. I loomed over him until he turned and crawled into the darkness behind the front seat. The Andrew Stevenson I knew was frozen in time, was fixated on one event. I was starting to realize that to really figure him out, I had to think of him outside the constraints of that type of desperation. I had to love him despite the horrible things he had done, which was something I was struggling to do with myself. Andrew Stevenson was a bank robber, yes, but he was also a father.

As I climbed into my RAV, I reached over and turned on the console. I’d been listening to Sia. “I’ve got thick skin and an elastic heart, but your blade it might be too sharp,” she sang. “I’m like a rubber band until you pull too hard. Yeah, I may snap and I move fast.”

I turned the corner at the Dairy Queen then fired the RAV up to 90, zooming through the day-time school zone for Hume Elementary, and flew around the corner past the grocery store and on to 7-11. I decided to stop and get some coffee, so I could get on top of this Maya situation. I ended up standing in line for nearly ten minutes as a new-hire suffered at the till.

“Have you gotten used to it?” I asked him, laying down two coffees and an assortment of candy. 

“Used to what?”

“Being upside down. This is my first time.”

He narrowed his eyes at me, this scrawny Asian dude in his 20s. “Are you messing with me right now?”

I sighed. “Sorry, I thought you’d understand.”

From there I drove past Dorkmeyer the Front Street Grotesque and down to where they’d just established a new brewery called Torchlight. Past that was one of my favourite pot dispensaries, then city hall and the bank Andrew Stevenson had robbed in 2014, the Nelson & District Credit Union. It’s kitty-corner from the Hume Hotel, with its upside down letters glowing crimson in the night. Most of the best memories I had of Nelson took place in that hotel.

“I’ve got thick skin and an elastic heart,” Sia sang. “But your blade it might be too sharp.”

As the RAV hurtled around the last bend up to the highway, I realized that I was unconsciously following the path of Andrew’s getaway car on the day of the robbery. According to the trial proceedings he was driving, but more likely it was his female accomplice who was actually in the driver’s seat that day. I’d driven the route multiple times, trying to imagine how everything played out. He was driving a tiny white shit-bucket and somehow still successfully evaded two brand new cop cars with highly trained personnel behind the wheel. Say what you want about him, but Andrew Stevenson could drive a fucking car.

“You lied for her, didn’t you?” I asked him, looking up at the rearview. He had his forehead pressed to the glass like he was contemplating bashing out the window with his skull. “At the trial, you fucking lied for her.”

“I don’t even know how to lie.”

“When they got to the bridge they found her with a dog in her lap, sitting in the driver’s seat. They say you got out of the passenger side.”

“They’re pigs, you can’t trust what they say.”

From there it was just half a kilometre uphill and to the right before I was on the highway leading out of Nelson, with the ‘Thank you for visiting’ sign on my left. It was misting rain, and it was trippy to see those raindrops come dancing up from beneath me. I slowed as I approached the cliff banks on the right, then found a safe place on the shoulder to park and hit my hazards. I pulled on the jacket Paisley’s mother had bought me and put up the hood.

It only took a few minutes of wandering along the shoulder to hear voices down the grassy banks towards Railtown. I trudged through the mud, holding up my phone as flashlight, and came out just above Cottonwood Falls. Among the trees I could see teenagers smoking in a circle, maybe ten of them, with music playing from a mounted speaker. In the distance I could see the Nelson Star office, right beside the train tracks leading out to Red Sands.

“Hey guys, I don’t mean to interrupt. I’m looking for Maya,” I said, as I approached their circle. It was mostly dudes, and I recognized them from Tony’s. “She called me a few minutes ago?”

A girl stood up from the boulder she was sitting on, her black hood up over shockingly white blond hair. She was wearing jeans and skateboard shoes, her face shadowy. “I’ll take you. She’s just down here.”

I followed this teenager through the grass, past a few trees, to a clearing surrounded by boulders. Nestled up against one of them like a scared fawn was Maya, so tucked into herself that I couldn’t see her face. She was soaked.

“What’s going on with her?” I asked. “She sounded fucked up on the phone.”

The girl sighed. “I think she did some MDMA, but mostly she’s just been drinking these gross coolers. She started getting all emotional and kept saying she had to call you. Then she came down here to hide. Are you her Dad?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m just a friend of her mother’s.”

“Well, she’ll be fine. She just needs to sleep it off. But she doesn’t want to go back to her foster home. She was crying about it.”

Steph had told me that Maya was maybe going to end up in foster care. She’d been telling elaborate lies to the social workers, trying to maneuver herself into a safer place. It was gruelling, emotionally taxing shit. I could tell that she didn’t know who her allies were, who she could really trust. It meant a lot to me that she felt she could trust me, that she would call me.

“Hey, you’re that reporter that covered my grad,” the girl said, recognizing me in the purple moonlight. “Last year, at Elephant Mountain.”

I looked at her for the first time, and saw that her blond hair was pointing straight up towards the heavens. It looked like a halo. She was pretty, and looked like my sister Kathryn. “Yeah, that was me.”

“Well, I’m Josta,” she said. “Josta Cunningham. You know a bunch of my friends, but we never actually met. I was the one in the sparkling red dress, the strapless one. Do you remember?”

“You look a little familiar, yeah. That was an intense day.”

“Yeah, how many people get RCMP escorts at their grad? That shit was way over the top.”

“Do you think we could carry her up the hill to my RAV? I need to get her out of here before she freezes to death. It’s fucking cold out here.”

Josta nodded. “Yeah, I’ll help you.”

With one of us under each arm, we lifted Maya into a walking position and struggled up the muddy slope. She was murmuring to herself, half-conscious, her feet sometimes dragging. By the time we reached the top I was sweating like I was halfway through a CrossFit work-out. Josta opened the passenger side door and I lifted Maya like I was carrying a bride across the threshold. She was tiny, like a wounded animal, and together we got her belted into place. As I closed the door, I turned to my blond accomplice. We were under the streetlight now, so I could see her face for the first time. She had a streak of mud on her cheek and her angelic hair was still floating around her head like she was underwater. She shook a cigarette into her hand.

“Can I bum one of those?” I asked, thinking of Andrew in the backseat. “I don’t normally smoke cigarettes, but I could use one right now.”

Josta passed me one, then lit it with her Zippo. The rain was getting heavier. “You ever read any George R.R. Martin?” I asked. “The guy that wrote Game of Thrones?”

She shook her head as she lit her own cigarette. “No, why?”

Most of her face was in shadow, but in the streetlight her eyes glowed the same royal purple as the sky. She could’ve easily been a famous actress.

“Because you kind of remind me of Danaerys Targaryen.”

The Kootenay Goon

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

Flight pt. 2

As the plane began to roll across the tarmac aiming for the runway, Mickey cracked one eye open, glancing out of the little window beside him.

“We goin’?”

“Yeah, but this is the taxiway, it’ll be a little while yet before we take off.”

Ian smiled and eyed the steward who had promised Mickey a drink; she had a beer in each hand and was facing toward them but had been caught by passengers further up the plane and was in deep conversation.

“Right.”

Ian took in the tense set of Mickey’s shoulders and jaw as he slouched low and allowed the hand on his thigh to travel higher, trailing the inseam of his jeans, just firmly enough to make Mickey squirm a little.

“What are you doing now?”

“Thinking up ways of relaxing you.”

Mickey’s upper lip curved in a small smile but his hand covered Ian’s stilling his fingers.

“Go ahead. Give me a hard-on I can’t do shit about, I hear all guys go wild for blue balls.”

Mickey rolled his neck back and forth, the smile never leaving his lips.

“How do you know so much about planes anyway? Taxiway? Who the fuck knows what that is called.”

“I know what a fuss you make about anything new so I read up on it.”

Ian announced with a flourish, pleased with his foresight

“What? I’m fine with new things.”

Mickey answered defensively, brows knitting together.

“You hate new things! You pitched a fit when I changed the brand of orange juice.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you got the shitty kind with all those nasty little bits floating around in it!”

Mickey had made his feelings very clear at the time and still couldn’t quite believe Ian actually liked the stuff.

“What about the new shirts I got you?”

“My old ones still got some wear left.”

“When they ran out of your deodorant so I got you the green label one. Remember that?”

“Smelt like a girls fuckin’ perfume.”

Mickey wrinkled his nose and Ian rolled his eyes

“See! You hate new things.”

He said triumphantly, slapping Mickey’s arm lightly with the back of his hand.

“Maybe you’re right. I hate you acting like a cocky dickbag … oh wait, that’s not fuckin’ new, is it?”

Mickey grinned flashing his white and remarkably perfect teeth at Ian and then held up his hands in mock submission as Ian laughed and mimed elbowing him in the gut.

“Sir, your drink?”

Neither had heard the attendant approach and Mickey turned to her with the smile still on his face, causing a small blush to creep up her neck.

“Thank you very much, Miss. I appreciate it”

He accepted the can gratefully, and held it up in brief toast to her, cracking it open with one practiced flick of his thumb and drained half of it in one swallow.

“No problem. Just so you know, take off is scheduled for about four minutes so if you could ensure you’re strapped in that would be great.”

She flashed another smile at Mickey and sauntered back down the aisle, looking over her shoulder just the once.

“I think she likes you.”

Ian whispered and Mickey peered round him to look down the aisle, amused

“Good taste on her part. Think she’d get me another beer if I offered to bang her in the cockpit?”

“Oohh sure, you think planes run on fire but you know the word ‘cockpit’. Please, be more gay.”

Ian teased and Mickey tongued the corner of his mouth nonchalantly before finishing his beer, middle finger raised to Ian’s nose.

“I know another thing about planes too.”

“Seriously? You a fucking pilot?”

“Ever heard of the Mile High Club?”

Ian bobbed his head and bit his lip flirtatiously a deliberately exaggerated gesture that none the less sent tingles throughout Mickey’s body.

“You want to try that?”

“Why not?”

“Sure, if you like.”

Mickey half stood and peered over the chair in front of them. A woman, already asleep, and her elderly father also asleep had received the first can of beer the steward handed out but it was sat untouched. He leant over and plucked it from the folded down tray before resuming his seat.

“What? I’ll buy him another one if he wakes up and misses it.”

Mickey shrugged at Ian’s disapproving frown and pushed up his shirt sleeves to the elbow as if preparing for business.

“So what do you want to do? This thing is like a fucking sardine can and I don’t normally go in for public displays but I’ve had a couple beers and you’re wearing those black jeans that make your legs look nice… I can probably get it up if you want to blow me.”

“You’re like a poet sometimes. You should write that in my valentine card next year.”

Ian scoffed sarcastically and closed his eyes as if praying for forbearance and Mickey grinned at him, eyebrows raised in mock surprise.

“Think you’re getting fucking valentine’s cards now, huh? The kind with the little bears and hearts and all that other shit?”

“Well … I mean. I hadn’t thought about it but I’ve never had one from my boyfriend before. Might be nice.”

Ian’s slightly haughty tone and the stubborn set of his jaw told Mickey that he clearly had thought about it and probably more than once. Mickey caught his chin between thumb and forefinger tugging it forward and kissing Ian’s lips softly. He often said brash things that made Ian a little upset, normally when the subject matter made him uncomfortable, he wasn’t sure what was wanted of him, or when Ian wanted some open display of affection that made Mickey’s chest feel tight to contemplate.

In this case Mickey reasoned that as long as he could just give Ian the card over a beer or something, it would probably be fine and it wasn’t like it would be fucking hard to find one! Shops were littered with that crap from January, like a pink elephant toy or a glittery flower were ways to prove love. Mickey sighed to himself. People were fucking nuts.

“You remind me a couple days before and I’ll get you one, okay?”

“If I have to remind you it’s not quite as romantic.”

Ian grumbled but Mickey only rolled his eyes

“You gotta learn to recognise a win when you get one, Gallagher. Play your cards right I’ll get you a box of candy too but if there is a caramel in it, that one’s mine.”

All of a sudden, there was an announcement to buckle up and the plane began to roll forward again, gathering speed as the engines roared making the earlier noise seem almost soft in comparison.

“Here we go!”

Ian grinned, minor disappointment forgotten and gripped Mickey’s fingers tightly.

“Ah fuck!”

Mickey pressed himself as far back in the seat as he could get as the plane tipped sharply upwards and the peculiar feeling of pressurised weightlessness engulfed the cabin. Ian had never been in a passenger plane either but what terrified Mickey only exhilarated him and he let out an involuntary whoop of glee at the same moment as Mickey let out a noise that fell somewhere between a swear and a shriek.

“What the Hell was that noise, Mickey?”

Ian cackled to himself, nudging his boyfriend in the ribs.

“Shut the fuck up, Gallagher!”

The tone of Mickey’s voice was one that made most people think twice but Ian only laughed again and kissed his cheek, delighting in the slight rasp of stubble against his lips.

The plane banked sharply left, and a protective arm flung across Ian’s middle. He glanced down in surprise at the hand gripping his chest, pressing him backwards into the safety of his seat and as the plane levelled out, he looked across at Mickey, beaming from ear to ear.

“The fuck are you smiling at right now?”

“You protecting me from … I don’t even know what.”

Ian leant over the divide ignoring the scowl Mickey gave him.

“Look how beautiful it is, Mick! Wave goodbye to Chicago.”

Ian waved at the window and Mickey half-turned, flicking his gaze upwards before jumping like a startled cat.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

Ian had thought Mickey was pale before but now his colour dropped to a sort of ashy grey as the city fell away beneath them. Mickey squeezed his eyes shut for a second and then forced them open to fix Ian with a look that was caught between fury and pleading.

“Ian, swap places with me.”

“What? No! You’ll miss all the …”

“Don’t give a shit what I’ll miss. Swap with me now.”

Mickey interrupted with an impatient hand gesture. His mouth was compressed tightly, blue eyes fixed rigidly on a spot somewhere above Ian’s shoulder on the fake leather headrest. He could feel sweat slicking down his back and the armpits of his shirt were heavy with it. He dimly recognised the feeling as panic but with nowhere to run to, Mickey simply tried to concentrate on not pissing himself or vomiting.

“C’mon, in a minute there will be clouds and …”

“Ian, if you don’t shut the fuck up and move your ass I am going to ram your head out that window and you and the fucking clouds can get acquainted real well.”

“OK! Jesus.”

Ian unbuckled his seat belt and stood, awkwardly trying to shuffle around Mickey, who despite desperately wanting to move, seemed unable to make his limbs cooperate and was half-dragging himself across the chair arm.

“Sir! Sir, you need to sit down!”

Ian waved an apologetic hand at the flight attendant and nudged Mickey

“Well? Move if you’re moving.”

“Fuckin’ trying, asshole!”

With a monumental effort Mickey managed to force his legs into action and dumped himself in Ian’s chair before closing his eyes tightly, his chin tucked onto his chest. The last time he felt this was just before coming out to the entirety of the Alibi at Yevgeny’s christening. He’s survived that and he would most likely survive this, but at that moment, Mickey really didn’t care if he did not.

“It’s OK. Hey, it’s fine. I’m right here.”

Ian’s annoyance faded as quickly as it had arisen and he gently smoothed Mickey’s hair back.

“Look at me, c’mon, open your eyes, Mick.”

Mickey did as Ian asked and let the breath he had been holding out very slowly through his nose. Ian held his gaze earnestly until Mickey came back to himself and was able to breathe normally again.

“Shit. Thought I was gonna pass out.”

“You OK now?”

Mickey shrugged irritably, the adrenaline had left him feeling shaky and he couldn’t ever remember wanting a cigarette more badly in his life. Ian bit the inside of his lip and looked out of the window. He felt a little guilty for making Mickey take the flight. He’d known it wasn’t going to be the happiest experience of Mickey’s life, the crowds, the proximity to police and the lack of space, but he hadn’t thought he would find it this bad.

“I’m sorry. I guess I thought you’d like to see the world from up here. I shouldn’t have booked you the window seat.”

“Maybe once I’m used to it … I don’t know. Ian, if you want me to look at the fuckin’ clouds I’ll try it but just … not yet, okay? Let me get my fuckin’ heart rate down for a minute.”

“Sure. You want me to close the blind?”

“No! Just cause I hate something doesn’t mean you can’t like it. You want to look at the clouds, fuckin look at them.”

“Yeah but if it makes you feel sick…”

“Lot of things you like make me feel sick. Like that gross fuckin’ orange juice and your brother.”

Ian grinned despite himself and saw Mickey watching him out of one half-squinting eye, still not completely able to look but trying to, really fucking trying.

Ian watched as Mickey tried gather himself, thumbing his lip in that familiar gesture that Ian loved so much. If it were Ian, Mickey would know to hold him, murmur something comforting maybe but Mickey was not a softly, softly person he needed something sharper, colder. When Mickey needed to cling to something, he reached for iron railings not feather pillows.

“So did you actually piss yourself?”

Ian asked, shrugging one shoulder

“No. Asshole. I don’t think so anyway.”

Mickey half smiled and Ian pressed on

“Good, cause you know I’ll still do nasty things with your dick but I need a bit of prior warning if it’s a mess down there.”

“Fuck off!”

Mickey laughed, a genuine laugh that reached all the way to his eyes, chasing away the last of the fear.

“Hang on … Shit. I crushed it a bit …”

Mickey reached into his shirt pocket and produced a small packet of cookies

“Sorry they’re broken. You gotta eat these it’s been over an hour since you took your meds.”

Ian took the crumpled foil packet and felt his eyes well up a little.

“You can remember my schedule in the middle of a panic attack?”

“What? Fuck you. I didn’t have a fuckin’ panic attack, just … startled me, the damn noise and the … ah … that.”

Mickey flapped his hand at the window without looking directly at it, his nose lifted in a dismissive sneer.

“Thank you.”

Ian ignored the harsh tone of his voice and ran Mickey’s hair lightly through his fingers, toying with the lengths until Mickey pulled away slightly to peer around the other passengers, most of whom were plugged into headphones or settling down for a nap.

“Of course, I got your back, man. Sickness, health all that.”

Mickey shrugged and Ian busied himself with the packet. Affection was one thing, but if Mickey saw him getting teary eyed in public over a cookie? No. That was not the Milkovich way and Mickey would not be impressed.

“This it now? It’ll be just quiet like this?”

“Should be, I think if we hit a rough patch they let us know and we just buckle in again.”

“Alright. Let me look at you.”

Ian quirked an eyebrow in question but obligingly turned to face Mickey properly, licking crumbs from the pad of his thumb.

“Mmm. Damn Gallagher. Yeah, okay. I’m ready.”

“What are … Oh Jesus!”

Ian laughed down at his crotch frowning

“Well don’t fucking laugh at it.”

Mickey snapped, eyeing Ian incredulously and putting a hand self-consciously over his crotch.

“I can’t just get you off right here! They’d have police waiting at the gates!”

“Why? People do it on the bus all the time. This is just a bus with wings.”

Ian chose to ignore that comment, refraining from asking Mickey what damn busses he had been taking.

“Meet me in the bathroom.”

“Ian …”

Mickey tried to catch Ian’s sleeve to tell him he would really, really prefer not trying to walk down the juddering body of the plane. Stupid as he knew it was, he kind of worried that his weight would manage to tip the thing into a nose dive, but Ian dodged his hand, winked at him and strutted up the aisle, deliberately pausing to stretch his hands over his head, clenching his butt and working the muscles in his back. Mickey muttered a curse low under his breath and shakily unbuckled his seatbelt.

*

Ian opened the door immediately when Mickey knocked and dragged him in. With two of them in the cramped little space, it felt impossibly tight but if anything it just made Ian want it more. He looked down at Mickey and shook his head

“God. You know how much I want you right now?”

Ian whispered as he gently took hold of his lover’s chin as he bowed his head to kiss him. Mickey pressed his body instinctively against Ian’s and felt the length of him pressing against his belly.

“I can feel how much. You got about nine and a half inches of want just begging for me.”

Mickey pitched his voice low to match Ian’s and for a second they just looked at each other, then Ian kissed him again and smiled

“We’ll have to hurry. Straddle the toilet and bend over.”

“Now who’s writing fuckin’ valentine’s poems?”

Mickey joked but did as Ian said without argument, dropping his jeans as Ian took a firm grip on the back of his neck that made Mickey’s skin feel electric. Ian nudged Mickey’s ankles a little further apart with his foot and gently stroked the soft, pale curve of his ass before shifting his grip to a much stronger hold on his hip.

Ian’s own ass bumped the door with the first thrust and it rattled loudly. For a horrible moment, he thought he was going to lose it and start laughing but Mickey clenched around him and glanced back over his shoulder, eyebrows lifted in impatient question.

Ian shook his head, fought down the panicked laugher and began to find his rhythm. With Mickey it never took more than a few strokes to find it; to begin to move as one, it was a deeper connection than just the physical. Ian hadn’t ever discussed it with him because he suspected it would only make Mickey feel uncomfortable, but he was quite sure that it was the difference between sex and two souls actually entwined, coming together in an act of love. One day he would broach the subject with Mickey he resolved, maybe even one day soon.

Ian noticed tiny beads of sweat prickling the skin on Mickey’s lower back, bit the inside of his lip hard enough to bruise, and began to move his hips faster, narrow and jerky pulses in the tight confines of the bathroom. Ian laid his hand flat on the ceiling, chilling it against the plastic tile before reaching for Mickey’s cock and wrapping his fingers tightly around him. The contrast of heat and cold, hard and soft, elicited a low groan from Mickey, ripping it from his throat, the force of his orgasm pitching him forward so that only his hands flat against the wall stopped him crumbling to the floor. Ian saw all of that and in the second before his own orgasm floods his mind with light and joy, he managed to breathe the words ‘I love you.’

[sending-the-message]

My First and Only Trip to Cafe 1987 by Hayong

I was a 24-year-old good for nothing mooch that lived at my parent’s house. Well, that’s what my father said to my mother in the bedroom late at night. Of course, maybe, if they didn’t continue to give me a 50 dollar allowance a week I would have probably tried to find a job sooner than that.  I really didn’t feel right about accepting the money, but you have to be downright stupid to refuse free money.

The next day, my mother asked me if I could at least start putting in applications. She was tired of defending me, and honestly, I was tired of listening to them argue. That afternoon, my mom drove me to the heart of downtown Nashville, Tennessee. She figured there were enough part-time opportunities for me.

The first place I went into was a small candy shop called “Rocket Fizz”. The manager was nice enough, but she did tell me that they were fully covered in terms of staff. She said she would let me know if they ended up needing anyone else. After purchasing a couple of sweets, I walked out of the store and mindlessly walked around for a couple of minutes while shoving sour gummies in my mouth and taking drags off of my cigarette.

I walked up to a crosswalk and while waiting for the light to turn green I saw a “Now Hiring - No Experience Necessary” sign on a small white building called Cafe 1987.

When I walked inside of the coffee shop, I looked around and saw that it wasn’t really anything special, it looked like almost every single indie coffee shop out there. Small wooden tables, uncomfortable looking chairs, and the smell of roasted coffee beans filled the air. The barista behind the counter looked at me with a smile before handing me a menu and asking, “Would you like to try our Mango Smoothie? They’re absolutely delicious and made with natural ingredients.” I shook my head and said, “No, I saw the sign and I was wondering if you guys were still hiring.”

He looked uneasy for a second before asking, “Are you sure you don’t want a mango smoothie? It’s absolutely amazing to drink in this hot weather, and It will keep you healthy with all of the vitamins inside. For today only, it’s actually 3 dollars so I highly recommend it.” I shook my head again and asked if I could just have an application.

At first, it looked like he was getting more and more disappointed, but the more I looked at his face, the more I realized that it looked like he was getting older. His thick brown hair started to fall out and was replaced with frail white hair. I started to panic I put my hand on his shoulder and asked him if he was okay. He looked up and asked, “Are you absolutely sure you don’t want a mango smoothie? It is best for the health, and you will notice yourself getting younger.” Quickly, I took a five out of my wallet and slammed it on the counter and nodded my head.

The man let out a sigh, turned around, and started making the smoothie. Once he finished, he turned around and handed it to me. He looked young again, but he still a nervous look on his face. I mean, it looked like the man was five seconds away from death.

I took a small sip and gave him a nod. I was still scared out of my mind, and the only thing I wanted to do was get out. I grabbed the smoothie out of his hands and started walking out of the door when I heard him whisper, “I’m so sorry.” I turned around and looked at him, but he was staring at me with a blank look on his face.

I turned back around and tried leaving, but my hand kept sliding off of the door handle. Scared and frustrated, I shot my arm out as hard as I could towards the door, but a pain erupted deep inside of me. I fell to the ground and writhed in pain. Once the pain was gone, I looked back at him and told him to open the door, but he just kept staring at me and said, “I can’t. I would have left if I could. You can’t either. It told me you couldn’t.”

I took a deep breath, calmed myself down, and said, “Alright man. This was fun. I bought a smoothie. Now let me out. Please don’t make me call 911.”

He let out a lifeless chuckle before saying, “Try it. Your body won’t let you.”

While glaring at him, I took my phone out and dialed 911. I tried talking when a man answered the phone, but my pain erupted in my midsection. I still tried to speak, but words weren’t coming out of my mouth. I could only let out a series of grunts. The man sighed and said, “Alright man, it’s actually a crime to call us when there isn’t an emergency. Please do not call again or we will send an officer your way.” He let out an aggravated sigh after I let out another grunt and disconnected the call. After a couple of seconds, the pain passed.

I tried dialing 911 a couple more times, but I couldn’t even force myself to dial the number out. The pain would just come back stronger and stronger. The last time I tried it felt like my stomach was going to rip open. I could see my chest starting to poke out in random places. I ended up throwing my phone against the wall. My phone was broken, the barista was a fucking nut job, and I didn’t know how to leave.

I sat on one of the chairs and looked out the window. A couple of people walked past the window, but every time I tried banging on the window to get them to help the pain would just come back and I would, once again, fall to the ground until it passed.

The last thing I remember before I blacked out was the barista walking towards me, grabbing me by the head, saying “I’m sorry” for the second time, and slamming my head repeatedly against the wall.

I woke up to the worst headache I have ever experienced and a whole new set of clothes on my body. I was in the same outfit the barista was wearing. A yellow shirt, blue jeans, white tennis shoes, and a solid green apron with “Cafe 1987” written in the middle of it.

My name, David, was sewn into the top right corner of the apron, and what seemed to be a small menu sat next to my right hand.

”Handbook for Cafe 1987 Employees” was written on the front of it.

Curious, I flipped it open and saw that only one thing was written in the middle of the left page.

Today’s Special is the Hot Cocoa. Good for the soul. Will make your warm nights warmer. It will even make you feel younger.

The right side was completely blank.

I slammed it shut and stood next to my new coworker. I tried speaking to him a few times over the course of the day, but he never said anything back. He just lifelessly stared at me while I spoke to him.

The day ended, and the next day came. A new menu would be in my hand every morning. I didn’t know where the menu came from. I even tried to stay up all night a couple of times to see who gave us the new menu, but each time the pain would come back and I would fall asleep as the pain went away.

My body started getting weaker, my bones started feeling more fragile, and my movements became slower. I knew what was happening to me. My body was getting older. Minutes turned into days, days turned into weeks, and weeks turned to months. I lost track after the eighth month. My body was failing on me, but the other barista was completely fine. He kept drinking the “drink of the day.” I noticed something squirming around in my body. Sometimes it would be deep inside mingling with my organs, while other times it would rest on top of my bones. Every time I did something that was deemed against the rules the pain would come back, and I noticed that it was the cause of the pain.

Don’t ask me why I didn’t die of starvation or thirst. Nothing made sense to me then or even now. I just know that I completely lost it yesterday. The thing was squirming a little more than usual, and I could feel every time it would move even an inch. Finally, it rested under the skin of my chest.

I quickly grabbed a cloth napkin and put it in my mouth. I took my wallet out and grabbed my credit card out of my pocket and held it in my left hand. With a muffled scream, I grabbed the skin around the thing and pulled as hard as I could. Pain erupted from my tearing skin as well as from whatever was in my body. I almost gave up halfway through, but I knew it was the last chance I had to live. I used my left hand to jam the credit card as hard as I could into my chest. After several excruciating seconds, I finally managed to make a tear in my chest. I held the thing down in my chest so it wouldn't be able to slide away and slammed the corner of the card into the exposed flesh. Once I got to a sizeable gash, I threw the card on the ground and used both of my hands to rip off the rest of the skin around whatever the fuck that thing was.

As my skin tore free, the thing came with it, and I could finally breathe easy. I quickly got up and watched it slide out from underneath the torn off slab of skin. It was the same color as the liquid that was in the cup I left on the table. The fucking “Mango Smoothie.”

I looked back at the barista and noticed, for the first time, every part of his exposed skin was moving ever so slightly.

I wanted to help him, but I knew it was impossible. Without a second thought, I ran out the door and didn’t stop running until I was a good distance away.

I felt something vibrate in my pocket, and I almost had a heart attack right there. I thought it was back inside of me, but it was just my phone. The phone I threw against the wall and broke. Nervously, I answered the phone and my mom asked where I wanted her to pick me up since it was about 3 hours since she dropped me off. I told her I would just take a cab back home.

I walked around for about 30 minutes. It felt like it had been an eternity since I was outside and it felt great. I walked into a McDonald’s and walked into the restroom. I looked in the mirror and saw that I was no longer older. I was also wearing the same clothes I was wearing before I went into the cafe. Slowly, I lifted my shirt and saw that my chest was back to normal except a big circle-shaped scar.

I ate a cheeseburger, caught a cab, and sat back while we drove home. We drove past the cafe, and I noticed that everything was the same. The same tables, same uncomfortable chairs, and the same miserable looking barista, but the sign was different.

It was now called “Cafe 1988.”

X