#sliver pete

[predoom]

MY MAN MY MAN MY MANNNNN

[sarahsmi13s]

Rocks Are Allowed to Crack, Stars Are Allowed to Dim

pairing: jake 'hangman' seresin x fem!pilot!reader

characters: jake seresin, y/n nivans, the daggers, pete mitchell, penny benjamin, diego and benny harding (oc father and son)

warnings: 18+ MDNI, angst, language, ptsd, description of accident, panic attack, injuries, descriptions of scars, flashbacks, fear of death, familial death (mentioned), crying, bottling up feelings, please please let me know if i missed any

word count: ~8.0k

a/n: this has been sitting in my docs and on my wheel for at least a year (please forgive the awkward moments). so i figured i'd take a sliver of the wheel and make him a little lighter! i've also been in a funk lately, so i thought getting something out there might help!

quick summary: everyone deserves someone to comfort them in their time of need, even the ones that always lend their shoulder

Ah, yes, dogfight football. Maverick’s way of creating a team. You play offense and defense at the same time. Tackling each other into the sand, sometimes into the water. It may be chaotic, but it’s fun and a great team building exercise.

Which is why you hated that you were running a little behind.

You sighed as you got out of your car and walked over to where Penny was sitting at the table. 

You placed your aviators on your head, “I’m not late am I?” Penny chuckled and shook her head, “Just in time. Want a beer before you go?” You shook your head, “Nah, I’m okay right now. Care to watch my stuff?” 

The brunette gestured to the items in front of her, chuckling, “I’m watchin’ everyone else's. I don’t see why not.” You chuckled and sat your wallet, phone, and keys down, as well as your sunglasses. You slipped off your shorts, folding them and laying them down.

“Nivans!” 

You turned at the call of your last name, brows raised in curiosity. 

 It was Maverick. 

“Hurry up and get down here!”

You turned to Penny, “This is gonna be fun.” You both laughed before you jogged across the sand to meet everyone by the water. 

“Sorry I’m late, Mav.” 

Maverick shook his head, “You’re not late, Rockstar. Can’t be late for fun.” 

“Not gonna take your t-shirt off?” Phoenix asked when you stood beside her. You shook your head, “Nah, I’m good.” 

Hangman sighed, “That’s a shame.” 

You chuckled at him and bent down to throw a handful of sand at him. 

“Watch it, Rockstar,” Hangman said, his voice light as he glared at you playfully.

“Or what, Hangman?” You challenged, eyes narrowed but a smile pulled at your lips.

Now, you and Hangman joked like this all the time. You considered each other best friends, which confused everyone else on base. 

Jake Seresin was an asshole. He was cocky and arrogant. You, Y/N Nivans, were not an asshole. Quite the opposite, actually. 

You were humble while still knowing your worth, but also showing anybody up if they proposed a challenge, and not being sour when you lost. 

Jake went out looking for competition, you let it come to you. 

You were also probably the sweetest thing to walk the planet. Most certainly the sweetest to walk the airstrip. 

You were nice to everyone, always giving someone the benefit of the doubt until they truly proved they were an asshole. 

You also took care of your team, they were your family. You always had the door open if someone needed to talk. Your arms were wide open when they showed up in the middle of the night because they had a nightmare and couldn’t shake it. You were their rock.

So, when you walked into the Hard Deck that first day of the Uranium Mission and hugged Hangman, everyone was confused — except Coyote who knew you from a year prior. But they didn’t verbally question you, choosing instead to ponder in private.

Hangman sighed, “Come on, Rocky. You're giving your enemy the advantage.” He tugged at your shirt and pulled you into his arms. 

You laughed and pushed him away by his chest, “You’re gonna have to catch me first.” Hangman cocked his head to the side, “Oooh, that’s how it is?” You nodded, a smirk playing on your lips, “That’s how it is.” 

You panted as you used your shirt to wipe the sweat from your face. 

When you let go of your shirt you raised your arms, calling for the ball. They threw it to you and you took off for your endzone. 

You felt the sand shift and you knew Hangman was behind you. You had to get rid of the ball, so you called out to your teammate, “Phoenix!” She ran ahead of you and you threw her the ball.

As soon as the ball was out of your hand, Hangman tackled you to the ground. 

You laughed as you laid on your stomach, arms out in front of you. 

“What was that about ‘catching you’?” Jake grunted from above you.

You didn’t have to look at him to know he was smirking. “Haha, very funny Hangman. Now get off, you’re heavy.” 

“First, ouch. Second, nah, you’re comfy.” You laughed and shook your head, attempting to push off the ground and basically buck him off. 

But, Hangman wouldn’t let you, laughing as he moved and made you fall back down.

In this new position, Hangman was putting pressure on a certain part of your back and panic shot through you. 

“Seriously, dude, get up,” you tried to say with a laugh, not wanting to sound rude or like you were mad at him. He just smiled and rested his chin on his hands. 

You closed your eyes and tried to control your breathing, but the waves hitting you pushed you over the edge. 

“Jake, get the fuck off me.” You didn’t mean to sound harsh but you were panicking.

Jake was surprised by your tone, along with the use of his first name. He immediately got up and held out a hand for you to take but you just got up and ran to the table. 

“Rockstar, where you going?” Maverick asked. You called out while still running, “I need a break for a minute.” 

You got to the table, “Is it unlocked?” Penny nodded, “Yeah, why?” “Bathroom break.” Penny just nodded again and watched you take your sunglasses with you as you jogged inside.

Rooster ran over and hit Jake’s arm, “What did you do, Hangman?” Jake shook his head, “I’m not sure.” He put his hands on his hips and watched you disappear into the bar. 

He felt bad, he wanted to chase after you and apologize but he didn’t know what he did. 

“Well, you seemed to piss her off,” Phoenix said, shoving the ball into his chest. 

Maverick looked at Penny but she just shrugged, meaning you didn’t say much.

You ran into the bathroom, throwing yourself into a stall.  

You leaned over the toilet and waited to throw up. Tears had started running down your face the minute you stepped in the bar. You coughed and sobbed lightly as you tried to control your breathing. 

After a few minutes of that, the nausea subsided and you slowly stood to go to the sink. 

You turned the cold water on and splashed your face. 

“Shit…” 

You closed your eyes as the tight feeling in your chest loosened. You let out a shaky breath and looked in the mirror, cringing at the puffiness around your eyes. You grabbed your sunglasses and slipped them on before leaving the bathroom.

When you stepped outside you saw Maverick and Penny talking, and when you sat down they stopped talking and looked at you concerned. 

“You alright? Gave Hangman quite the scare for a second,” Mav asked, squaring his shoulders to you. You nodded, resting your forearms on the table. “Yeah, I’m fine.” You rubbed your forehead, “Hey Pen-” 

Before you could finish your sentence, a beer was sat in front of you, causing you to giggle, “Read my mind.”

As he continued to play, Jake still couldn’t get over the fact that you called him ‘Jake’ during a day out. 

It wasn’t that you never did, but it was rare that you called anyone by their first name. 

But it wasn’t just that, it was the way you said that really made him worry. He had never heard your voice sound like that before.

He looked at you from his spot on the beach, noticing you didn’t come back to join in the fun. 

Hangman walked up to Phoenix, worried that he had really upset you and wanted help from the girl you were closest to. “You don’t really think I pissed her off, do you?” 

She sighed, “I don’t know, Hangman. Even if you did, I doubt she could stay mad at you for long. She can't be mad at anyone for very long.”

Jake nodded and watched you stand up from your spot at the table.

You finished your beer and stood up, “I’m gonna head out.” 

Maverick frowned, “You sure you’re okay, Y/N?” 

“Yeah, I’m okay. I just really need to shower. I’ve got sand in places sand shouldn’t be,” you said with a light laugh. 

“Okay, drive safe. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Yes, sir.” You collected your stuff and headed to your car.

Jake noticed you leaving and tilted his head, “Hey…” He patted Coyote on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back.” 

He jogged up to the table to ask Maverick if he knew anything.

“Is she okay?” Hangman asked as soon as he came to a stop. Maverick shrugged, not looking up at the pilot, “She seemed okay. Said she needed to shower.” 

Jake let out a breath, “So she isn’t mad at me?” 

“I didn’t say that. But as far as I can tell, she’s just tired.” 

Jake licked the sweat off his upper lip, putting his hands on his hips as he looked down. 

“Hangman, honey, just go talk to her. If she’s upset with you, she’ll be honest about it,” Penny encouraged, giving Jake a small smile. He nodded and jogged to go find you before you left. 

You were standing by your car, the door opened as you moved to get in when he approached. 

“Hey, Y/N,” Jake called as he walked over to you. You smiled, “Hey, Hangman.” 

Jake swallowed, “Look, I’m sorry about earlier. I was just messing around. I did-” 

You held your hand up, cutting him off, “Jake, I’m not mad at you. I know you were just playing. But your tackle jump started my bladder and I wasn’t kidding when I said you were heavy.” You giggled a bit to show him you were teasing.

Hangman visibly relaxed at the sound, “Okay, good. I know I like to get under everyone’s skin. Sometimes I don’t know when to knock it off. I–” 

You held up your hand, cutting him off. “Jake, I can handle your teasing. Yeah, you can get a little mean. But I know it’s all a big show. Come here,” you opened your arms and made grabby hands at Jake. 

He just shook his head and chuckled, pulling you in by your outstretched hands and letting them find their place around his built torso. 

He rubbed his hand on your back, nearly missing the slight tensing right beneath your shoulder blades before they relaxed. His brow furrowed but he didn’t mention it, thinking that maybe it was you tightening your arms around him. 

He kissed the top of your head before you pulled away. 

“Geez, Jake, you’re sweaty.” 

“You’re not too dry yourself, Rockstar.” You laughed and playfully shoved him away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N.” You smiled and slid into your car, “I’ll kick your ass tomorrow Hangman.” 

He scoffed leaning on the roof of your car and the open door. “Since when did you get so cocky?” 

You smirked and placed your glasses on your head, forgetting that your eyes could still be red and puffy from earlier. “It’s not cocky if it’s the truth.” 

Jake shook his head and looked back to the shore. “Uh-huh. We’ll see.” He leaned back and patted the top of your car. “Drive safe.” You nodded, and he closed your door. 

He watched you start it up before driving away.

Jake shook his head and made his way back to the group.

Speaking of the group, they had all noticed the change in Jake when you showed up at the Hard Deck a few months ago. 

While he was still his cocky self, having no shame in bragging and trash talking, he seemed to tone it down when you were around.

They also noticed how he always made sure to find you in the crowd, keeping an eye on you. Coyote joked that you had Hangman wrapped around your finger, that he would be at your side with a simple look. 

Jake was painfully aware of the effect you had on him. 

When he met you a year ago, he was starstruck by your dazzling smile. 

So, naturally, in true Hangman fashion, he flirted with you. 

With a toothpick between his perfect white teeth and his bright green eyes shining under the yellow lights of the bar, he walked up to you. 

“I sure hope no one left you alone.” 

When you turned, eyeing him up and down to take in the uniform, beer bottle popping as it left your mouth, his breath was ripped from his lungs. 

“Well, you’re here now. I’m not alone.” 

Seeing your smile up close caused Hangman to blush, and leaving him thankful that his tan could somewhat hide it. 

“Well, ain’t I special.” 

You nodded, giggling while looking down at the bar, “That you are. But, before this can go any further, I’m gonna be honest, I’m more dedicated to my work than anything else at the moment. And I have to be up by 5, so I’d hate to lead you on.” 

Jake shook his head, but you continued, gesturing around the bar, “I’m sure there are plenty of girls here that would love to get attention from you and give you attention.” 

Jake smiled –not smirked, smiled– while leaning on the bar, “Well, the only one I want attention from is you. Plus, I can’t stay out too late either. Gotta be at work early too, so I guess we’re both clocking in early.” 

None of the feelings that day had been one sided. You also had been starstruck by Hangman. 

He was broad shoulder, tall, tan, and had a voice that could make a girl swoon in a second. But you knew he was a pilot, his uniform gave it away, and you knew how they acted. Except, you liked Jake’s company and decided to talk all night with him. 

Ironically, what you both did for work never came up.

So, imagine the look on Jake’s face when he saw you the next day in your flight suit. 

“You didn’t tell me you were a pilot.” 

You smirked, “You didn’t ask.” 

He shook his head, biting his lower lip to hide his smile but failed. 

You nodded to him, “What do they call you?” 

“Hangman. What about you?” You smiled, “Rockstar.” 

You were able to peg why he earned his callsign very early on but he couldn’t seem to figure yours out. 

Until he had a close call and couldn’t shake it.

The last day of training had just ended, tomorrow you might not come home, and to say you were nervous was a major understatement. 

As you changed to get ready to go out with the squad, you couldn’t stop shaking. You knew you needed a drink… okay a couple drinks.

While you changed, Hangman was walking around, looking for you. 

When he walked past the locker room, he caught a glimpse of you reaching to pick something up.

He turned to walk in, but stopped when he saw that you only had your pants on. But, before he could stop himself, his eyes trailed up your back; starting from above your waistline on your pants and going up. 

Then he stopped, his eyes widening when he saw the large scar that looked fairly new – maybe a year or so old. It spanned from the middle of your left shoulder blade to nearly below your ribcage and was positioned diagonally across your back. 

Jake quickly looked away, realizing that you must have not wanted anyone to see it if you hadn’t told him. 

His brow furrowed as questions ran through his mind. Was that why you freaked out during dogfight football, the other day? Why you always tense up when you get an unexpected touch there? 

Shit… He thought, feeling like a horrible friend for never noticing and never asking. 

Jake took a deep breath and walked away, choosing to approach the locker room differently and pretend he never saw you. 

He put on a smile and walked back towards the locker room, “Hey, Rockstar! You almost ready?” He stopped just short of the door, leaning his back against the wall. 

Your head jerked up as you pulled your t-shirt down. “Uh, yeah, Hangman. I’ll be ready in a second.” 

You finished getting ready and walked out, jumping slightly when he pushed off the wall. 

“Geez Hang, don’t do that!” You punched his arm. 

“Gosh, I forgot how hard you punch.” He chuckled and rubbed the spot on his arm as you both walked to the parking lot.

You all sat in the Hard Deck, drinking and playing pool.

“Dude, she’s kicking your ass!” Payback laughed as he clapped Hangman on the shoulder. 

You were, in fact, kicking Jake’s ass in pool. You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped as the blond narrowed his eyes at Payback. 

“Yeah, you feelin’ okay? You’ve been off your game tonight Bagman,” Rooster commented, smirking as he drank his alcohol. 

Instead of clapping back at the jab, Jake just rolled his eyes and lined up his shot. 

That made you frown, Hangman always had a comeback. Always had sarcastic quips to embarrass the other person. But he was silent. 

You made eye contact when he stood, silently asking if he was okay. He just nodded and moved to sink another pool ball. 

You didn’t want to drop it, but you did for the sake of having fun before facing the chance of death tomorrow.

Sometime later, after a few rounds of pool and drinks, you all stood around and just talked.

“Hey, did you guys hear about that one pilot that saved her WSO’s life when they got shot down?” Bob asked, looking around the group. 

You clenched your jaw slightly, but not enough for anyone to notice. 

“Bob, that happens all the time. It’s kinda what we do,” Phoenix said, squeezing his shoulder. 

Rooster stood up and sat his beer down. “No, not the way this pilot did. Bob, I know who you’re talking about. I read the mission file, the only thing that was classified was the pilot and WSO’s names.” 

You swirled the beer in your glass, not looking up from the amber liquid. “Did the pilot survive?” 

When you finished asking, you looked up, trying to ignore the watchful eyes of Hangman as you met Rooster’s eyes. 

The latter nodded, “Uh, yeah. Yeah, she did. But she had a pretty serious injury. I’m not sure if she was ever clear to fly again.” 

You nodded and looked back down at your glass. 

“And the WSO?” Jake asked, eyeing you as you downed the rest of your drink before looking at Rooster and Bob. 

“He survived. But I don’t know if he still flies,” Bob answered. 

“Well, that’s good that they both survived,” you said, your smile returning to your face. 

Rooster shook his head a bit, “Yeah, but that pilot pulled a risky move. Saving some like that…” 

Your smile dropped a bit, “People have their reasons.” You raised your glass, “I’m gonna go get another drink.”

Hangman watched you leave as the conversation changed into something more light hearted. 

Jake took a step to go after you but Coyote caught his arm. “Hey, come on. Play me in a round of pool. Let’s see if you still got your game.” Jake looked from his friend back to you and saw you laughing with Penny and Maverick at the bar. That allowed him to relax a little bit. 

“Oh, I still got my game. Let’s see if you found yours,” he smirked. “There he is!” Coyote laughed and clapped Jake on the back.

As Jake played pool with Coyote, you talked with Penny and Maverick. 

“Are you serious?” 

You nodded, laughing at Penny’s reaction to you telling her how you and Jake met. 

“Pen, why are you surprised? Hangman flirts with every girl,” Maverick said, using his hand to point the direction of the mentioned pilot. You and Penny both nodded your agreement. 

“Sounds familiar,” Penny says, a playful grin on her face making Maverick roll his eyes.

You had become so invested in your conversation with Penny and Mav, that you missed Rooster coming up behind you.

He placed his hand on your back, right on your scar, making you tense and jump in surprise.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya’ Rocky,” he took his hand off and leaned on the bar. 

“You doin’ okay? You seemed a bit…” He glanced back at the group, thinking of the right word. “...tense a minute ago.” 

You bit the inside of your lip, had you really been that obvious? 

Still, you nodded and gave him your best smile. 

But to him, he could see that it didn’t reach your eyes. He may not have been your best friend, but he had seen plenty of your genuine smiles and this one did not make your eyes shine like the others. 

Bradley decided not to press, “Okay…” He turned to Penny, “Penny, could we get another round?” The bartender nodded, “Of course, but you’re reaching your cut off.” 

Penny had set a cut off for drinks for the pilots not wanting them to go into this mission hungover. You chuckled and glanced back at the group, all of them messing around and having fun. “Yes ma’am.” 

You turned to Rooster and then back down to your empty glass. Penny hadn’t refilled it yet, having started a conversation with you as soon as you came over. 

You glanced at your watch, seeing that you had been there for a couple hours. 

Penny sat a tray down, placing the full glasses on top. “There you are, Rooster. Who’s tab?”

Rooster opened his mouth to tell her to put it on his, but you beat him to it, “Put it on mine Pen.” 

“You got the last round, Rockstar,” Rooster argued. You shrugged, “I don’t mind. Plus, I’m closing my tab for tonight.” 

“What? You’re heading out already?” You nodded, sliding Penny your card, “I’m hitting my limit, Roos.” 

Bradley searched your eyes for a moment, looking for any indication that something was wrong.

You were usually the one that made sure everyone was okay to go home and if they needed rides; so leaving early rung bells in Rooster’s head. 

Penny gave you your card and receipt, “Thank you.” “Thanks Pen,” you gave her a smile before turning back to Rooster. 

“Tell ‘em I’m heading out. I know if I do it I won’t be able to leave.” You gave him a one armed hug and turned to Maverick, “See you in the morning, Captain.” 

“See you in the morning, Rockstar.” 

Penny gently squeezed your hand, giving you a small smile as you slid off the bar stool and walked out. 

Rooster, Maverick, and Penny watched you leave the building before turning to each other, concern written all over their faces. 

“Is she okay? She’s been acting a little off ever since dogfight football the other day,” Penny asked the two pilots. 

They both shrugged, Bradley looking up at her. “I was about to ask you the same thing.” 

“I’ve noticed, but I thought it was just because Harvard and Yale had to eject the other day,” Mav admitted. “We were all a little shaken up by that…” 

It was silent for a minute. 

“You know… if one person knows anything, it’d probably be Seresin,” Penny said, pointing over to the pilot, who was very invested in the game he was winning, and basically suggesting that they talk to him. 

Bradley sighed, knowing that Penny was right and if anyone knew you the best, it would be him. He grabbed the tray, thanking Penny and walking over to the group.

They all cheered when he sat the tray down, taking a glass for themselves. 

Jake noticed that there was an extra and he frowned in confusion before he realized it was for you. 

He looked up, eyes searching for you in the crowd, panicking a little when he couldn’t see you, “Where’s Rockstar?” 

Rooster sighed, “She closed her tab and left. Said she reached her limit.” 

Fanboy frowned a little bit, “Why didn’t she just tell us herself?” 

Rooster shrugged, “Said if she did it would take longer for her to leave.” 

“Does she seem different to you guys?” Coyote asked, finally voicing his concern that had buit up over the last few days. 

The group shared a look before making small noises of agreement. 

“I mean, she’s still the same Y/N. Still lighting up a room and being there for us like she always has been… I just… I don’t know.” 

Rooster looked at Jake, “Hangman, you’re like her best friend, do you know anything?” 

Jake shrugged and shook his head, “All I know is she’s nervous for tomorrow and the accident the other day shook her up a bit, but she hasn’t said anything else.” 

He took a large gulp from his beer, hoping to swallow the confession of seeing your scar that he wanted to bring to light.  You trusted Jake and he wasn’t about to ruin that by telling the squad what he saw when he wasn’t even supposed to know it was there.

Meanwhile, you walked the beach, taking in the fresh and salty air. You just needed the quiet time before you went home.

You sighed and pulled out your phone, seeing a text from Hangman and laughing slightly at the message.

Hangboy: Hey, I get that I kicked your ass those last few rounds of pool, but you could have told me you were leaving. I would have walked you out. Text me when you get home. 

Also, there was an extra beer. I assume it was meant for you, but you left so I drank it. Don’t worry though, I can handle it.

You shook your head and opened your phone, but not to text Jake.

You went to your contacts and pressed the caller ID, putting the phone to your ear as it rang. 

“Hey, Rockstar, what's up? It’s been awhile.” 

You smiled, sighing, “Sure has been, Tundra. How are you? How’s the little one?” “I’m good. Ben is great, he wants to know when you’ll be by again to visit.” 

You giggled at the fact the 6 year old wanted to see you. “Soon… hopefully.” “Y/N, I know that voice. Is it happening again?” You shook your head, despite the fact that Tundra couldn’t see you. 

“No, no. Well, sorta, but this is different Diego.” You heard him shift, presumably crossing his arms. “What do you mean?” 

You sighed, remembering that you couldn’t share all that much about the mission, even if he was former Navy. 

“I don’t know how much I can tell you. But I got called back to TopGun, and I could be flying out on a mission tomorrow. A dangerous one.” 

“Y/N, do they know?” 

You shook your head again, this time to fight tears. “No, but I’m scared that mid air, I’m gonna freeze. I don’t wanna freeze, Diego. I haven’t frozen since our incident. But I don’t know what’s been wrong these past couple of weeks. I can’t seem to shake off this dread… this-this fear. I do-don’t-” 

He cut you off, “Have you talked to anyone recently?” 

You were silent and he took that as a no. “Y/N, you have to talk about it if you ever want to move past it.”  “I did though. I had mandated therapy for my entire time in recovery.” “And have you been since you recovered?”

You threw a hand up, frustrated, “I thought I was past it! I hadn’t had an attack in a year, not until we were playing football. I-I thought it was just a one time thing, and then something happened during training and I just-” 

You were cut off by a small, tired voice. 

“Is that Aunt Y/N?” 

“It is. Do you want to talk to her? I think she needs to talk to you.” “Yes, please!” You smiled as you heard the phone go to speaker and then be passed to the little boy. 

“Hey, Aunt Y/N!” 

You smiled, tears finally falling, “Benarino, hey buddy.” “I miss you. When are you coming to visit?” You wiped at your eyes with a shaking hand. “Soon, buddy. Really soon,” you sniffled. 

“Aunt Y/N, why are you crying?” 

You laughed, coughing a little at the end, “I just really miss you Benny. I can’t wait to see you.” 

You looked back at the Hard Deck, seeing your fellow pilots laugh and sing. 

“I’m gonna bring a friend too. If that’s okay with your mom and dad?” “That’s alright with me, Rockstar. I’m sure Lila won’t mind.” 

“Who is it?” 

You brought playfulness into your voice, “You remember the pilot I told you about? The one that thought he could fly better than your Aunt Rocky?” 

The little boy giggled, “Yeah!” “Well, I think it’s about time you brought home the boy that stole your heart.” 

“Diego,” you hissed. “We are just friends.” “Mhmm, sure.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes, “You should probably get Ben to bed before Lila wakes up.” 

You heard Diego grunt as he picked up his son, “Goodnight Benny Boy.” “G’night Aunt Y/N.” 

“Call me when you make it back.” You nodded, hand sliding into your back pocket, “Yeah, of course. Night Tundra.” “Night Rockstar.” 

The call ended and you slid your phone into your unoccupied back pocket.

You took in a deep breath, trying to relax again. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In, out. 

On an inhale, the scent of smoke filled your nostrils and it made you hold your breath.

Quickly looking around, you spotted a bonfire a couple yards away. Realizing it was harmless, you let out the breath and tried to relax your shoulders.

But, despite knowing it was completely harmless, your body went into a state of panic. Your chest tightened, limbs went numb, pain spread through your back, and tears filled your eyes. 

You held a hand to your chest, the air stopping just before it made it to your lungs, and stumbled to your car as fast as you could, hoping you weren’t seen by your friends inside the bar.

Jake looked at his phone as he left the bar. You hadn’t texted him, and by now you definitely should have been back to your on base bungalow. 

Hangman wasn’t going to panic, he knew you well enough that you would have texted or called him if something bad happened. Of course he felt anxious, who wouldn’t, but he was going to remain calm. 

The reason you hadn’t texted him when you got home was because the moment you fumbled yourself into your place, you booked it for the bathroom. 

Your knees smacked into the tile and you threw up whatever alcohol you had consumed before the strangled sob ripped itself from your throat. You crumbled to the tile as your chest refused to let air in. 

Your skin felt hot and sticky, sweat coating it as you laid on your bathroom floor. It wasn’t helping you, your damp, hot skin sending you back to one of the worst days of your life.

So, in a frenzy, you ripped off your shirt and kicked off your shoes and socks before yanking your pants off, not even loosening your belt. 

You crawled over the tub wall, too dizzy to properly stand, before fumbling with the knob to turn the water on. 

Once you got it turned on, you jostled the faucet switch, a desperate sob escaping as it kept falling down before it finally stuck, turning the shower on and drenching you in water.

And that was how Jake found you.

Jake decided to stop by your place and check on you, that being his only option to get his anxiety to go away. 

When he pulled up to your place and saw your car there, he let out a breath of relief. 

He parked his truck behind your car and ran to your door, his chest lighter than before.

But his chest became heavy again when he made it to your door only to find it unlocked. You rarely left your door unlocked, if ever.

He cautiously pushed it open, looking around to see if anything was out of place. 

Your keys were on the floor, your phone and wallet not too far from them. 

Jake walked further in, making sure to close and lock the door behind him. 

He held his breath as he looked for you. But his search was cut short when he heard the shower running. 

He exhaled and had to take a minute to calm the drumming in his chest. 

He cautiously walked to the bathroom, making sure to knock before walking in. He kept his head down so he didn’t see anything he wasn’t supposed to… again. 

“Hey I was-” 

The door stopped, hitting something on the floor. 

Hangman squinted his eyes in confusion. It was your shoe. He kicked it out of the way and pushed the door open enough for him to just step in and close it. 

He stopped with his hand on the door, realizing that the room didn’t feel like a sauna. There was no fog covering the mirrors and steam wasn’t filling the small space. You always showered hot, and right now the bathroom was freezing. 

Jake finally looked up and saw you curled in the shower, the water cascading from the faucet and hitting your back. It was obvious you had been there for a while because you were shivering. 

Jake sat on the edge of the tub cautiously, not wanting to startle you.

His heart broke at the sound of your quiet crying and the puffy redness of your eyes was a sight Jake never wanted to see again.

The eyes that usually held the brightness of the stars and a kindness that was unmatched, were now red, distant, and constantly filled with tears that fell over and mixed with the water drenching you. 

He hated it.

Jake held his hand under the water and recoiled at how cold it was. 

“Shit,” he cursed as he quickly turned it off. 

When you didn’t react, he knew you truly weren’t in this reality. 

“Y/N,” he spoke gently and touched your arm. He sharply inhaled when he discovered how cold you were. “Y/N, darlin’, we need to dry you off and get you in some warm clothes. You’ll get sick.” 

Jake wasn’t sure if you heard him because you just stared ahead, biting on your nail. He sighed and pulled your hand away from your mouth. 

He moved to pull his hand back but you grabbed it, your freezing cold hand latching onto his warm one. “Please don’t… Jake, please don’t leave.” 

Your voice was quiet and broken, raw with fear. And he was sure that sent a shiver up his back.

Jake quickly shifted to kneel beside the tub, his thumb rubbing back and forth on your hand. “I’d never leave you hangin’.” 

He looked you over, “Can I pick you up?” You nodded, letting his hand slip from your grip and feel it wrap under your legs.

He awkwardly shifted to lean over and pick you up, grunting a little as stood up. He was too pressed about his clothes getting wet, he’s sure he’s got pants somewhere around here.

Jake managed to open the bathroom door and walked to your bedroom. 

He sat you on the bed and quickly grabbed the towel on the back of your desk chair. 

Wrapping it around you, Jake kissed the top of your head. “You’re okay. You’re safe,” he spoke gently against your hair.

He pulled back and watched you bite your lip to keep your tears hidden.

You avoided his eyes, looking at your shaking hands. 

“I’m gonna get you some clothes, okay?” You slowly nodded, lip trembling before you bit down on it again.

Your eyes didn’t follow him as he walked around your room, but your ears were very aware of Jake’s noises; everything from his footsteps to his mumbling. 

In under five minutes, neatly folded clothes were placed beside you and Jake kneeled in front of you, his large hands resting on your biceps gently. 

“Do you want me to stay while you change?” 

It took you a second to register what he had asked, but he was patient and rubbed reassuring circles on your arms with his thumbs. 

You inhaled, the familiar scent of his cologne calming you down a bit. 

You were tempted to say yes, you didn’t want to be alone but you also didn’t want Jake to see you any more vulnerable than he already has. 

You shook your head, unconsciously pulling the towel tighter around you. 

Jake noticed it and nodded, “Okay, I’ll go tidy up your bathroom and throw some blankets in the dryer to fluff them up and get ‘em warm.” He gave you a small smile and stood, leaving the room and the door open just a crack.

You managed to peel off the wet bra and underwear, drying off before changing. 

That simple task was exhausting. It felt like your bones had turned to rocks and your muscles no longer existed. But eventually, you did it.

You haphazardly dried your hair, basically just dry enough to where it wasn’t dripping, and walked into the small living room. 

You sat on the couch, deciding to occupy your hands with your oversized shirt while you waited for Jake. 

Minutes later he was on the couch beside you, wrapping you in the fresh-out-of-the-dryer blanket. 

“Thank you…” Your voice had a rawness to it that made Jake shiver, something was really wrong and he didn’t know how to help.

He nodded and rubbed your upper back, “Of course.”

He sat there for a moment, just listening to your sniffles and weeping exhales, before finally turning to face you. 

“What’s going on? ‘Cause this-” He gestured to you and your current state. “-is way more than just nerves for tomorrow.” 

“I’ll be-” 

“If you say ‘fine’, I swear,” he sighed to control his volume. “Y/N, you are not fine.” 

“Jake…”

The blond pilot took a deep breath, looking at the sliver of couch cushion between you. “I saw it…” 

If you weren’t going to be honest, then he needed to be. Maybe what he saw is connected to what was shaking you to your core all of a sudden.

He finally looked up at you and watched your breathing halt as fear filled your eyes. 

Jake continued, making sure to keep his tone even, “I didn’t mean to. I was just looking for you in the locker room today and I-” He stopped talking when you choked out a small cry. 

He immediately pulled you into his lap, one hand going to the back of your head and the other arm wrapped around your lower back. “I got you… I got you.”

Jake closed his eyes and rocked you a little as his mind went back to the day these roles were reversed.

Jake had sat in the locker room, flight suit half off and tied around his waist. His knee bouncing as his eyes went in and out of focus. 

“Hangman!” You called as you ran down the hall. But he couldn’t hear you with the blood still rushing in his ears. 

“Hangman! Hang- There you are!” You jogged to him and saw that his emerald eyes were blank, not the playful or confident eyes you normally saw. “Hey, Hang- Jake what’s wrong?” You knelt in front of him, putting a hand on his bouncing knee to stop it.

Jake looked at you, the concern swimming in your eyes breaking whatever resolve he had left. 

The tears he tried so hard to hold in finally spilled down his cheeks. 

You instantly cupped his face in your hands, wiping them away, “What’s got you so shaken up? I’ve never seen you like this.” 

He shook his head, pushing your hands away as he sat up and leaned against the locker. “You’re not supposed to.” 

You sighed and leaned back on your heels, “What happened up there?” 

Jake wiped the still flowing tears, shaking his head, “I don’t know. I guess- Fuck I don’t know, Rockstar.” 

You stood, “Talk to me, Jake. Please, I’m your friend and I want to help.” 

Your tone was desperate and worried. This was a new version of Jake that you would have never seen if you hadn’t followed him off the tarmac.

Hangman finally got the guts to grab your hand and squeeze it. He took a deep breath as he tried to collect himself. 

“I almost lost you up there. You’re one of my closest friends, we’ve only known each other for a few months and I feel like we’ve known each other forever. I never let myself be that close to anyone, but you made it so easy.” 

His voice was raw and shaky. He was scared, but you couldn’t blame him. What just happened to you both was really intense and it was scary. But you were both okay.

You squeezed his hand back, giving him a soft but encouraging smile. 

“Can we just- Shit this is gonna sound so weird…” 

You knew where he was going, so you straddled his legs and wrapped him in a hug. “I got you Jake, I got you.”

That was when Jake realized the backstory to your call sign. You were everyone’s rock. You kept everyone sane, even at the expense of yourself.

Which is why you were currently shaking and sobbing in his arms. You never sought out comfort for your problems, a bad habit you picked up in high school. You always put everyone first, and you had it in your head that you couldn’t be vulnerable. 

You pulled away from him, not meeting his eyes, “I’m sorry…” 

“Why the fuck are you apologizing?” 

“Because I-” 

“Because you’re being vulnerable in front of someone?” You nodded, unconsciously playing with your fingers. “Look at me, please.” You did, biting your lip to hold your tears in. 

“You are allowed to be vulnerable. You are allowed to cry. You are allowed to be scared. You shouldn’t have to hide your feelings from your friends. I’m sorry if we ever made you feel like you couldn’t talk to us.” 

You nodded, staying silent, focusing on how Jake had moved his hand from the back of your head to your cheek to rub his thumb back and forth on your cheekbone. 

Your silence broke his heart a little bit, making him think you didn’t trust him. But he knew he had to be patient with you. 

He goes to move his hand away but you hold it there. “I thought I was over it…” 

“Over what, Sweetheart?” 

“The accident…” 

Jake pushed some hair behind your ear, “What accident?” 

You took a deep breath, closing your eyes as a few tears rolled down your cheeks. He wiped them away as he spoke softly, “Take your time…” You nodded, swallowing as you tried to catch your bearings. 

“A year before I was stationed with you, I was flying a mission. It was dangerous, but still fairly routine. On my way out, I got hit. It completely destroyed my weapons system. Before I could get back up, I was hit again. This time it took out my engine.” You took another deep breath, looking up at the ceiling. 

“We were dropping altitude fast and my WSO and I had to eject. We landed on a beach, we unbuckled so fast,” you chuckled, remembering the relief you and Diego felt before the shit hit the fan.

Jake smiled a little bit at the sound, but dropped it when you started talking again.

“However the jet had also crashed onto the beach too. The fuel had leaked and caused an explosion. I covered my WSO, and a piece of scrap metal lodged itself into my back.” 

Jake’s eyes widened, more dots connecting in his mind, “You’re the pilot the squad was talking about at the bar…” 

You nodded, wiping your eyes, “Jake, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. It’s just… when I was in recovery, if I wanted to fly again, I had to go through therapy. And I haven’t had an attack in a year…” You got choked up again, hot tears rolling down your face, “Hang, I’m so sorry.” 

He shook his head, using both of his hands to wipe your face, “Hey, don’t be sorry. Do I wish you would have told me sooner? Hell yeah, but I understand why you didn’t.” You just nodded and relaxed into his hands.

“What happens when you have an attack?” 

You took a sharp inhale through your nose before sighing it out, “It depends. I sometimes get flashbacks of the beach, everytime I close my eyes I just see fire and it’s fucking terrifying. Other times, when it gets really bad, I can feel pain in my back, but that’s rare.” 

You bit your lip a little as you looked away, and Jake knew, “That happened tonight didn’t it?” You nodded, coughing a little bit, “Yeah, uh, yeah it did.” 

“Was it because we talked about-” 

“No," you said quickly. "W-well, I mean kinda… yeah. But there was a bonfire happening on the beach, and just the two things… my brain went into panic mode. Before you ask, I don’t really know what triggers it. But during dogfight football-” 

Jake’s eyes widened and he dropped his hands, “Fuck, Y/N, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” 

“Exactly, Jake, you had no idea. It’s not your fault. It was just the pressure on my scar made me panic, and I was back on that damned beach. But I’m not mad or upset with you because you had no idea. So don’t beat yourself up, please.” 

Jake nodded, bringing you into a hug again, being mindful of the scar. “Jake, you can touch it. I know I’m safe.” He said nothing and brought a hand to run over the covered scar before tightening his hug. 

“Can you tell me about him? Your WSO?” 

You nodded, “Diego Harding, call sign Tundra. He has a wife and a son.”

“That’s why you-” 

“Yeah, that’s why I covered him. He had a family to go back to.” 

“What about you?” 

You sighed again, using Jake’s shoulders to sit up, “Most of my family served. My dad was killed in action when I was young. My mom died when I was a teenager, leaving Piers to raise me for a little bit. Then Piers goes and sacrifices himself… so I didn’t have anyone to come home too.” 

You shrugged and got off his lap, but snuggled into his side.

He rubbed lazy circles on your bicep. “Well now you do.” You looked up at him confused, “What?” 

“You’ve got me to come home to, and I’ve got you.” He placed a chaste kiss on your forehead. “Don’t get sappy on me, Seresin.” He just chuckled.

It was silent for a moment. 

“Promise me that you’ll do your best to fly back to me,” he asked in a hushed whisper as if he were telling you a secret.

“Only if you do,” you whispered back.

He held out his pinky, “I promise.” You nodded, interlocking your pinky with his, “I promise too.” 

“Can’t break that now, you know,” he chuckled, squeezing your pinky a little. You giggled a little before yawning, “I know, cowboy.”

my little cassettes <33: @els-marvelvsp @kmc1989 @criminallyhamilfan13 @lynnevanss @lovinglyeternal @desert-fern @startrekfangirl2233 @bradleybeachbabe @sebsxphia @mamachasesmayhem @hangmansgbaby @teacupsandtopgun @luckyladycreator2 @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @horseshoegirl @dakotakazansky @djs8891 @nobody7102 @bobby-r2d2-floyd @mongoosesthings

i apologize if i missed anyone! if you're not on here and wish to be, please fill out my taglist form! -> hello!!

even if you already are here, please fill it out so i can keep track!

love you guys! 💜

[veliseraptor]

Pete was hungry.

Of course he was hungry; he hadn’t had any blood for days. He wasn’t even sure exactly how long it had been, without the reference of regular sleep. All he knew was that it’d been a while, long enough that consciousness was starting to get blurry and he was having a hard time thinking of anything else past the need, the hunger. 

He hadn’t been this hungry in a long time. Definitely not since he’d started working for the Theerapanyakuls. It took him back, in a bad way. 

He was supposed to be dead. He’d expected to be dead. He didn’t understand why he wasn’t.

Pete’s eyesight was sharp enough to see the door move before it opened and he closed his eyes and went limp, hoping to look unconscious. Footsteps on the floor and he could sense it even from here: fresh blood. Living flesh. His mouth watered and his fangs lengthened involuntarily, all his thoughts washing out to a red, desperate haze of want. All his control burning away like he would in sunlight.

“Hello again,” said Vegas’s voice. “How’s my pet?”

Pete tried not to move. Tried not to twitch. He imagined getting free and sinking his fangs into Vegas’s neck and even now flinched away from the idea of hurting, biting, one of the family. 

“Stop pretending,” Vegas said. “I know you’re awake.”

Pete pressed his cracking lips together and opened his eyes a sliver. Vegas was lounging on the bed, leaning back on his hands. His shirt was unbuttoned as usual, and Pete’s gaze zeroed in on his exposed throat, the motion as his heart pumped hot blood through the artery there. He could hear Vegas’s heart beating, or maybe that was just the roaring of hunger in his own ears.

Vegas just looked at him, lips curling into a mocking smile. He didn’t seem scared, or concerned, or any of the things most humans might feel in a small room with a hungry vampire on the verge of losing control. 

Vegas stood and moved closer. Pete tensed, body bracing for pain even as it screamed at him to attack. 

Vegas clicked his tongue. “You’re thirsty, aren’t you,” he said. He leaned forward and Pete clamped his mouth shut before he could lick his lips. “Poor boy,” Vegas went on. “So deprived.”

Just kill me already, Pete thought, but he didn’t say it. He’d started to wonder if Vegas was planning on starving him to death. It would take a long time. 

That’d be a good thing if he’d been hoping for rescue, but nobody was coming for him. 

Vegas reached out (the fine veins in his wrist, right there) and caught Pete’s chin, grasping it almost gently and turning his head back and forth like he was trying to find his best angle. 

“I could fix that,” Vegas said. 

Please, howled the increasingly animal part of Pete, but he had enough of himself left to recognize that anything Vegas offered him was going to be poison somehow. It was just so hard to think, to remember that in the face of the wanting.

“Not interested?” Vegas said. “Let’s see if I can change your mind.”

He left the room again and came back with a glass, a towel, and a knife. He sat down on the floor leaning against the bed, set the glass down next to him, held out one arm, and clenched his hand into a fist a few times. 

Then he took the knife and sliced into his own arm at the elbow. 

Shallow, but the veins ran close enough to the surface that it started bleeding fast; Vegas grabbed for the glass and tipped his arm so the blood started to dribble into it. His eyes stayed on Pete and Pete’s eyes zeroed in on the blood. He could smell it from here, sharp and tantalizing, and Pete jerked involuntarily against his bonds.

“Oh,” Vegas said, smile filled with vicious satisfaction. “You are interested.”

Yes. Yes. Yes. Blood dripped into the glass, spattering the sides. It welled up bright, fresh red in the crook of Vegas’s arm. Pete was so hungry.

“Should I ask what you’ll give me for it?” Vegas asked. His voice was casual, just the slightest edge of mockery on it. 

“Nothing,” Pete croaked. 

“Mm,” Vegas said. “Stubborn.” There was a finger’s width of blood in the glass now. Vegas’s eyes were fixed on Pete, nailing him to the floor. 

“I don’t want it,” Pete lied. Vegas laughed.

“That’s weak,” he said. “You don’t really expect me to believe it, do you? I know you’re hungry. I can see it. If you got loose right now would you even be able to stop yourself from draining me?”

Maybe. Pete had good self control. It felt shaky right now, though. 

Vegas bent and straightened his arm, refreshing the flow of blood. The smell was stronger now, brighter. Pete wondered how it would taste. He’d never had blood like this, almost straight from the vein. And Vegas just watched him with that smug, vicious little smile. 

“Look at you,” he said. “Good Pete, Tankhun’s loyal little dog, and when it comes down to it you’re just another blood-addicted animal.”

Shame washed through Pete but it couldn’t get much of a purchase when it was set against the hunger, mindless and terrible. He could feel himself starting to tremble with it.

Vegas set down the glass and picked up the towel, pressing it to the wound he’d made. He held it there, eyes still on Pete. Pete’s hands curled into fists and he had to focus to relax them. 

When Vegas pulled the towel away the bleeding had slowed to a trickle. He picked up the glass and swirled the blood inside around like it was wine, then pushed himself to his feet and sauntered over to Pete. The smell of blood got even stronger and Pete just managed to keep himself from lunging toward it. 

“Here,” Vegas said, voice low. “Let me give you a taste.”

Pete should have said no. Should have tried to resist. It was almost a relief that there wasn’t much he could do to stop Vegas from putting the glass to his mouth and tipping it, blood lapping at his dry, cracked lips, still warm. Pete’s eyes rolled back in his head at the first taste, and he didn’t know if the intensity was for how long he’d gone without or because of how fresh the blood was. 

Then blood filled his mouth too fast and he was choking, his head jerking back so it spilled down his chin and over his chest, dripping onto the floor. The glass pulled away and Pete let out an involuntary sound of loss before he could bite it back, his mouth and nose still full of the smell of taste and smell. 

There was a strange mix of expressions on Vegas’s face: satisfaction and scorn and a touch of disgust. 

“What a mess,” he said. “Look at all that wasted blood.” Pete stared at him, dizzy and embarrassed and furious. And still hungry, appetite barely touched by the little he’d managed to swallow.

“Still,” Vegas said after a couple seconds of silence. “Maybe we’ll do this again later. If you’re good.”

Then Pete was alone again. The blood itched as it dried.

[mx-mongoose]

Do you ever think about how Pete being one of the first to be infected changes a bit of the context behind Ted's outburst at Bill about his daughter?

Was Ted telling himself this as well or grappling with it as he has to process the fact his kid brother is and has been dead the moment he started singing? Was he angry because Bill wasn't coming to terms with what Ted is forced to come to terms with about Pete? Bill still having that sliver of hope for his daughter that Ted had for his brother?

[starman-jpg]

“i know i’m worthy of love. trust me, everyone has been drilling that in my head for years…

but there’s this darkness inside me that will consume even the brightest of stars.”

“but you deserve happiness, remus…”

“and so does he. but i can’t let my happiness be more important than his…

anytime i think i can finally have a sliver of happiness, this black hole inside finds it and takes it away.” he shrugs, “i don’t know, maybe it’s for the best. if i have to watch him being happy from the sidelines, so be it. his life has been shit up til now and he’s finally getting the happiness he deserves.”

“but is not with you, moony!”

“and it never will be,” he whispers, sniffling as he sits up straight, “but that’s okay.”

“you promise?”

he doesn’t know how long he has before that darkness consumes him and everybody he loves. it’s done it before, and it will do it again.

he’s sure of it. but it doesn’t stop that tightness in his chest or the small tear that falls down his face.

he glances over at sirius, who is currently helping pete study for his astronomy class. sirius looks up and notices him. he smiles so beautifully at him before turning back to help pete.

remus sniffs, wiping his face before turning to look at james, plastering on a smile.

“of course mate. promise.”

[defire]

Back to the Dregs Part 4

Part 1 Next

Content: beating, gang violence, restraints

Am I forgetting something? Michael asked himself. Is there something I know, some kind of police training conflict management I'm supposed to remember to keep this guy from kicking my ass right now?

Michael was a detective, he was supposed to know what to do.

Then again, he wasn't a great detective. He'd almost put his gun through the wash once, he was that forgetful.

He'd go into work and be greeted by his coworker, always with some variant of,

"How's our lowest performer doing this morning?"

He'd roll his eyes, mutter something and sip his coffee, then realize it was still hot, curse, and change the subject.

Seriously. Every fucking morning.

Last Saturday, Mr. Ross--the only guy that knew Michael's real past--had told him there was just no way to justify keeping Michael above board, with his performance levels.

Then instead of firing him, he handed Michael a folder.

"Uh, if this is a new job, I…"

"It's a new life. I want you to join your brother Morgan. And I want you to report back to us about his gang activities."

And just like that, Michael was being roped back into the worst family that ever owned him. The Huers.

And Morgan's dad--he didn't think of that man as his own father--would only be in prison for a bit longer. He needed to get in with Morgan, and get out before his father's parole, to prove himself to the department.

That was when he noticed the tattoo on Jordie's arm--small serif text that said "never be divided".

Michael's eyes widened as he made the connection. These guys were the Westside Kids--the Huer's longstanding enemies.

"Jordie, wait," Michael cringed at the hand raised to slap him, face already stinging as his skin remembered every slap he'd received throughout his life. There were a lot. "Listen to me. Pete!" His eyes latched onto Pete's. "Pete. They won't want me. They hate me."

The slap landed hard across his cheek, and if Jordie hadn't been holding him, Michael would've tumbled off the tires and into the wall. As it was, his neck popped against the jerk of his head.

"They hate you?" Pete said, coming up closer.

At his boss's approach, Jordie dropped Michael. Michael grimaced as the sting went up and down his face, blinking at tears coming to his eyes.

"Man, if this is about the Huers, I'm sorry, but you're all out of luck." Michael said. "Just drop me off on the road, nobody will be the wiser. I don't even--"

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Pete said. "Don't you dare lie to me."

Michael felt a flutter in his stomach, but he gulped and said,

"They won't come for me, man. Please. I ditched them a long time ago. We haven't seen each other for four years."

"Hm." Pete said. "Then you'll be relieved to know that Morgan Huer has been looking for you."

Michael groaned and turned his head away. That just made it worse.

"They want to kill me!" He said through his teeth. "Whatever you do to me, if they had their hands on me, they'd do worse. Please. You'll get nothing if I'm the bait--they'll just laugh."

Pete looked at him thoughtfully for a moment.

"So… I should just kill you then?"

"Wh--well, uh…" Michael licked his lips. Why hadn't he thought of that? His mind was muddled.

Pete smirked slightly.

"You're pretty good at lying, aren't you?" He said.

He put a hand on Michael's face and tilted it into the sliver of light between the two men's shoulders. Michael couldn't make out much of either of them, but they'd be seeing him pretty clearly. Dirty-blond hair, darkly tanned skin which now was probably a wrinkled mess of a terrified wince.

Michael couldn't answer that question; he wasn't lying, but he wasn't going to try to convince Pete of that now.

"Like I said, you can't lie to me, Michael." Pete released him.

Jordie took him by the front of his pj's and hauled him forward and up to his feet from the tires.

"Don't." Michael's eyes blazed. "You'll regret it."

Jordie let go and a fist skiffed over his ribs as Michael bent down to protect his stomach. Jordie took him by the back of the head and rammed a knee into the same spot, and Michael crumpled to the metal floor, knees hitting hard. Two gasps of air.

"Pete, can you kinda hold him down for me?" Jordie said.

"I'm not your--victim!" Michael lunged toward the door, and the other guys actually moved, probably not wanting to get battered in the shins with his skull.

The door was barred, but Michael turned around fiercely, leaned back, and kicked out at Jordie's shin as he approached. Jordie shouted in pain and jumped back, hot rage flooding his face. He paused, looking around the truck. The other guys seemed to not be interested in fighting.

"Fine! I'll do it myself!" Jordie stepped back and hauled a tire off the pile, then tossed it in Michael's direction.

Michael rolled slightly, using his legs to protect his face as the tire fell onto him, and when he lowered them, Jordie was there. He sat down on the tire and Michael's legs strained to stay upright, trying to keep structure so he didn't break anything.

"You asked for it." Jordie said.

"That's bullshit!" Michael hissed.

Slap. It knocked Michael's head sideways again.

Michael cringed, holding his breath as his arms reflexively tugged at the zip tie bruising into his skin.

Slap. Slap.

Jordie's hand came across Michael's helpless face over and over.

And then he started punching. For a moment it actually hurt less, and then the ache began compounding, and Michael grunted and struggled, face screwed up defensively to protect his eyes and nose.

Michael gasped. The door was right here. He just needed to get up. He got one of his legs out from under the tire as Jordie jumped off of him, kicking him in the rib.

"Ugh…" Michael maneuvered himself toward the corner with his un-trapped leg, pushing at the tire with his knee so he could stand.

"You're gonna kill him," Someone observed.

"I'm not killing him." Jordie said, kicking him in the rib.

A shooting pain went up from the spot he kept striking. A rib, if it broke bad enough, could puncture a lung and kill him.

"Wait listen--" Michael hissed.

Jordie kicked off the tire and grabbed Michael by the ponytail, yanking him, dragging him over onto his chest on the cold metal floor faster than his knees could catch him. It smelled like gasoline. Michael squirmed under the stomp of Jordie's boot between his shoulder blades, trying to push away with his legs. He was panicking. He tasted acid, like he might puke again.

"Get his arms, Jordie." Pete said.

"Why are you doing this…" Michael groaned. "I was only defending mys--ugh--" The kick struck him in the ribs on the right, where he'd already taken so many punches earlier. Michael bit down another cry of pain. The rib couldn't take another kick.

"Don't give me that look," Jordie was saying. "I'm not going to break him. Just a couple kicks. Can you hold him for me?"

"What did you expect me to do?" Michael's words scraped over his aching chest.

"Just shut up and take it, kid." Pete said.

"I'm not a 'shut up and take it' kind of person!" Michael shouted.

"You done?" Pete said, toeing a bruised rib.

"Don't break my ribs, man, come on, it's not fair."

Jordie's boot thumped lightly--painfully--against Michael's ribs, making him wince.

"This, Jordie said, "is mercy compared to what will happen later."

"If you defy us." Pete's boot came down on Michael's back. "Just behave, and things will be easy on you."

"If not," Jordie lifted his boot and Michael braced himself for a break.

I don't want to die. I don't want to die.

The booted kick smashed into his arm instead, making a ringing, pulsing sensation go down into his wrist and up into his shoulder. He groaned and writhed.

"Want me to do it again?" Jordie asked him.

Michael grimaced.

"Please, please don't."

Taglist: @fleur-a-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @whumped-by-glitter @whump-writings

[roomarysa]

Listen LISTEN LISTEN!

I know ep 7 was a bit rough but I the trailer for next week? It has me feeling a bit more optimistic. So many things.

Ed’s panic as he whispers Stede’s name, afraid he just got killed or is in serious danger??? Him immediately running back to go help????

Archie just standing there looking fucking amazing and like the love of my life in that cell?

THE CREW IN DISGUISES AND BLACK PETE LOOKING FLY AS FUCK???

There is still a sliver of a chance that shit might go sideways buuuut I’m holding on to my hope that it doesn’t cause jfc I can’t be broken like Good Omens again.

[carrymelikeimcute]

Thinking about 1x04 and the way it absolutely goes to TOWN on what being a captain is, and how Ed, Izzy and Stede all struggle with it, and each other.

This is a great episode for watching Izzy spiral - he tries to force Ed to stop mucking about and do some captaining (failing to realise that Ed has a plan, he just isn't explaining it to him).

After this lack of input, Izzy is apparently desperate enough to ask STEDE - demanding information about the ship from him (which Stede obviously doesn't have) and to come up with his own 'plan' which is 'everyone either fights or they die' - which is as blunt and simplistic as it gets. But it's also the polar opposite of Stede's 'we talk to them' - neither plan is going to work, but for wildly different reasons.

BUT then, when Ed appears and Lucius is giving the countdown, Izzy seems to be learning just as much as Stede is, what it MEANS to be a captain. To have this pressure on you, this responsibility. Izzy is crumbling under only a sliver of it already, as is Stede.

When Ed says the line 'The crew's going to die, you're gonna lose all your men and it's all gonna be your fault - all the men who trusted you...' The shot is of Izzy looking at Ed.

Earlier in the episode, we see Ed brush off Izzy notifying him of the losses they took in the skirmish with the Spanish. I see this moment as Izzy realising that Ed does care, but he cannot allow himself to stop, even for a moment, to let that emotion in - because he needs to be their captain, all the time.

When Black Pete arrives to say that Blackbeard is a genius - Izzy is confused. Then, when the secret 'fog' plan appears to come to fruition, Izzy is annoyed - seemingly with himself, for his own lack of faith, for not listening and for making rash decisions, like threatening to resign. It's clear (in my view) that he WANTS the plan to work though - he doesn't want to die and he wants his captain to be RIGHT.

But, while everyone else is happy and relieved, Izzy looks if anything, hurt - because he's been left in the dark. He's first mate and he has been excluded from the plan - and I'm not sure if this is because he didn't go along with the 'sausage clouds' thing earlier, or if Ed was always going to keep it from him, but either way it shows that they aren't communicating well, as a unit.

And when Ed's plan is shown to have the fatal flaw of it being a leap year, Izzy looks crestfallen, because not only is he now probably going to die, he's also seeing Blackbeard - THE Blackbeard - stumble. (And in a stumble he could have avoided earlier if they'd been listening to each other). It's sort of embarrassed and broken, that look, like he's seeing this human failing for the first time.

Interestingly, Stede asks if leap years 'change things much' highlighting a key difference between him and Izzy - Stede has little nautical experience, Izzy has a lot - but Stede has the imagination to come up with a plan like the lighthouse, and Izzy, even with his knowledge, doesn't have the creativity to use it effectively. But, as with the fog plan - creativity also needs pragmatism.

During the exchange between Lucius/Frenchie, Izzy is centred between them, looking down/into nothing, clearly aware that 1. he is going to die and 2. Ed is just waiting to die. And While Stede is going after Ed, Izzy it appears, cannot. He either doesn't know what to do to get Ed through this, or can't bring himself to try.

The lighthouse fuckery works - showing Stede and Ed think along similar lines. Izzy is noteably absent from the entire thing. Where he is/what he's doing remains a mystery. (From what we see of him in S2, I theorise he's probably sitting somewhere dark and staring at a wall, having it out with himself, but that's just me).

Finally, we get the last scene with Ed/Izzy. And as soon as Ed approaches, Izzy apologises - which again, I consider to be due to introspection during the fuckery but w/e - Izzy actively refutes what he said by saying he doesn't think it, but it's not clear if he thought it when he said it, and has changed his mind, or never thought it to begin with. Ed even sort of meets him halfway by saying he was 'right' - about what we have no idea. Possibly just that they needed a plan, and he needed to share that plan sooner.

Ed offers Izzy the captaincy, despite the previous day showing that he is absolutely NOT captain material - which feels to me like a way to get Izzy to stay. To buy some time and keep things as they are. Ed is trying to keep all his plates spinning while he works out wtf he wants to do.

Lastly, Izzy calls after him to reassure Ed that he's 'still got it' but it feels...conciliatory. Much like the offer of a captaincy, it's a bit of flattery, a balm for a wound - I think he wants to mean it, but he's still not 100% sure. And Ed gives him a confident smile and turns away before letting it drop - which is when we see Izzy's answering smile, like he's now convinced that Ed is still Blackbeard, he's still got what it takes - but Ed's the one doubting himself now, more than ever, but he looks...slightly resigned to me? Like he's at least at this point, trying to convince himself that he really means it when he lays out his plan.

This episode man, it's just...the relationships between Stede, Ed and their respective 'marriages' is...a lot to pack into this one ep.

[rnakamura22]

So, I have some thoughts about Book 7

From what we saw from the attitude of Malleus's mom Malenor, the attitude of the Senate, and what we've seen from what Lilla-sama said about the Briar Valley, it seems like Briar Valley is REALLY on it's last breath as a country. No wonder it became a Valley and not a country. Like 10 seconds from crashing down. And the systems are COMPLETELY FU*KED UP. As a country, It's really FU*KED UP, and two steps away from becoming toast. It's so bad that I really believe even Leona would refuse to be born as a first son of a prince with this state.

Lilia-sama was right about Henryk, despite him being a big dick as a person and a total jerk, you have to admit he is a really capable person when it comes to military and conducting an army. He provides strategies, controls his subordinates, and is really smart when it comes to controlling his cards. The machines the Silver Owls use does destroy the environment but puts a big advantage in battle. Henrik reminds me of Nobunaga Oda and the way he used pistols to defeat Shingen Takeda's horse armies which were considered to be undefeatable at the Sengoku period.

On the other hand, Mallenor is a powerful sorceress and a dragon. But she just competed with her powers. No tactics whatsoever. Part of it due to her pride as a dragon and looking down on humans. We can't deny that. Moral values of the fairies.

Silver's dad, the knight of dawn was so powerful that even Lillia-sama admitted it. It's really stupid to go out there with no hidden tricks or backup help or tactics. Also, Lilia-sama said something about putting pranks on the wand of the Queen Maleficia, and Lilia-sama getting scolded instead of Malenor. She is a princess, but we haven't heard about Malleus's grandma scolding her daughter or anything. Seems to be that there was a HUGE problem with education of the royal family. Malleus grew up as kind(fae-standards) due to Lilia-sama, and the presence of Silver and Sebek, and changing through the meeting with Prefect and finally having a friend who won't fear him and treat him as a equal friend, not a monster. From what Malenor said about Malleus being the leading star of the fairies and a dark star for humans to be afraid, I really doubt about "Equal friendship human Get along with other people" element coming into the education of Malleus if she was alive. Her moral values are ANCIENT but that couldn't be helped. Her husband is gone, the Senate are all bunch of dried up old farts with a dick personality and no use. At least Henrik was a capable man when it came to the army department and you can understand the human values of the past and why so many humans gathered at Henrik's army due to fear.

Lilia-sama said that the life of Malleus will be difficult due to him being a fairy through and through and living with human evolution. The moral values need to be changed in order for Briar Valley to be a country and live, now the precious resources and elements already gone and one step away from the environment biting the dust.

Also, the education of "Fairies are better than humans, we can crush them like ants, pure blood dragonia family is the best, we must worship them etc." might be taught to the children of the Briar Valley looking at the attitude of Sebek at first. And the senate was all about pure blood and Lilia-sama being a nasty bat, praising how Malenor fought and died and looking down on humans like gerbils. WHEN HENRIK AND THE SLIVER OWLS ARE STILL THERE AND DWELDING AND KILLED THEIR PRINCESS FOR PETE'S SAKES! HELLO!? And both Lilia-sama and the Senate are arguing about quitting the right general of the army? The most powerful fairy in the country now that Malenor is gone? When Henrik's army could ruin the land the civilian fairies live within the drop of the hat? Purely ridiculous.

Also, we have to talk about Sebek's dad. A dentist. From what Sebek said about him, he was heavily valued due to lack of health care institutions in the place where Sebek's family lived. That tells a WHOLE LOT OF STUFF about the health care systems of Briar Valley. Also, the other lands that was introduced in the world of Twisted Wonderland had a symbol of industrialization that brings in the money into it's economy and the people. For Leona, the natural energy resources that were not dug up and buried under the vast lands. That could be the start. Shaft lands are famous for sightseeing and jeweled pineapples and etc. But Briar Valley doesn't have any of that, I think the reason being "Interacting with humans and doing business and trade!? The though itself is preposterous etc. "

I'm sure there are other points I missed out. I mean, Briar Valley has a lot to fix up. Malleus needs to kick out the Senate first when he is crowned king and change the moral values and education of his country. That fairies and humans need to live together with other species instead of fearing the other. The ancient values of fairy supremacy are not going to work anymore.

Also, Malenor putting Lilia-sama in charge of making Malleus come out from his egg is part of the whole reason that caused Malleus to overblot. A big part of it is Lilia-sama dropping out due to magic loss from NRC and Prefect going back to their world. I doubt that Malenor did not know what the senate would say about Lilia-sama even though this is Lilia-sama's dream and his POV, which may be a little more dramatic than what really happened in the past. But Malenor should have at least prepared a strategy or listened to Lilia-sama. Even though she said because I'm a mom, I will go, but that doesn't justify the fact that she threw most of the problems in the land of Briar into Lilia-sama and caused Malleus to not come out of his egg for more than 200 years. I mean come on!!!!! From the attitude of the Senate, she should have prepared one good excuse like an offical paper even though I doubt it will work. And Lilia-sama is her subordinate, so he really can't talk back to the Senate in general! Part of the reason that Malenor bite the dust was the moral values of the fairies and the brainwashing, but her pride got in the way, no denial. And look at Malleus's reaction! He is upset that he wasn't told! Did Malenor really wanted her son to act up like this? Like I said, the segregation and the land problems and a ton of others were thrown into Lilia-sama and Grandpa-bolt and the others hands.

[secretaccountlol]

“Photos are the window to the soul”

Dude, I haven’t posted in so long I forgot how to even Format my writing.

I apologize for my hiatus I hit a bad artblock, but I dug up a old wip I felt like y’all would like, since I’ve influx of this trope coming in the Peter fics lately it’s a lil short though (I wanted to make it longer but couldn’t get anything to stick) but I hope it still satisfies you.

18+ no minors please!!

Insecure? Reader x Peter!

Cw: photo taking during sexy time (consent given), brief talk of voyeurism (Peter lil stalker habits) , spanking, sir kink, talks of body image hating, insecurities etc. as always typos probably

Uhm enjoy! (If you did please repost or comment)

“Peter, please” Your hands shield your face from his camera as he tries to dodge around to get a peak of your face through the slivers of space between your fingers. This was a daily occurrence, Peter taking pictures of you, well trying to at least, it wasn’t like you hated it, more like you hated yourself. Okay, Hated was extreme but you weren’t fond of looking at pictures of yourself. Something about it made you feel so strange about yourself; it was like you could see every insecurity multiplied by 10, which is a bad combo when one, your boyfriend literally works at the daily bugle, and two, loves taking photos of you.

“Baby, please. I need a new pic of you!” Your doe-eyed boyfriend pouted as his camera dropped to his side, as you giggled. “Oh for your stash?” you rubbed your nose as a panicked look swarmed Peter’s face. “I- what? No. I don’t have a stash-? I mean unless having pictures of your girlfriends is weird, I mean I don’t think it’s weird! Hahah-“ Peter rambled as you stared at him Incredulous. “Peter, it's okay I know you have a drawer full of pictures of me already. Including those stalker pictures, you took of me while you were being the masked vigilante, Spi-” you stop leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Spiderman.” you grin as you study his flustered face, you weren't often confident but when you were it drove him crazy, you could see the gears in peter’s head twist and bend trying to decide what he could quip next. “I- well. Uhm..w-” Peter’s words stumbled out as his breath hitched.

“It's okay, I thought it was hot.” you shrugged. “Plus not like we weren't dating already, you were just following to protect me, right?” you kiss his cheek as he nodded, you chortle. “You okay there, Parker? Cat got your tongue?” you tap his chin, waking him up from his shocked state.

“God, You- man I love you.” Peter’s hands wrap around your waist. “You just made me… So horny.” you could see his eyes dilate as they scanned your countenance. “Can..I-?” His hands shift, sliding you closer to him.

You grinned again, “Peter, Of course.” Peter’s lips push onto yours in a sweet kiss.

“Hey! Consent is desirable baby, haven't you heard?” Peter's eyes crinkled in delight as you smile. He tilted his head,

“Bedroom?”

“Bedroom.”

You both skip to the bedroom hand in hand.

—-

“Peter” you huff as his hands play with the hem of your shirt. “Mm, tell me baby, do you like this shirt?” Peter's voice was steady as his eyes looked at yours with desire. Your pants have already been discarded somewhere, “I can do without it” you smirk, his hands instantly rip through your shirt earning a gasp. “Mm, black lace? My favorite. You planned this didn’t you minx” you laugh at his comment. “Mm, I did, didn’t I?” You kick your feet, blushing, your confidence was wearing off as you covered your chest, looking away.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Peter's hands held your arms gently as he tried to look you in the eyes.

“I-uhm nothing. It’s nothing, just a little insecure.” Your voice was light as Peter frown took shape. “I- still wanna have sex, Pete.” You glance at him as he gently kisses your forehead.

“Okay, lay down for me, love.” you obey his command , moving around trying to get comfy as Peter removes his clothing. “You're gorgeous, y’know?” you stare at his back, tracing the scars with your eyes. “I'm serious, babe. I love you, your smile, your laugh, your eyes, your personality, and your body. Everything.” his eyes met yours with passion, you could feel yourself tearing up.

You mumbled his name as he gently tenderly kissed you, throwing his leg over your sides, your eyes close

taut as you take in his breath. “I’m gonna make sure you know by the end of this, sweetheart.” His voice against your lips made you shiver as you heard a camera click and your eyes flew open. “Peter?” your boyfriend stood tall over you as he checked his camera beaming at the picture. “You look radiant, baby.” he turns the camera so you can look at yourself but you instantly shut your eyes again, you hear Peter groan. “I-i don't wanna see, Pete!”

“Why not?”

“Bec-”

“Because what!”

“Because I feel ugly!”

There's a pause before you open your eyes to peek at him, his ocher eyes were full of heartache. “Baby.”

“It- I.. Just when I look at myself in pictures I just feel like you can see every little imperfection I have..” you pause again

“I’m sorry, I- ruined the mood. “ you lift yourself up before Peter presses you back down.

“No, you didn't. In fact, I have an idea, Do you trust me?”

“Of course, I trust you, Parker.”

“Good, cus we’re gonna do some exposure therapy”

Before you could doubt him, another snap of his camera. “Haha, you look too cute in this one.”

His smile made you grin wide, as you uttered his name. His free hand traveled down to your chest, groping your breast softly, your eyes fluttered, another click. “I'm glad I finally get to immortalize this beautiful body.” you groan. “Peter, please I'm no-” a smack cuts the air as you gasp as your ass stings.

“Talk shit bout yourself again and you'll get another spanking. Understand?” The sternness in his voice caught you off guard as you nod. You and Peter weren't new to trying new stuff in the bedroom, but this is the first time you’ve actually roleplayed, you bit your lip in eagerness.

“Y-yes sir, sorry sir.” you tilt your head down in fake shame. “T-teach me how to..love myself sir...” Your hands glide against his chest, as you try to sit up again, Peter’s hands shove you down again. “Mm, you're stubborn, baby. Course I'll help ya, but you have to be a good girl and stay put, okay?” Peter’s voice infected your brain with a ripple of pleasure as you nod eagerly.

“Yes sir.” His eyes connected to yours, with fire his lip bitten in anticipation. His eyes finally tear away from you as he grabs his phone from the bedside table.

“Do you know what this is, sweetheart?” his head tilted in question. You nod, “Yes, it’s a phone, sir.” You look at the phone curiously before staring at Peter.

“Good girl, so smart. Now, you know what phones do right? They take pictures and videos.” Peter’s eyes hang low as your eyebrows knit in concentration.

“You see, I don't always have my camera with me. This means I can't always see the pictures I've taken of you. Get it?” he lets the cold corner of the phone glide on your skin, tracing the curves of your breast. “So, I'm thinking I should take more..pictures, for the road. Would you like that, darling?” You smile as you see his tongue peek out behind his teeth.

“Yes, yes I would sir.” You chuckled, “Please, sir is my father’s name, Call me spiderman.” You and Peter shared a mischievous smirk. “Mm, okay Spidey. My boyfriend probably won't like knowing you have pictures of me on your phone.” Your head tilted, taunting him.

“Oh? But he doesn't have to know, does he?” Peter’s hands grip your chin gently. “Plus I'm sure he doesn't mind sharing.” you nod at his statement before Peter bends down to capture your lips. His hand travels down to your panties, snapping the waistband making you giggle. His fingers pick at your lacey panties before

Plunging his hands into your panties, circling your clit as you whine into his mouth.

“I love hearin’ you..' ' his freehand effortlessly pulls down your panties as the other makes long strides up and down your slit, the noises you make were pornographic, you use to be embarrassed, and sometimes still are to moan but Peter snubbed that out a long time ago.

“Oh, I’ve gotta get this on video.” Your eyes watch as Peter fiddled with his phone before his bright flash blinded you for a second before you could make out his shit-eating grin as your face felt hot. “Sorry about the flashbang, darling. But I gotta make sure I can see that pretty Lil face on camera, right?” his other hand tilts your chin towards the camera before panning down your body, making you shiver. “God, just.. So wonderful. Your boyfriend is a lucky man, y’know?” Peter’s thumb stroked your clit as he spoke, “N-no I'm a lucky..wom-!” you buck up, groaning as his fingers slide into your hole without warning.

“Pete-ah!.” Peter tsked, slapping your clit making you jolt, “It’s Spider-Man, remember?” He tapped your lips softly before he slid down to your pussy.

“Now look.at.this..You’re so wet. All for me?” His fingers found your hole once again.

“Yes! Yes! Mm all for you, Spider-Man!” You cover your eyes as you see the light flash on your bare pussy. “Your cunt makes so many pretty noises, I hope they show up on video.” Peter's voice breaks the silence, “I wanna hear more pretty sounds from someone else, though.” Your eyes close tight as you feel his breath on your neck.

“Come on, pretty baby, let it out.” His fingers pick up speed as you feel the warmth of the flash on your face as it contorts in pleasure. “Spider- I’m- I can’t..” your breath quickens as your back arches, “Oh-! I-im..!” Your hand grabs his wrist, his fingers curl into you, you whimper, your eyes close as you throw your head as you cum.

Your breaths are shallow as you come down from your high. Peter’s kisses bruise your skin as you groan, “Mmm-, that was … good.”

“Just good? Spider-Man doesn’t do just good, babe.” you giggle as you watch Pete’s eyes furrow in fake anger, “Perhaps you can show me how great, amazing, or even Spectacular you are then, hm?”

You laugh as Peter pulls you into another kiss.



[apparitionism]

Tabled 7

And with this at-long-last final part, Tabled (my lengthy @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange offering for @barbarawar ) comes to an end. Does that end justify the tortuous (and torturous) trip? Probably not, but something something journey destination... it all began with “Myka sits at tables and tells lies,” and part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, and part 6 gave what I hope was a reasonable explanation for how Myka might have so fallen, as well as how she could have begun to scramble up (spoiler: with a lot of help). Anyway, she’s just got back to South Dakota—having come to a tentative understanding with Helena—only to find Mrs. Frederic waiting for her at the airport (!!).

Tabled 7

Myka has spent an evening, a night, and the entire subsequent day on her trek back to South Dakota, so her trip as a whole has now stretched to over thirty-six hours, during which she’s had emotional nadirs, shocks, and acmes; adrenaline overloads, ebbs, and re-overloads; minimal amounts of minimally palatable airport food; and far too much coffee, both interior and exterior. She desperately needs a shower, clean clothes, and, above absolutely all, some sleep lying down in a bed. Some sleep that way.

So she’s having trouble processing what she sees. Has Mrs. Frederic divined her ultimate intention and thus appeared here to prevent her from burning it all down? This possibility should strengthen her resolve; instead, it makes her want to turn and run away.

Unfortunately, she’s now through security, and she can’t turn around. Thanks a lot, DHS.

But please, she goes on to pray, not another table. And: Extra-please, not another lecture about children.

Can the people around her in the airport see Mrs. Frederic? They seem to be moving more slowly, less noisily, than reality usually offers. Or are they? It’s hard to know, here in this quiet, draggy little transit-place...

Mrs. Frederic puts a bow on the weird by pronouncing, “I have spoken with several people today. Yet you are my determinative interlocutor.”

That sounds like Myka might be a very few words away from being sent to a penal colony. Or, no: bronzed. The ultimate irony. Utterly Warehousian.

“I have for you the following salient information,” Mrs. Frederic continues, and Myka doesn’t even bother bracing herself, because she’ll have to take it, regardless. She might as well be rattled by the full impact. “I am prepared to have words with Agent Lattimer.”

She should have braced. “You are?” she asks, wishing she could sound indifferent about the prospect, wishing the idea of such words didn’t add fuel to her gut’s terror that Mrs. Frederic knows all about Myka’s meeting with Helena, a terror now compounded by the prospect of her telling Pete of it, and the further prospect that his having been told will be an additional, far higher bar over which Myka must clamber.

“Should those words occur,” Mrs. Frederic says, and now Myka does brace, “your brief liaison will seem but a dream to him.”

What... what? No bar, no clamber? Instead, deliverance? Myka, whiplash-befuddled, is struck dumb.

Mrs. Frederic waits. Her patience, as long as it lasts, is admirable, if surprising. Then she quirks an eyebrow.

It makes Myka think of Helena—and that allows her to breathe. To soften.

Mrs. Frederic softens too: she lowers the eyebrow. “Is that truly what you wish?” she asks, carefully, as if she’s prepared also to withdraw credit from the source who conveyed to her the substance of Myka’s wants. As if Myka, given one last beneficent chance, can surely be gentled into exercising her better judgment and choosing the certain path.

The sliver of solicitude allows Myka to consider Mrs. Frederic’s motives with a new charity: she may have been driven not by stereotype, as Myka has suspected, nor malice, as she has feared, but rather by a thoughtful assessment of availability—i.e., here are the Warehouse’s extant resources, and here is how they may best be deployed to ensure an acceptable balance of efficacy and safety.

Myka has spent a great many hours on airplanes and in airports preparing herself for the burn-it-down possibility, but the fact of the matter is that she, too, cares about efficacy.

She cares even more about safety.

The additional fact of the matter, however, is that she wants a future untethered from such calculations—except as reckoned by, and between, her and Helena.

So if Mrs. Frederic is willing to help fix what she had a heavy hand in breaking? There’s probably a downside, but Myka will suffer it for this unexpected upside.

“Yes. It is. Thank you,” she says.

“No,” Mrs. Frederic says, now differently severe. “Agent Jinks.”

“Steve? What about him?”

“Thank him.”

****

Myka finds the B&B dark and silent, lacking even a video-game glow and hum from Claudia’s room. Sadly, the quietude doesn’t yield sleep; rather than knitting up her exceptionally raveled sleeve of care, she tries and fails to keep “here’s how this might go” scenarios from playing in her head until she can reasonably go downstairs and begin making morning noises.

As the others appear, she tries to act as if nothing has changed.

Claudia enthuses, “Storms no match for you!” which is flattering but of course entirely untrue.

Pete is in his too-early-to-do-more-than-grunt mode, but he seems to care more about his bowl of Lucky Charms than he does about anything to do with Myka, which tells her that Mrs. Frederic has almost certainly had the promised words with him. The way that buoys her—her shoulders move down and away from her ears, where she hadn’t even realized they’d taken up residence—is probably unseemly, but she doesn’t care.

Then Abigail walks in, and her eye-flick between Pete and Myka suggests she knows everything, which she probably does, but even if she all she might have had were suspicions, they’ve probably been confirmed by Myka’s radical change in posture.

A twinge of guilt at having allowed her body to reveal her relief visits Myka... but she quashes it. That guilt is about parts of the past she’s supposed to be ignoring. Practice. Practice.

When Steve emerges, he busies himself with the first steps of making scrambled eggs. Myka reads this as a tactic, for on workdays Steve generally eats two unheated Pop-Tarts at speed. On lazier mornings, he might undertake toast, but eggs are the rarest of production numbers... and indeed, no one but Myka waits through his meticulous preparation.

“You want some?” he asks, but he’s already sliding his results onto two plates. “Airports,” he says, handing her one.

“So hard to find something normal,” she agrees, “and even when you think you might have, you’re still in a place that isn’t.”

“Sounds like you’re talking about every day here.”

His affect effortlessly encompasses both “perpetually surprised new guy” and “perpetually resigned old hand.” Myka loves him for that facility. “Not about these eggs, though,” she says around mouthfuls, “so thanks.” She pushes her empty plate away. “And, also, thanks.”

“I’ve never seen anyone eat food that fast, so thanks back for the demonstration. But also thanks why?”

“You’re welcome, and also you know why: I have you to thank. Or so I hear from someone who miraculously shifted her thinking about what’s best for me,” and she concludes, “you miracle.”

He gives a little smile and head-shake. “You said to protect you, so that’s what I did. Differently. Once I figured out you were telling me things had changed.”

His figuring? Correct, regardless of anything Myka might have intended to be saying. “Things did change,” she acknowledges, “like you said they would. But listen, what you did. The risk. You shouldn’t have taken that risk for me. In fact people in general should stop taking risks on my behalf.”

His smile grows wider. “We will when you will. Reciprocally.”

“No, no,” Myka says, “I need to take more. On my behalf and everybody else’s.”

“All the more reason you should have the right backup.”

“Well, so should you,” Myka says, fully aware, and fully remorseful, that she hasn’t provided any such thing.

Steve’s smile shifts in a way she doesn’t understand. “I think I’m going to. Maybe in not too long? You know Claud’s doing a lot more Caretakering now.” The doorbell rings. “Oooh, if that’s who I think it is, somebody’s timing is something.”

“Is it?” Myka asks. She trails, a confused duckling, behind Steve as he heads to the door.

“I think you’re about to meet my new partner,” he says.

Myka doesn’t bother asking “Am I?” as he swings the door open, because questions are not being answered sensically.

Her exhaustion is comprehensive, so it’s no surprise she’s hallucinating. She says it aloud, directing a slack-jawed “I’m hallucinating” at both Steve and the doorway-framed Helena as they stand before her, their smiles bizarrely rhyming blends of sheepishness and pride.

They don’t respond. This supports the hallucination conclusion.

Myka moves her right hand, minimally; in this way, she touches Steve, a little backhand to his torso. The purple cotton of his shirt is softer than her knuckles expect.

With her left hand, she reaches out, reaches through the doorway, and pushes, probably harder than she should, against Helena’s right shoulder. Nothing there is soft. The shoulder resists.

Fine. Not a hallucination. Not even a hologram. Everyone’s physically here, breathing and taking up space.

“Her timing,” Myka says to Steve. She’s not quite ready to speak directly to Helena. “It’s definitely something.”

Helena says, “Ssh. Let me reveal my shortcomings to my new partner in my own time.” She’s surpassingly beautiful, here in this moment: glowing with mischief and morning sun.

It’s too much. Myka squints and looks away, back to the comfort of Steve. “Your new partner?” she asks him. “Really?”

“Seems so,” Steve says, right as Helena offers, “As I understand it,” and Myka hears a harmony as their voices overlap. She hadn’t seen this coming, but she might have heard it, if she had thought to listen close enough.

But how could she have thought to, before today? “You both make the world turn a little faster than I’m comfortable with,” she tells Steve.

His smile persists. “Call me on that, no problem. But you really want to argue with H.G. Wells, who by the way is standing right here”—and he gives her a little “you really are, right?” look, which she answers with a minimalist palms-up “I suppose” shrug; more harmony—“about how time moves?”

“If history is any guide,” Helena says to him, “that and many other elements of the oeuvre.”

“I just didn’t think I’d be doing it this morning, is all,” Myka says. She’s trying to bring herself to speak to both of them, but Steve remains her direction of safety.

His brow wrinkles. “If this isn’t okay...”

It would be nice to be able to reassure him, but. “No idea if it’s okay.”

His face clears. “I appreciate your telling the truth. And I guess your voice is less agitated than it could be.”

This garners a snort from Helena. “My dear new partner. Your understatement is a balm.”

“We’ll see if I can keep that up,” he says, visibly nervous.

Myka is, now, able to address Helena. About Steve. “He can. Not always understatement, but the balm part.”

“I’m glad to know it,” Helena says, directing at Steve a formal incline of head.

That incline. Its sweet propriety. Glad. Glad. “I’m glad you’re here,” Myka tells her.

“Thank you,” Helena says. She doesn’t need to add “for saying.” Her hair is shining, here—here!—in this morning sun that illuminates the entryway. Such light visits this space every morning, but Myka has never before seen it ignite Helena’s hair.

This day: new.

“I have something in the car for you,” Helena goes on. “Wait.” She exits the doorway, moving out of the sunbeam’s path. A bright loss.

Myka turns back to Steve. “Wait,” she echoes, shrugging. “There’s not enough time in the world for me to explain to you why that’s ironic.”

“Your own private irony.”

“But you did spare me some waiting. Some not-knowing waiting. And way more than that,” she says, because it needs saying, “you spared me the hard part.”

“I don’t know her very well yet, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”

“Oh,” Myka says, because of course she’d meant detaching herself from Pete, but Steve is (also of course) wise and right: each day, however few or many she and Helena manage, will no doubt have its hard parts. Each day of those few or many might itself be the hard part. “But how did you... I mean, did you have this plan all along? Partner and all, and Mrs. Frederic started nodding along as you said it all out loud?”

“Oh god no. I was just trying to ease her away from the you-and-Pete thing, as gently as possible. Turns out she wanted H.G. back ages ago.”

No. No. “She what.”

Steve nods, looking sick. “But—and I hate to be the one telling you this—she thought you didn’t want H.G. back.”

Myka feels sick. The non-sense of this day... no: of these days. “She what,” she says again.

“Because you left her in Boone, she said.”

“Helena was forced to stay in Boone!” she protests, or tries to.

“But you didn’t fight anybody on it. So she thought you were okay with it.”

Of course. Here’s Myka’s inaction again, kicking her legs out from under her. “But if she wanted to bring Helena back, why didn’t she just... do that? Once she decided it was safe to let her out of Boone?”

“Like I said, she thought you didn’t want H.G. to come back. So she was trying to make sure it wouldn’t matter so much to you. If it happened. If you had something else to focus on.”

“Pete,” Myka says, the very idea a heaviness. “Kids?”

“I’m not saying I can read her mind, but yeah, I think that’s how that went. I can tell you she was really surprised to hear you were meeting with H.G. yesterday.”

“In a hotel room in an airport in Chicago,” Myka says. The base fact of it. “Do I want to know how you explained that?”

“All I explained was the airport in Chicago,” Steve says. “I didn’t know about the hotel room part.”

Right. Myka hadn’t said that part out loud. “It’s not what it sounds like.”

“Interesting utterance,” he says, cocking his head, like he’s waiting for more. “Not an immediate lie, But the eventual truth-value, plus my possible eventual headache, depend on what you think I think it sounds like.”

It’s a privilege, this glimpse into the complications of his gift; nevertheless, Myka winces. “I think you think it sounds like what I think it sounds like,” she says. “Like I wish it didn’t. Because I swear to you, it’s not that.”

She prepares herself to dig in and hash out the truth-values, but Steve says, “I get it. No dirty work in those words.”

No dirty work: it’s a diploma. In reverse. Disqualification.

“Anyway I don’t think I made a lot of sense explaining any of it to Mrs. Frederic,” he finishes.

“Enough to save me,” Myka says.

“Yes. Because if you could be happy.”

“You said that before.”

“I did. But now I mean, if you could be happy.”

“If... then?” she asks, logic being what it is.

“Then maybe I could too,” he says.

Myka wants to put an immediate stop to the idea that he would look to her, for that can’t help but end in abject failure. But she gets out only a weak “Don’t” before he continues, “Because I was thinking of a saying: ‘Happy wife, happy life.’”

“I’m not your wife.”

“Better for both of us. I’m just saying it’s a saying. About a person and somebody else. There might be a better word for where you and somebody else are—or, I guess, where you might be headed?—but it wouldn’t rhyme with life. And it’s probably important to rhyme with life.”

Myka’s heart hears him, but she shies away, scoffing, “That’s a leap. Not the rhyming. The saying.”

“Isn’t it always?”

“I don’t want to give you false hope.”

“But if we could both acknowledge that there is hope.”

She’s not sure. She’ll probably never be sure, but in the face of doubt and fear (and “endless wonder,” that misleading canard), she determines to acknowledge it. For Steve’s sake. “Okay,” she says. “In the full knowledge that you’re the one who made the hope possible.”

“No,” Steve says. Serious. Simple. Unfraught. “That’s not what I did.”

Myka has no counterargument. All she can do is say “thank you” yet again, quick and quiet, for suddenly Helena is appearing in the doorway, taking over the space. Myka suspects she’s been waiting for their conversation to end—speaking of timing, this reminds her of the hotel lobby—and she doesn’t know whether to hope Helena was eavesdropping their words or simply their tones.

She’s holding two cardboard coffee cups. Myka gestures for her to hand one over, but Helena shakes her head. “You haven’t texted me.”

So Myka dashes to grab her phone, and “Gh” says the message, the first purchase her fumbling fingers could find, sent as fast as she could remind those fingers how to do that.

Helena sets the cups down on the hall table when her own phone noises (and now Myka doesn’t know whether to be pleased or distressed that a text from her yields a generic ding). She extracts it from the interior of her jacket and smiles. “I bought these, in hope, in the Sioux Falls airport,” she says, “but they’re now cold. No doubt terrible.”

“‘Worth every penny,’ I once heard someone say about coffee,” Myka says.

“Fewer pennies here. In any event, worth to be determined.” Helena is jaunty; it’s very her, but on the edge of too her, hinting that she’s less certain than her initial doorway presentation implied. As Myka now meets Helena’s gaze, she imagines—but hopes she isn’t only imagining—that their vulnerabilities might for once be commensurate.

Helena doesn’t look away.

Steve says, “You know, ‘I was making eggs’ buys you only so much late-for-work in this job.” It’s a transparent attempt to excuse himself, but he does add, “I’m really looking forward to getting to know you, partner.”

“I hope to impress you,” Helena says.

He snort-giggles, then composes himself. Minimally. “H.G. Wells—who isn’t lying!—hopes to impress me. Okay.”

Myka can’t begrudge him his surprised delight, even if it does delay his departure. “Welcome to a world of endless... surprise. She kind of wrote the book.”

“A lot of books,” Steve augments.

Helena waves a hand. “That was Charles. So wordy.”

Steve’s brow furrows—which Myka reads as a bit of confusion over how to negotiate the Helena/Charles disjunction. He says, “Okay. I’m going to the Warehouse,” clearly (smartly) choosing not to start now.

This time he does leave, though Myka is tempted to stop him, to cling to the surer footing afforded by his buffering.

Coward.

But. Then.

Alone, precariously so, Myka and Helena situate themselves across from each other at the dining room table, their promised-coffee cups before them.

Myka supposes she should have foreseen this arrangement—table, coffee—and she should at the very least have queried the book as to what would ensue. Not that she’s had any time for that, which probably means she should now do that, should go and do that, before she finds a way to undercut its foreseen future and make blunders that will prove unsatisfactory.

“Surprise,” Helena says.

“Yes,” Myka concurs, trying for Steve-ish understatement. It doesn’t work; she knows she sounds distressed.

“May I explain?”

“I wish you would.” That comes out better, but Myka realizes that she is literally on the edge of her seat. She sinks backward, trying to make the movement look like relaxation. That probably doesn’t work either.

“The invitation from Steve,” Helena begins, but upon saying his name, she stops. “Before I continue: ‘H.G. Wells who isn’t lying’?”

“He can tell if you are,” Myka says, and she’s gratified to see in Helena’s ensuing eyebrow contortions that she’s conducting the “what exactly have I said to Steve” inventory everyone does when introduced to that fact.

Its result: “Well. Then it’s fortunate I haven’t. To him.” She seems inclined to reflect on the revelation’s full compass.

Myka does love (love!) to watch Helena think. But right now... “Explanation?” she prompts.

“It isn’t complicated,” Helena says.

“That’s unusual.”

Helena bows her head; she smiles, from that bow, up at Myka. It’s flirty. It’s beautiful. “It is,” she says, and she seems to be affirming Myka’s words and her thoughts. “Steve and I had a conversation during which I explained how you and I had left our... situation. And then, a bit later, came his invitation, which I understand was extended at the behest of Mrs. Frederic. The opportunity—the freedom—to be myself again? It was too enticing to refuse. Of course I never would have accepted in the absence of our rapprochement, but given that? Steve was so convinced, and convincing, that all would be well.” She raises her head fully now. “And it cut short the waiting.”

“I said I would hurry,” Myka says, resentful, unsure of why she’s jumped to that.

“Your return required so many flights. Any number of delays might have ensued.”

“Due to the flights?” Myka asks, but she can’t unhear the clear disjunction between those sentences.

“And everything else,” Helena acknowledges, with a head-duck.

Myka knows that duck; it’s worry. “You didn’t trust me?” she asks, but in the question she finds the reason behind her resentment: offense at the idea that Helena had such worries to begin with.

“Can you blame me?” Helena asks this with a little flinch, as if Myka’s judgment must be harsh.

“Yes I can,” Myka says, but soft. “You were supposed to be ignoring all that.”

Her answer causes Helena to raise her head again and smirk—or, no, this isn’t her smirk; rather, it’s a lip-twist that’s more... conspiratorial. She says, “And yet the foundation of trust is past experience. If I ignore the past, on what basis could I trust you?”

Playful, but a jab. Myka retreats into sarcasm, acknowledging it hit the mark: “There’s a flaw in my big idea? Shocking.”

Helena nods, slow with a sigh, as if in sadness at Myka’s imperfection. But she turns serious to say, “In any case, after all that’s happened, I certainly didn’t trust fate either.”

Fate. How they’ve been subject to it... but are they now trying to chivvy it, in a way that will backfire? Myka pushes her fear into words: “What if it’s too soon?”

“Then regret will haunt us to the end of our days,” Helena says, and Myka has to nod to the truth of it. “But consider this: rather than wasting precious time on such questions, shouldn’t we rather be grateful that, after such complications, there is even a whisper of a chance that it may not be too late?”

Too late, too late, too late. Those words have truly haunted Myka. Miraculous that they might not apply. “I don’t want coffee,” she says. Truly.

“What do you want?” Helena asks, like she might really not know.

Well, maybe she doesn’t anymore, given the vast conceptual distance between Myka’s initial saying and now. “I did tell you. I don’t know how many hours ago; I haven’t counted. I’d have to use my hands.”

“Save your hands, but tell me again. I challenge you, however: change the vocabulary.”

Myka can do that. Only a little, here and now, but she can do that. “To save the world. Our world.”

They are breathing at each other and the table is in the way; Myka ideates the drama of grasping its edge, flinging it sideways, clearing her path—but that’s not who she is. Now, more than ever, she needs to be herself.

She stands up and steps decorously to the side and around, slow, savory, even as her body threatens to effervesce.

“Can we do this?” she asks, but she knows, through her inexorable movement, with all its effervescent potential, that they will. Regardless now of consequences.

“I have no idea,” Helena answers.

These could be words of delay, but not here and not now, because regardless, regardless, they will—and at once they’re both moving, as if pressure from a familiarly heartless authority will relegate Helena yet again to disembodiment if they don’t make this fast, and thank god, god, god this once they’re fast enough; they meet and hands are at waists but they’ve touched with hands before... even so, the infinitesimal pause they both take before those hands pull and define is understandable but then over, and their at-last kiss begins as an action but swiftly transforms into a state of being: pressure, presence, soft, sharp, warmth, weight, low, lasting...

After some time—how much time? is this kind of time measurable?—they break apart into staring silence, in the stunned after of the prospect they have spent so long before.

“I can die now,” Myka is moved to murmur, even as she feels its banality as a response to this experience, this knowledge. Because she has at last truly gained the knowledge: she had hoped to gain it, and yet she now understands she had never fully believed she would, if only because fundamental questions—e.g., “what would it feel like to kiss Helena?”—aren’t often answered.

“You most certainly cannot,” Helena ripostes, bracingly practical. “One kiss is no culmination.”

Myka might object to the description of what just happened as “one kiss,” but she’s too busy being unable to process how an actual culmination might feel.

In fact she’s unable to process anything. “I have to sit down,” she says. Of all things, lightheadedness had not been among her expectations. It should have been: because of course her blood is nowhere near her brain.

Passing out will help nothing. Probably. So she backs awkwardly around the table, her logic, such as it is, being: I have to sit, and that is my chair; if I reach it, then I can sit. Fortunately, her reasoning bears out. She breathes into the relief, as she sits, of still being conscious.

Helena says, “If you can’t stand, then I’ll sit beside you.” More logic, here spoken as indulgence.

She situates herself in the closest chair and scoots it nearer, inch by accommodatingly sweet inch, and then she’s in fact sitting beside Myka, like they’re on a carnival ride together, and now they’re both turning sideways—with Myka devoutly grateful for her continued (seated) consciousness—as they steal (back) these kisses, these presses and exultations, that should so long before this have belonged to them.

“This is not enough,” Helena breathes, sultry against Myka’s mouth.

Myka makes a noise of agreement, and she moves for more, to start the movement to more.

Her hands have made their way to Helena’s shoulders, and are anticipating her hair, when she and her hands are startled by a crash-clatter from across the room.

Myka wishes she could simply ignore whatever such noise signifies... but that wish is unrealistic. She removes her hands and opens her eyes.

Claudia is standing in front of the sideboard. Much of the china that had previously adorned it lies around her in ruins. “I swear to god, this is not what it looks like,” she says. She glances down, then shakes her booted foot. A teacup handle falls from it, producing a tiny clink of pain as it hits the floor.

“It looks like you were trying to blink in but got the coordinates wrong,” Myka says. “That’s happened before. But this time you got tangled with the plateware?”

That yields an eyebrow-raise and a finger-point, then: “What I should’ve said was, ‘This is not what it looks like even to someone who knows all the words to my extensive back catalog of Caretakery mistakes.’ The thing is, I blinked in, saw something I was in no way supposed to be seeing, turned my back on that—faster than fast, and I swear I would’ve tried to blink back out but I can’t reset that quick—and I guess I did Wonder Woman arms, because...” She waves down at the china. “This stuff. Or ex–stuff. Unless you’ve got a lot of glue? Which you might. You were pretty stuck to H.G just now, like in a way I’ve never seen before and like I said was in no way supposed to be seeing, but it’s the most spectacular news of this century or any other because all the feels I can’t even!” She clasps her hands up high and squeezes her eyes shut, as if the scene Myka and Helena are presenting is too glorious to behold.

Myka turns from this emotional show to look at Helena. A half-beat later, Helena turns to Myka. Lacking any ready response, they both turn back to Claudia, who opens her eyes, drops her hands, and says, “Your faces are telling me all those words happened out loud.”

“Unfortunately,” Helena says.

“Hi?” Claudia offers, with an apology face.

Helena smiles. “Hello, darling,” she says, warmly.

Their interaction is lovely to witness, but: Warm, Myka thinks, because that’s how Helena’s body is, next to hers. Why, why, why has Claudia appeared now?

“I’d run over and hug you,” Claudia says, “but I see that seat’s taken. Instead I’ll just say I missed you.”

Myka can’t help herself; she accuses, “Not enough, you spy.”

“She called me. Was I supposed to be like ‘oh, it’s H.G., I better not pick up’?”

Myka’s immediate thought is YES. She says in its place an umbrage-laden, “You could have told me.”

“Maybe you don’t understand what you looked like every time you came back from seeing her,” Claudia says. “You think I wanted to make you look like that?”

Helena shifts position beside Myka, legible as a “you are failing to ignore the past” caution; Myka adds to it a self-admonitory on this day of all days. “Fine,” she says. “Not fine at all, but fine.”

“Anyway Artie’s already shouting about how you’re both late for work,” Claudia says.

Myka sighs. “Artie. Shouting. So everyone knows?”

“Well not about this. Which I double-pinky-swear I never meant to know about, even though it was always something to hope about. All Artie knows about, and probably even hopes about, is who works here. There. At that place. And is late. For it? So I guess we should get going?”

Myka can easily imagine agreeing that yes, yes they should get going: result being that she and Helena would proceed to the Warehouse. That place. Additional result, as history has shown, being that something would happen to once again put the promise of this day out of reach.

She sees, now, that she has to act against such results. Act against them. Act.

And she sees something else, something both sickening and enlivening: all her lies, those interventions against truth? They were acts. Sinful ones, but her agency in telling them has fortified her with the necessary heft for this moment.

Her lies were practice.

Morally inexcusable practice, but: she was a feral little fabulist. Now she must put ends before means. Use the muscle; ignore the exercise by which it developed.

So. “No,” she says.

Her refusal disturbs the space, shaping it into a new kind of silence.

In its wake, Claudia offers appraisal: eyes narrowed, jaw tilted. Eventually, she says. “Not entirely sure who I’m talking to now.” She squints tighter, sly-red-fox. “By the way,” she says, calculatedly casual, “your book buddy says hi.”

If anything could knock Myka out of her certainty... certainly, it’s guilt. “Oh god,” she says.

Claudia’s narrow tension relaxes. “Steve and I figured out you were the one doing ‘unauthorized use.’  And it took us a while, but we also figured out what you were unauthorized using.”

“Thanks for not telling on me,” Myka says.

“I literally would never. And neither would Steve.”

Silence again, until Helena breaks it with, “Myka used an artifact? Was this for personal gain?” She doesn’t look at Myka.

Myka wants to say Could we ignore that too. Instead she confesses, “For personal... desperation.”

Now Helena looks. “So at last you understand,” she says. It’s a softer condemnation than Myka might have expected, not that she had expected anything, because until this moment she hadn’t made the connection. Not through the clean line of “so at last.”

But then a new connection, or rather consequence, strikes her: “What’s its downside?” she asks Claudia.

“You don’t know?”

“I didn’t care.” At that, Helena grasps Myka’s hand, tight, and Myka knows she’s going to have to think very hard at some point about this newly realized kinship between them. Right now, though, she’d rather think about the fact that Helena is holding her hand. But for that niggling consequence. “Do I need to care?” she asks.

“It���s a downside, so yeah? But with this guy, it’s a downside-with-a-twist.” She pauses, as if waiting for... guesses? Applause? When neither Myka nor Helena responds, she says an aggrieved, “Anyway, it’s the same as the upside.”

This baffles Myka. “Seeing the future? How is that a downside? I mean maybe in the Cassandra sense, if nobody believes you, but—”

Claudia interrupts, “OOC of you to get that wrong. But I guess OOC is your new IC thing, Ms. ‘No’? Anyway I don’t think you grokked what the artifact is.”

“A book,” Myka says, because... it is? “A future-seeing book.”

“Book, schmook. And future-seeing... schmuture-seeing? It’s an oracle. It doesn’t see the future; it predicts it. Literally, it says in advance: you ask it a question about the future, and it answers. It says it. In advance of that future.”

Helena chuckles. “Etymology strikes again.”

To which Claudia nods. “Right?”

“I still don’t get it,” Myka says. “Saying versus seeing? In my defense, I’m very tired.” She is sorely tempted to put her head down, heedless, here on the table, but she feels Helena tighten her handhold again, a press intelligible as Stay with me. She breathes deep and refocuses.

“Its answer is a decision,” Claudia says. “About the future.”

Helena looks at Myka, then at Claudia. “Now that is power.”

“Also right,” Claudia says. “But it can’t make that decision if nobody asks it to. Myka.”

“I did ask it,” Myka concedes, “but now my head hurts. Are you saying that if I hadn’t asked, then none of this would have happened? Would be happening?” She can’t argue with the outcome, but: upside, downside? Her head does hurt.

Claudia’s face empties. She says, “Asking questions has consequences, Agent Bering.”

Has Claudia been taken over by... something? Myka can’t help it now: “What?” she asks. The word rings a little less desperate, here at home, as a thing she tends to say. But she’s no less lost.

“Sorry,” Claudia says, turning back into herself. “I was trying on my spooky-Mrs.-F suit. Bad fit so far.”

“The art of the gnomic utterance,” Helena intones. Her own utterance doesn’t quite rise to gnomic, but Myka can see more clearly than ever the helios toward which Helena-as-Caretaker might have troped. Losses. Gains. How can Myka place herself in relation to so many competing ledger columns?

“Did you just insult Mrs. F?” Claudia asks, her obvious confusion breaking into Myka’s reckoning. She might as well have said her own Myka-esque “What?”

“What?” Helena then asks, thus squaring that circle.

“The red hat?” Claudia says, gesturing at her own head. “And doing magic or whatever in your garden?”

Sense at last. Myka doesn’t quite suppress a laugh. “Gnomic,” she says. “Means terse. Mysterious. Not gnome-related... or actually, it is, but not those gnomes. Different derivation.”

“Etymology strikes yet again,” Helena says. She suppresses her own laugh—Myka hears it behind that overly serious observation—but not her smile.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” Myka tells her. The fact and experience—correct, appropriate—of their speaking together. “Claudia,” she says (and Claudia is looking at them like they’ve both lost their minds, which they probably have, but not about this), “go to the Warehouse. Keep everybody there. All day. Please.”

Claudia brings her hands together once again in a dramatically audible clap. “I get it. I mean I’d say something about a booty call, but I know that’s not it. You need your day.”

Our day? Our days. Our days, our weeks our months our years.

“Yes,” Myka says.

Helena follows up with, “We do.”

“Hey, but I’m no oracle,” Claudia says. “No predictions here.”

Myka and Helena give her incomprehension again.

“Not ruling out booty call,” she clarifies, laughing, but she backs away as she speaks, now blessedly making her exit—unlike her entrance, through the B&B’s front door.

That means Myka and Helena can—must—make their move. And they do, rising from the table, stepping toward the stairs—but not yet up them, for Myka can’t wait; her hands are at last finding Helena’s hair, and as they do, as she touches and feels, she says, in wonder, “It’s just us. It’s never been like this.”

“Why would you comment on it?” Helena demands, as if Myka taking even an instant to reflect threatens to make the entire situation evaporate. Her hands are busy too, running along Myka’s arms, not quite grasping, but then grasping, and then Myka can’t comment on anything, because her lips are busied, back in that new state of being.

The journey to her bedroom: she had in the past allowed herself to imagine such travel, but carefully, the fantasy within strictures. Policed possibility. The walk, but not its end... not, in fact, the culmination, the sense of which had increasingly eluded her, a frustratingly constant receding of possibility, as if her body were teaching itself over time to echo Helena’s incorporeality, her sensation waning, from body to limbs to fingertips alone, until all vocabularies of touch became words not near enough the tongue.

But now everything is nearing, nearing and blurring, boundaries dissolving, everything her body, her body everything, the stairs the hallway the room the clothes the hands the lips the skin the stumble the fall...

****

Myka slow-motions into consciousness, unable to discern where she is, knowing at first only that wherever it is, she was exhausted before she got there. Got here.

That’s mostly because she can’t remember the preceding events, and experience has established that extreme fatigue is one of the few states that interferes with her otherwise reliable recall.

So she begins to sort it out, blinking sleep-weighted eyes. Her initial perception is that she’s lying in a bed—a bed blessedly recognizable as hers—yet she also seems to be perceiving something else, something absurd: that Helena, of all people, is speaking to her. Speaking unclear words, near to her, while she is in this bed that is hers.

I’m dreaming.

The words resolve: “Are you all right?” Helena asks, and Myka snaps to.

Not dreaming.

She is in her bed, and Helena is here. Their skin is... together. Helena, propped on an elbow, is regarding Myka in full recline.

Myka wants to answer Helena’s question with a strong “yes.” But she isn’t at a table and she doesn’t want Helena to be reminded of her feral fabulisms, not here not now, so instead she dares to ask, “What happened?”

“I believe you fell asleep,” Helena says. “In the middle of things.”

Myka’s first thought is that she can’t imagine a worse blunder. Her second is that of course she can. Her third, which she formulates second by second and piece on piece as her memory returns, is the one she says out loud. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Helena shakes her head. “I brought you coffee. That was all.”

It’s a damning pronouncement. “You’re saying I could have caffeinated, but instead I ruined everything.” Myka raises her left hand to cover her face. She’d use her right one too, but Helena’s body is trapping that arm. Move, she wants to say. I need both hands. To cover her shame.

Helena uses her free, unpropping hand to remove Myka’s, revealing her face. She interlaces their fingers. “Your sleep has addled you. I’m saying that I brought you a small gift, but in return you’ve given me a far greater one.”

New bafflement. “I have?”

“Witnessing your fulfillment of a bodily need.”

What could possibly be sufficient penance here? “Not the right one.”

Helena offers a considering head movement, a cerebral back-and-forth. “Isn’t it? Proof that you trust me enough to lose consciousness—in this way—so near. Differently meaningful, but meaningful all the same. Particularly to someone who, as you know, occasionally forgets to ‘ignore it.’”

Her words have such depth, in sound and meaning, that Myka can barely process any of it. Particularly given that they are lying down in privacy... and far more.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she asks. Blunder some more, the book would no doubt reiterate... but she’d rather get her guidance, here in this moment, from Helena.

“Enjoy it.” Helena says, and she laughs—this sound not deep but high, high and so happy.

Myka has never heard this laugh from her. It’s as much a directive as her words are. “Enjoy it—I didn’t know,” she says. That comes out more terse than she intends... because she can barely speak. The joy in the room—occasioned by everything, but especially by that new, new laugh—is so thick, interior and exterior to bodies and souls, that forcing words through it takes great effort.

“Know what?”

Myka would worry about her answer sounding too intellectual, if this were anyone else. In her bed. But it’s Helena. Thank god, it’s Helena. So she feels safe to say, “It’s a corollary. Follows from ‘ignore it’? I think?”

“Yes,” Helena says, gratifying Myka immensely, “yes, ignore it, about the past; enjoy it, about the present; and thus one additional corollary, this one about the future.”

“Ask an oracle about it?” Myka tries.

Helena frowns—exaggerated, comic. “That doesn’t follow, either poetically or epistrophically.”

“It does follow epistrophically.”

“Minimally so,” Helena sniffs. The acknowledgment, itself minimal, further pleases Myka, even as Helena goes on, “But it should scan as well. My proposal does.” She pauses, doubtless for effect. Myka tries to think out what the teased proposal might entail, but she doesn’t get far before Helena pronounces, “Absolve it.”

“That does scan,” Myka acknowledges.

“Thank you. This next doesn’t, but I know you’ll want to take on blame for how our future unfolds, so I add: absolve yourself as well.”

Ignore it; enjoy it; absolve it. These strategies—despite Myka’s having insisted on the first—are all antithetical to her way of being in the world.

But she’s been unhappy, being in the world. Unsatisfied.

Now she is being satisfied, a new state that only this skin-to-skin with Helena could possibly have brought about.

She deliriously doesn’t care whether Claudia has kept, did keep, is keeping everyone else away.

This is hers and she can and will enjoy it.

This is hers and Helena’s and she can and will see to it—she can and will ensure—that they both enjoy it.

She has never before ideated such power—could never have, but here it is, in her hands, in her body, in giving and taking: power. And if she’s still too tired to remember, on next waking, that she had it, it’s all right. She’ll have another occasion to exert it. More anothers.

“Did you just say ‘more anothers’?” Helena asks, speaking and breathing with exertion.

Apparently there’s still room, in and amongst the joy and the power, for embarrassment. “Out loud? Are you sure?”

Helena calms enough to say, with indignation, “My hearing is quite good.”

“Evasive answer,” Myka says, recovering a little. “I’ll take it as a no.”

“Evasive?” More indignation.

“It wasn’t a yes,” Myka points out.

Helena runs a hand through her hair, as if in preparation for more argument. “I propose we table this debate,” she says instead.

“Good idea,” Myka says. “Because instead of talking, or asking about talking, you should be kissing me.”

“So should you. Vice versa. Me. Kissing.”

Transportingly charming near-incoherence... “You’re right,” Myka says, her heart overflowing. “So be quiet.”

“You first,” Helena ripostes, with what sounds suspiciously like a giggle.

Myka wants to keep that sound active, so she doesn’t comply. And they continue to speak together. Through it all.

This time, Myka stays awake. That’s probably a blunder too—but it’s most satisfactory.

****

In the weeks and months that follow, Myka takes time, as she finds it, to visit the book. Often, its pages ruffle and sigh, their invitation clear: Don’t you want to know? To know more?

The temptation is real, compounded by what she feels as an exertion of pressure from the volume: Did I not gift you this future? it seems to whisper. Surely you could gift me the opportunity to exercise. To provide still greater definition.

Then again, that could simply be her guilt—her ongoing struggle to absolve it—talking.

On one such occasion (though not the only one), she hears footsteps. The rhythm, the particular ring of heel-strikes: she knows the confidence of those strides. The knowing is calming, if not itself absolving.

“Back already?” she asks without turning around.

“Absurdly simple retrieval,” Helena says. “Steve found the entire exercise an insult to the considerable intelligence he and I bring to bear on any mission we undertake.”

Helena’s interpretations of Steve’s thoughts are often baroque—often, seemingly, more suitable to her own thoughts. But when she offers such interpretations in Steve’s presence, he doesn’t wince. “Really?” Myka says, just to make sure.

“He said aloud that he was bored.”

“That’s something,” Myka concedes.

“And you?” Helena asks. “Have you contrived to place new parameters on the future?”

“I keep telling you I won’t.”

“And yet I continue to find you here,” Helena says. More seriously, she offers words that have become customary: “If you could be happy.” Steve’s utterance, shared among the three of them, has become a mantra.

“You know that’s a work in progress,” Myka says, and although that’s customary too, it’s also true: while she knows she can be, and while at certain times she genuinely is, she is by no means consistent in that achievement.

Nevertheless she has to admit, now as always, that the book has been right. The blunders—the many, many blunders, even as she’s perpetrated them, even as she’s dealt with their aftermath—have been satisfactory. Such are the components of that work. Of its progress.

Helena nods. She lays her hand upon the book, as it lies there on the shelf, as if swearing an oath. “Everything is,” she says.

****

Myka sits at tables. She tells lies. But the sitting and the lying, as activities, are now uncoupled.

Coffee, too, has shed its significance; it’s a beverage, not an event.

However: she keeps a stained shirt in her closet as a reminder of earlier, pained, connected times—of, also, the work that was even then in progress, even as she was failing, spectacularly, to recognize it as such.

She needs the reminder, because with regard to the past, “ignore it” doesn’t always work. Nor does “absolve it,” as the future unfolds.

But on the best of present days, ignoring and absolving intersect. And on those best days, Myka does, in fact and in practice, enjoy it.

END

Instead of shoehorning thoughts into tags, here’s what I’ve got:

Did both Myka and Helena get let off the hook too easily? Your call... but I’m inclined to embrace the idea that instances of grace might manifest as the reward for hard work, and acknowledging culpability may be the hardest work of all. I mean, Elton John wrote a song about it, so put that on whichever side of the ledger works for you. Also, I like it when people help Myka in ways she doesn’t know how to ask for. She seems (to me) to be very bad at asking for help. Or maybe I mean that she seems disinclined to ask for help even (or especially) when she should.

Generally the only way to come out the other side of the hard stuff is to go through. But sometimes you do have to set some things aside if you want to move forward... and that’s what this story, at base, has been about. I hope. I offer all gratitude to @barbarawar for giving me the impetus to think it through in this particular way, at my snail-in-a-school-zone pace.  Finally, if there’s a timeline in which Helena becomes an agent again and she and Steve don’t become partners, I don’t want to know about it. The potential perfection of their pairing thrills the bejesus out of me.

[earlgreytea68]

I saw your post of the interview where Pete says 'if Flu Game was going to be the first single you were going to have to B.A. Baracus me'. And bear with me I'm going to piece some things together here. It jumped out at me because Flu Game jumps out as a pre-hiatusy song both in sound and lyrically, and kind of an odd ball on the record. AND MOST NOTABLY, is one of the few songs from SMFS that has NOT been debuted live (the other two being the title track and so good right now).

So riddle me this, is there something about this song that is too personal for Pete or a reason he seems to not like it? Between them not playing it, Pete saying he'd have to be unconscious for it to be a single, and the way it sticks out of the tracklist (at least to me) makes me think there's maybe something there that we haven't picked up on yet.

It's interesting, because you're right that it's got hiatus-y lyrics. It doesn't seem like it should be the most vulnerable song on the album -- that seems like it should be Kintsugi Kid, honestly, but Pete seems to be really fond of Kintsugi Kid, whereas, as you say, he doesn't seem to care that much for Flu Game and they've avoided it live for some reason.

Flu Game does, however, seem to be on that Patrick is particularly fond of. I think a few times he's made comments about it being the possible first single (as in the interview you reference) and also the song he wrote that made him think he could build an album around it (and then the album developed further, I think he said) and I think Pete has included Flu Game as being one of "Patrick's songs," although less so than What a Time to Be Alive. But it seems like Patrick is much fonder of Flu Game than Pete is.

It honestly makes me wonder if the lyrics legit came from hiatus era. We know Patrick seems to keep everything and has no hesitation about digging back through their history to get stuff. After all, it seems like some of the stuff on Hold Me Like a Grudge was definitely older lyrics. It would make sense to me that Pete would be a little touchier about hiatus-era lyrics he wrote than current lyrics looking back on bad times (which Kintsugi Kid arguably is).

The title is really interesting, too, because "Flu Game" is a reference to a Michael Jordan game that when he played through severe illness and nearly passed out but in the end they won the game (which was a pivotal finals game). (Pete would have been an 18-year-old Chicagoan when that game happened, I bet he remembers it vividly.) The flu game is a grind for Jordan (grind in the sunshine, grind in the rain...) but it's also a moment of triumph. Naming the song after a time that was an exhausting slog that ended in triumph seems apt for a hiatus-y song: nothing about the lyrics suggests anything hopeful, no imminent reunion on the horizon, as befits hiatus-era lyrics, but now they know it ends in triumph, so Flu Game is an apt title for a song that seems so stitched up to the hiatus.

Also, I don't know anything about music theory, really. They talk about music in ways that are just absolutely beyond me. Like, I know Patrick said at one point that he was nervous about "Saturday" because it's a "weird" song for the scene they were in because the pre-chorus has a quick sliver of hip-hop beat and he goes up into his falsetto at points and both things were unusual things to do and he was nervous about it and Pete supported it or whatever. I get the gist of the story but "Saturday" doesn't sound, like, "unique" to me, maybe because Patrick Stump wrote it and writes all their songs but I don't listen to TTTYG and think, "Whoa, this Saturday song is so super-different!" Because I don't know enough about music. In the same way, Pete said somewhere about Flu Game that "only Patrick Stump thinks that song is a pop song," and I have no idea why he would say that, it just sounds like any other song to me, but it made me think, like, Patrick really does love the song and Pete doesn't get it, for whatever reason, but he loves Patrick obviously, and obviously he made that comment very fondly, but it really does seem like Pete's just not big on Flu Game ::shrug::

[vampylily]

h*destown peterick but they're both hades & persephone and orpheus & eurydice and its preh!peterick as hades & persephone and posth/current!peterick as orpheus & eurydice. preh!pete no longer a young man despite being immortalized in his youth and he already knows what he has lost so he keeps on drawing more and more people to the underground and under his thrall because that's all he has. preh!patrick just getting drunk again and again to cope, yearning for the songs and sunshine of the world up top because the only song in the underworld is the sound of misery and their love song has been drowned out long ago. posth!patrick, devoted to his music but lost to the world, needs posth!pete to bring it out. posth!pete, having now survived on his own, burned from love and loneliness but trying once again. posth!patrick turning around just at the last minute because the sliver of doubt remains. but it's alright because when he turns around he sees his face and they know they loved and love and loved anyways. preh!peterick promising to start again but never quite managing it but the love song is heard every night.

can you tell i was not kidding when i can say i can make every single thing about peterick through the power of imagination and yaoi willpower.

[steampunkhobo]

(Commission from @pinelews, sharing with permission.)

Y’all, oh my goodness. I don’t know that I have the words to express how crazy I am about this but I’m at least going to try. I love it too much to not give it at least that.

Usually when I'm commissioning someone, I have an idea laid out and I try to find someone I think could execute it well, but this was an idea that I'd specifically come up with for this artist, laid out after seeing his commission sheet. By and large most of the stuff I commission is just silly and fluffy- which I have no doubt that he could have done as well!- and one thing that really drew me to his art was just how intimate and raw things felt. And I'd been wanting to commission something more intimate for them for a long time, but I just couldn't come up with a solid idea until I found his art. Spent two late nights scrambling on pinterest so I'd finally have enough reference images to reach out to him😭

It is so entirely captivating to me. The kind of piece you lean in for, holding your breath without realizing it. I've spent too much time the past few days zoomed in to see the little sliver of Delmar's blue eyes or the curve of Pete's jawline- there's so many details that just make it, and I keep finding more things to love the more I look. (Pete's absolutely gorgeous collarbones??? Hello???) They look so human, with the roughness of the sideburns and stubble coming in, shaggy hair falling every which way- they're so perfectly unpolished. It's the kind of moment when you don't really care what you're looking like.

And just the moment is captured so well, that sweet, delicate stillness, all that tension...I'm losing my mind. And it is very intimate, very charged (which is a very very good thing!!!) but also just as sweet. There's love in this as much as there is tension- and I think that's what makes it feel so perfect. There's no looking up in reverence without sincere admiration, no cradling and stroking the face of someone you don't have affection for, none of this kind of vulnerability without the connection they share. I love how needy and pathetic Delmar looks (his natural state), lost in his own little world with nothing but Pete in it- the goddamn lip bite is making me crazy. And ohmygod how sweet is that look in his eyes😭And that's before we even talk about Pete! Still got that stoicism to him that's true to his character, but he's betraying a greater softness- something that we see in the movie during the opportunities he has to be close with Delmar. This is just that same feeling, taken to its natural conclusion. And he's being so damn tender! The hand placement was something I specified, but he really just made it perfect, to the point where you can feel the weight he's putting down in your own hands. I love the gentle upwards curve of the hand in Delmar's hair, and the thumb by his lips...oh my lord 😵‍💫 And for all the sweetness Pete's showing, he also just seems really amused by Delmar. Feels like there's the hint of a laugh in that smile- which is exactly the way Delmar ought to be looked at.

I'm gonna have to make complement lightning round a tradition on my commission posts at this point, 'cause there's still so much I want to compliment. The way Pete's hair is catching the light is INSANE and one of those details that makes me feel in awe of artists as a whole. The lighting makes the atmosphere just perfect, so cozy and warm and yet still salacious- icing on the cake. And I'm so happy about the wallpaper 😭 Love having the world around them fleshed out a bit + I think it adds to the warmth. The clothes wear on the perfectly, especially the downstage sleeve of Pete's shift and the snaps on Delmar's suspenders. The hands are insane (even I know those are hard) and I don't know why but I just love the fingernails- just things that, again, make them feel more human. The eyebrows are another example of that. They do not need to be as perfect and seemingly meticulous as they are, being such a small piece of this whole thing, but I'm so glad they are. They add another layer to this whole piece and give me another detail to fuss over. I'm not kidding. I've wanted to highlight specifically the eyebrows this whole time. And I will never write about art of them without highlighting the NOSES. Every time I see a well-drawn nose, I do a backflip. One of my favorite things to see ever.

I probably should have put this at the top of all my rambling, but anyone who's made it to this point, please please please do yourself a favor and consider commissioning this artist. And just check out his art! It's crazy good- I love his sense of line (the only way I know how to put it lmao.) He was THE nicest, fantastic at communication, and the quality of his work is just so good. Y'all don't know how excited I was to know I'd be working with him. Good egg all around.

[kinnbig]

Rarepair Fic Recs for @kprecfest!

(I really highly recommend all of these, they’re all amazing imo, but all-time personal favourites are marked with a 🌟)

🌟 Slivers of Glass by @giraffeter (oneshot, explicit) [cw: dub-con]

Pairing: Kinn/Big Description: Pre-canon. After Tawan, Big finds his working relationship with Kinn strained and uncertain. Big would do anything for Kinn. How much is Kinn willing to take?

say it out loud (it can’t be undone) by queerebrum (oneshot, explicit) [cw: dub-con]

Pairing: Kinn/Big/Tawan Description: Once, Twice, Three times a charm. Tawan gets what he wants in the moment, but Big gets what he wants in the end.

🌟 should i hit the deck, fall through the floor? by Lunarwriter75 (oneshot, explicit)

Pairing: Ken/Big Description: Five times Ken fucks Big because Big’s been humiliated and the one time Big fucks Ken—because Porsche has been.

goodnight by any_open_eye (oneshot, mature)

Pairing: Vegas/Porsche Description: Vegas and Porsche are out on a job. They consider lost possibilities.

🌟 His Ringing Triumphing by @ectoplasm-james (oneshot, explicit)

Pairing: Vegas/Porsche Description: Porsche runs away with Vegas. Then he rebounds with him. Set immediately after episode 9.

Stiletto by TrueColours (oneshot, explicit) [cw: dub-con]

Pairing: Vegas/Porsche Description: Vegas takes on the eternal question: how much can you actually torture a masochist?

not tonight, baby by queerebrum (oneshot, explicit) [cw: incest, dub-con]

Pairing: Vegas/Kim Description: Vegas takes what he wants. Kind of.

🌟 fuck it all back down by @syzyg3tic (oneshot, explicit) [cw: dub-con]

Pairing: Vegas/Big, Vegas/Ken, Vegas/Porsche, Vegas/Tawan, Vegas/Pete Description: Vegas and some of the men he sleeps with in his desperate, rage-filled attempts to be loved or hated--either will work.

🌟 The Artistic Merits and Goals of Pornography by @thewholedamnboulangerie (oneshot, mature)

Pairing: Arm/Tankhun Description: If there's one thing that everyone can agree on, it's that Tankhun Theerapanyakul is an expert in the fine art of watching dramas. He's a guru, a true connoisseur, with nary a gap in his specialist knowledge of genres, tropes, and character archetypes. Well. There is one gap.

Gonna Fade You Like That Rush by giraffeter (oneshot, explicit)

Pairing: Tay/Time/Big Description: Tay and Time run into Big on his night off. Kinn may not want to play with his own toys, but he's never told them they couldn't help themselves.

Troubling Regularity by OhMyFreddy (3/3 chapters, explicit)

Pairing: Kinn/Tay, Time/Tay, Kinn/Time/Tay Description: This happens with troubling regularity. Mostly, it works itself out. Kinn tries not to choose sides while he waits them out. But tonight, Tae is perched upon Kinn's lap, and his choice seems clear.

[film-in-my-soul]

Share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway.

Thanks to @theinsouciantknitter for tagging me :3 I think I have enough works that it won't overlap with the last time I did this! Also 'first lines' is a little vague to me, so I just went with first section before a line break XD

Large Black Coffee. Hot.: Cisco likes working at the coffee shop just off campus.

Mutual Hunger: Eddie, for the first time in at least two weeks, is reading comfortably on his couch, nestled into the divot he's worn into the once too-stiff cushion, bicep propped up on the back, and a copy of The Unincorporated Man cracked down the middle when his peace is abruptly broken by a sudden and unignorable body thrown over his lap.

Radio Waves: Pete had plans for his life. After his dad died, after his mother followed and he was bounced around from orphanage to orphanage, one extended relative to the next, Pete was going to reach for the skies and fly so fast that he would never have to touch the ground and look back again.

Extra Credit: "I'm going to kill him," Bradley seethes, stomping into the teacher's lounge and briskly cutting across the room to get to the fridge where his lunch is waiting.

Sharkbait: "Doesn't it ever bother you?"

Paint My Skin With Your Fingertips: Soulmates.

Under Pressure: Maverick isn't woken by his alarm, which confuses him for a second as he grunts and blinks at the sliver of light his blackout curtains refuse to fully dampen. But just as quickly as the thought to consider what's pulled him out of sleep before his alarm hits, it's gone, replaced by a pleased, rumbling sound and the pressure of a thigh between his legs.

Another Word for Handicap: Everyone in the Barrel has something to say about Kaz Brecker.

Crossing the Drift: It comes back to Bradley in fits and starts, reality, himself, the laws of the universe, and the ability to blink without seeing double. He's unstable, and can't make sense of his own head, let alone the additional one that had been poured into him hours before, but it starts to feel less like intense vertigo and more like there's a living,  gaping hole that his scattered thoughts can't fill up.

When the Lost are Found: Buck used to think that his soulmate presentation was boring, inconvenient, and a bit of a disappointment overall.

Tagging: @barnes-brain @jakeseresins @fuddlewuddle @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels @jackwolfes @princessfbi