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  • Public Bookmark *

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    Nyota has a thing with Kirk. It’s not love, but it’s not nothing, either.

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    06 Apr 2013

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    She’s never noticed before just how much taller he is. She can see the tiny beat of his pulse beside the hollow of his neck.

     

    She normally has the computer wake her at oh six hundred for alpha shift. She and Kirk are both on alpha tomorrow. “Computer, set alarm to oh five hundred.” She’ll wake up before him and get ready. In his sleep, Kirk mutters something and rolls over when she gets into bed.

    She pulls down her ponytail. Her hair falls loose on her shoulders, over her pillow, and she tells the computer to pick an unused frequency, volume three percent. She lies there, drowsy with the heat of Kirk’s body beside her and the ebb and tide of the great black vastness surrounding them and the raspy whisper of the tall grasses swaying together, and the slow, even in-and-out of his breath.

    Maybe later in the night, she’ll wake up to the feel of his hands on her body. His lips warm on her skin. The sleepy press of him against her back. A slow rocking into her, a slow swell building in her body. “Be slow,” Bibi had told her.

    There are no birds on the Enterprise. There will be no sunrise; no early morning chatter will greet the day. But Nyota is slow, and Nyota will listen anyway to hear what others do not so that someday she may tell another what it is she hears, what it is she knows. She shuts her eyes and she soars, unbound.

  • Public Bookmark 21

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    They need something to orbit, Eve and him, even though James is a fading moon.

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    17 Apr 2013

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    They kiss for three, him and Eve. They pause, as if waiting for someone else to breathe, and leave a little room between their lips. Just a little.

    "You don't fuck with your constants," she sighs, and she makes the dirtiest words seem delicate. Q presses his mouth to her shut eyes because there's a burning beneath his lids and he doesn't know why.

    Eve curls a hand at his neck, the one she could snap at any moment if she chooses. Her touch is tentative, like it needs to be tamed.

    "You don't mess with the things you could lose."

  • Public Bookmark 11

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    World War 2 looms over the horizon as Uhura manages the daily trials of her Montmartre jazz cafe and the motley crew of entertainers and expats that hold it together. When a wounded young man shows up on her doorstep, things don't get any easier.

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    05 May 2013

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    "I don't want to leave you," Jim says suddenly, his voice sounding terribly young. "If I could, I'd stay here forever."

    "I wish you had told me all this before," Uhura says, her voice made soft by the knot in her throat.

    He pulls on one of the curls framing her face and winds it around his finger. The softness in his eyes makes it clear that he completely adores her. "Standing in front of bullets is the easy part. Telling a beautiful dame that you're head over heels for her, now that's hard."

  • Public Bookmark 8

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    The summer is ending. Rafa might be in love with a giant named Marc. He still eats pancakes and still helps his father with the horses and is still teased by his siblings.

    Some things just don't change that fast.

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    16 Jan 2018

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    Rafa, too caught up in his thoughts, doesn't notice someone coming up behind him, neck strained to watch the birds as well.

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    "The world just looks different once you've settled down," Johnny said loftily.

    "Johnny," Sue said. "You're FaceTiming me from your husband's aunt's kitchen in your pajamas at 2PM."

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    03 Apr 2018

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    The last time he'd been sick Sue had burned a can of Campbell's and he'd eaten it anyway because she'd looked so furious that, super-genius that she was, a can of chicken and stars had defeated her. His dad had come back from work late in the evening with a pile of dumb movies in his hands.

    "Hey, c'mon," Peter pressed, nose tucked against Johnny's neck. "I'm really sorry. I'll bring you back whatever you want."

    "A better husband," Johnny muttered.

    "Okay," Peter said, laughing a little. "Okay, I promise, I'll web you the best one I see. Hey. I love you."

    "Love you too," Johnny said, shoving him. "Get out of my face."

    He slept most of the morning, a hazy, light thing. He kept dreaming he was burning, waking up in a panic to find it hadn't been true. He dreamed of Planet Zero, too, of the green energy beneath the planet's cracks. Sometimes in his dreams he went with the other three down the cliff and it swallowed him whole instead of Victor.

    In one dream, Victor's cynical features became Peter's curious ones, his outstretched hand just as fascinated by Planet Zero's energy. Johnny woke up from that dream with his face wet and he had to turn his head into Peter's pillow and just breathe the scent of him for a moment.

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    “I thought we were actively avoiding each other after the Trandosha Shitshow,” Han says.

    “We’re actively avoiding each other after the Iridonia Shitshow,” Lando corrects him, “the Trandosha Shitshow is That Which We Do Not Speak Of.”

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    27 Jun 2018

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    “Everyone else in here has brought me magnificent and glorious things I’ve never had before,” Lando continues cheerily. “Not you, though.”

    “Not me,” Han says.

    “I’m gonna get your Wookiee to drag you home by your dreadful hair,” Lando decides, though he’s smirking as he says it, and Han thinks, hell, it wouldn’t be the first time.

    Han has punched Lando in the face on at least six separate occasions that he can remember, and probably several more that he can’t, but until now he’s never kissed him. For a long, panicked moment he can’t work out how to do it; Han’s usually charmed anyone he kisses into submission by this point, and he knows by now that Lando is not and will never be charmed by him. It ends up more of a crash than he meant it to be, and maybe he’ll chalk this one up as another punch to the face after all.

    “Seriously?” Lando asks with arched eyebrows when Han stumbles back again, more disconcerted than he thinks he intended to be.

    “Never had one of those before,” Han reminds him.

    “I guess I walked into that,” Lando agrees. “I kinda assumed you’d be better at it, frankly.”

    Han bristles. “I’m plenty good.”

    Lando waggles his hand from side to side. “Are you, though?”

    Maybe this is going to end up in a brawl; at least Han knows where he is with that. “You have no idea what good is,” he asserts.

    Lando shrugs. “I just assumed you’d have all the moves, given your, you know, history.” When Han blinks at him, baffled, Lando adds: “you know, your tragic adolescence on the mean streets of Corellia.” He waves his hand significantly at Han.

    It clicks. “I was a thief,” Han snarls, “not a fucking prostitute.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, tosses back the rest of his drink.

    “Then you really need to work on not giving out that impression,” Lando replies unrepentantly. “You gonna back up your shitty gift or what?”

    “You’re unbearable,” Han tells him, but it doesn’t stop him from kissing him again, finding an angle where it’s something other than clashing teeth, and, huh. Maybe Lando’s reputation isn’t just shit made up for his terrible books after all.

    When they next pull apart, both of them looking just a touch electrocuted, Han can see where Chewie has given up paying attention to the dejarik board in favour of watching the two of them between his fingers. He can see that; this whole thing is like a slow motion shuttle crash.

    “This is a terrible idea,” Han muses, even while he’s running light fingers over the impossibly soft material of Lando’s shirt, and Lando isn’t smacking him off.

    “You got anything other than bad ideas, baby?” Lando asks, not looking like he minds all that much either way.

    Han shrugs, and concedes, and kisses him again. Chewie will probably bitch at him all day tomorrow in every damn dialect Kashyyyk has produced, but, hell: Han hasn’t learned any better and never will, and at some point Chewie’s going to have to realise that.

    “Happy birthday,” Han offers, quiet.

    Lando laughs, teeth bright white and smug as always.

  • Public Bookmark 66

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    Han and Lando keep running into each other. Sometimes it's even deliberate.

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    30 Jun 2018

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    Of course, Han was quick to point out a month later, sometimes you just had to dance with whoever was at the party.

    “This is not a party,” Lando said. “This is a dungeon. I’m concerned for you if you don’t know the difference between a party and a dungeon.”

    “The drinks would probably be better if we were at a party,” Han said.

    Lando sighed in agreement, stretching out as much as the manacles would allow. “You remember that Three-Hour Lick you bought for me back on Hellebria? I could do with one of those right about now.”

    Han had been fiddling with a flexible pin he had under some flesh-tape on his wrist, but now he stopped, his thumbnail still poised against the adhesive. He still thought about it sometimes, yeah, the way the purple drink had washed over the petals, making them look bruised, the way Lando had raised his eyebrows when Han had taken a sip. Chewbacca said you always remembered the ones who got away. He’d said it while patting Han’s shoulder and consoling him on Qi’ra, but the point, Han figured, still applied. There were a lot of ways to miss your chance.

    “That did taste good,” he said.

    Lando looked over at him. In the semi-darkness of the dungeon, his smile was a hell of a lot more convincing, if you wanted to be convinced. “Every last minute of it.”

  • Public Bookmark 5

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    Auba takes the assistant manager position for Borussia Dortmund's youth squad without realizing his ex-husband, Marco Reus, is the manager

    or

     

    When Dortmund calls, Auba doesn’t have to think twice.

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    25 Jul 2018

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    ‘How are you?’ Auba asks because it’s all he could think about since he’s arrived at Dortmund.

     

    It’s all he’s thought about since he left Dortmund - Marco, recovering but confused- two years ago.

     

    Marco blinks like he doesn’t understand why Auba is being nice to him. It stings more than it should, ‘I’m-I’m good. My memories are back,’ he pauses, ‘well as much as they’re ever going to come back. I haven’t found my house keys in three days.’ He chuckles embarrassedly.

     

    ‘Check the fridge.’ Auba’s heart thumps at the memory of them being late to everything because Marco could never find his keys, ‘you used to leave them in the door sleeve where we kept the water.’

     

    ‘Will you- will you consider taking the job?’ Marco interrupts, it feels like they’re having two different conversations at once.

     

    Auba shrugs, hopes it looks nonchalant, ‘I gave Nuri my word.’

     

    He hadn’t but he needed an excuse - any excuse - to stay.

     

    *

    It was behind the water jug

     

    Auba is already back in his hotel when he receives the text. And then two seconds later.

     

    Is this still your number?

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    “What,” she says, her heart racing, “was that.”

    “What was what?” Korg asks, frowning up at her. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

    Valkyrie squints suspiciously at the ship.

    “Oh my god,” Korg says. “You did! You saw a ghost!”

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    13 Aug 2018

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    Honestly it was all she wanted. He was hungry for her, and he was even better in bed than the gossip mill on Sakaar had suggested he would be--there was the shapeshifting, sure, but there was also the frost giant thing, and the magic thing, and the enthusiasm for rough handling thing. There were a lot of things, and she didn’t mind any of them.

    Every so often he’d come to watch while she and the Hulk sparred with Thor, a neutral expression on his face--except for when either of them got the edge on Thor, at which point he couldn’t stop himself smiling. He grinned when she won, and when she lost--when Thor threw her joyfully into walls and went inexorably for her weak spots and won the heart of every Asgardian in the room with his sheer physical grace, all that golden power undimmed by her victories--he’d sling a towel at her, and it would be as cold as a frost giant’s palm. The courtesy would catch her off-balance, but never too off-balance, because then he’d insult her form, and point out that she wouldn’t do half so well against a villain wielding seidr, and then she’d have to drag him into the room and prove him wrong.

    Thor always stayed to watch when she fought Loki, and most of the fight she was thinking more about that than anything else. Thor and Loki were insufferable about each other, and apparently shared an even more insufferable history--neither of them would spar with each other, even in jest. They were like that in general--vicious and careful with each other by turns, as if they had no idea what kind of balance they should strike, now that they were homeless orphans alone in the universe. But Thor went quiet when she grappled with Loki, and Loki shone under the attention, predictable as always.

    She was better than Loki, and just as filthy a cheat, but he had more tools at his disposal. She hooked a leg under his knees and swung her elbow into his throat, and he dissolved into mist, reappearing ten feet away, gasping for breath, and sent splinters of ice hurtling towards her. Thor watched, rapt, as Valkyrie swung her sword into illusion after illusion, and finally closed her eyes and grabbed Loki out of thin air, knocking him to the ground and smashing her fist into his ribcage. She pulled the punch, of course, but it landed hard enough that Loki had to suck in a wounded sounding breath before catching her with his thighs and flipping her over, a dagger materializing at her throat--but of course she’d prepared for that, and pricked the vulnerable skin of his inner thigh with the knife she’d pressed up against his femoral artery, only one good push away from his death.

    They stayed there for a long moment, Loki half-kneeling over her, thighs parted over her waist, both their chests heaving as they gulped for air, knives steady in their hands. Thor’s eyes seared into her, and something in her shivered at the heat of it.

    “A draw,” Thor pronounced after a long moment, his voice oddly low. She turned to look up at him, and the look on his face made everything in her go tight--chest, stomach, throat.

    “We must have a rematch sometime,” Loki murmured, and although she didn’t check, she was sure he was also looking at Thor.

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    The third day after SHIELD falls, Sam finds a crow with a broken wing on his doorstep.

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    21 Sep 2018

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    “Is the water hot yet?”

    “You’re gonna shower with me, huh?” Bucky asks, trying to sound teasing, maybe, but it comes out soft and sweetly hopeful.

    “Unless you have a problem with it,” Sam shrugs, and Bucky shakes his head.

    “Shit no, I don’t- fuck, Sam, come here,” he says. Pulls them both into the shower, kisses Sam wet under the spray of water. Shudders like it’s too much, maybe, his eyes closed, and Sam drags his fingers through Bucky’s hair, reaches for the shampoo.

    “Hey,” he says, “tilt your head back for me,” and works shampoo into Bucky’s hair, fingers scraping gentle against his scalp and the delicate skin behind his ears. Bucky shudders again, harder. Moans under his breath.

    “Your hands,” he says, “Jesus, Sam, don’t stop,” and Sam has no intention of stopping, is the thing. Wants to take Bucky apart so slow and tender it doesn’t hurt at all.

     

    When they get out of the shower, Bucky dries his hair slowly, thoughtfully, watching Sam like maybe he might disappear if Bucky looks away too long. Sam catches how Bucky reaches for him and cuts the motion short. Steps closer, touches his fingertips to the small of Bucky's back as they both brush their teeth, and Bucky sighs very soft.

    They get into the bedroom and Bucky glances at the bed, catches his breath a little.

    “I’ll,” Bucky says, bites his lip, “I’ll sleep on the couch, it’s fine.”

    “You’ve been sleeping in my bed for months,” Sam points out, “Bucky, I want you to,” and Bucky looks at him for a minute like he’s making sure.

    “I thought maybe you…”

    “I meant it,” Sam says, “I mean it, okay,” and Bucky nods.

    “Yeah,” he says, “okay,” and changes into a cat just like he does every other night, leaps up on the foot of his bed. Curls up delicately into a perfectly round ball and stares unblinking at Sam. “Hey,” Sam says, getting under the covers, “no, Bucky, Jesus, come here,” and Bucky stares for a moment longer before shifting back human, uncurling and letting Sam tug him in under the covers.

    “Is this okay?” Sam asks, and Bucky makes a noise like he’s disbelieving, wriggles down further and pulls the blankets up around his chin.

    “Are you kidding me, it’s amazing,” he says, “I- fuck, Sam, it’s so good, you don’t know how long it’s been since I-” He hesitates, ducks his head and rolls a little closer to Sam, looks up at him. “Can I touch you?” he asks, and it’s shy like he thinks Sam might say no. His body language is so different, Sam realizes suddenly; for months Bucky’s been unselfconsciously physical, curling up against Sam and nuzzling his nose into Sam’s neck, draping himself over him without a second thought. Bucky like this, he’s hesitant, wary, and Sam wonders at the difference.

    “Yeah,” Sam says, “yeah, of course you can touch me,” and puts his hand on Bucky’s hip, tugs him closer. Bucky touches Sam’s shoulder, tentative. Slides his fingertips down the line of Sam’s collarbone to the hollow of his throat, up to his jaw. Cups his cheek and pulls him in. It’s so soft it’s hardly even a kiss. Just Bucky’s mouth, resting feather-light against Sam’s. His breath flutters out, hitches a little, and then he’s licking into Sam’s mouth, moaning at the touch.

    “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, “you’re so goddamn beautiful, Sam, you gotta know, right? Jesus, how'd I get so lucky.” He's shivering like he's cold, like it's all overwhelming. Sam knows the feeling.

     

    Sam wakes up in the night and Bucky is lying next to him, warm and naked and human, his hair a dark tangle on the pillow. His face is slack with sleep and his shoulder is bare where the comforter has slipped and Sam-

    Sam thought it might have been a dream, is all. He pulls the comforter back up. Rolls in closer and kisses the nape of Bucky's neck, listens to him sigh in his sleep.

     

    When he wakes again the next morning it's to think, drowsy, I could get used to this. Bucky's lips nuzzled in against his throat. Pulling back, blinking wide blue eyes at him.

    “So,” Sam says. “What do you want to do today?”

    “Go down on you until you cry,” Bucky says thoughtfully. “Then coffee. Oh my god black coffee with as much sugar as’ll fit in the cup. Maybe I'll make you breakfast, how about that.”

    “Sounds good to me,” Sam smiles. “What, you making up for all that time I cooked for us, huh?”

    “Hell yes,” Bucky agrees. “Hell yes. It's the least I can fucking do.”

    “Hey,” Sam tells him, “you don't owe me, right? It's not like I- well, I wasn't taking care of you, or anything. You don't gotta…”

    “I know,” Bucky murmurs. Wraps himself around Sam. “I want to, though. God knows I do, I wanna take care of you, sweetheart, now that I can.”

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    The first friend that Newt Scamander makes at Hogwarts — well, his first wand-bearing friend, as opposed to one with fur or too many legs, which is only a distinction that needs to be made to people that don’t know better — he doesn’t meet until the Easter term of his second year, when Leta Lestrange comes back from a six-week absence with a different haircut and an ebony prosthetic where her right arm had been.

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    17 Oct 2018

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    Neil's recruited to a shadowy organisation, and takes an immediate fancy to the boss. He's always been cunning and flexible and just about crazy enough. He can keep up. He can hold his own.

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    10 Jan 2021

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    It's not until meeting number seven—for Neil, but he's always been comfortable with the innate subjectivity of one's experience of so many things (truth, love, property ownership) and it's not so hard to add time to the list—that he actually has a chance to talk to him. Less battle plans and ruthless action, more sliding in next to him at a highly polished bar, wearing genuinely lovely bespoke suits. Sometimes this job is all the best parts of being crooked mixed with the best parts (Neil presumes) of going straight.

    "Ives is so boring to drink with, I hope you can do better," Neil opens with. Having already signaled the bartender on approach, he can watch the reaction now.

    "I don't drink on the job," he says, but though he's very good at swallowing it down, Neil catches the momentary flash of a little smile.

    Neil has prised open far less interesting puzzles with far less to go on. There's a thrill dancing in his veins and he hasn't even ordered yet, but for the first time in his ill-thought-out life, there's something cold pressing like a knifeblade against his eagerness. Is this what second thoughts feel like? This job really is teaching him new skills.

    Here's the hesitation: if he slips and falls on this ascent, blithe escape might mean leaving Tenet and that—

    That, Neil finds, is unacceptable.

    Neil's been quiet so long—too long. The bartender is waiting patiently in front of them. He actually turns and lifts an eyebrow that might be concerned or might just be quizzical. Neil can't read him—can't get a baseline, that's what it is. Doesn't know when he's lying or hiding something, because he's been on guard right from the very first. Maybe he always is.

    "Vodka tonic," Neil tells the bartender, without looking. Busy lifting an eyebrow right back. Your move.

    The smile is so faint Neil almost doesn't see it at all. "Diet Coke," he tells the bartender.

    It feels like he's giving Neil something. It just makes Neil want more. An urge snarls inside him, to peel off every layer without bothering to pass this parcel at all. But that cold unacceptability bars the way, and Neil just sighs with abundant disappointment, and says, "Americans."

    He smiles—properly, but it doesn't really count, not when it's just how he's supposed to. Neil tells himself it will be enough. One could enjoy everything that comes with Tenet without enjoying everything that might come with its intriguing boss. Neil actually feels proud of himself—this is what restraint looks like! Finally! Only took, what, thirty-ish years.

    And then he goes and bollockses it all up by—later, when they're pulling on gloves, watching the van approach down the lane, on the cusp of go-time—shooting Neil a downright sly look, and saying, "Far more restraint than you showed last time."

     

    (There's further enjoyment, despite that. Ferocious mutual handjobs in the back of a car with brick dust from too-close bullet impacts still fuzzing his hair. A return-favour blowjob—or maybe the initial favour that Neil was repaying, who's he to know?—that leaves Neil gasping and boneless in the hotel armchair, watching him fold his hand around his cock and bite his lip.

    "So fucking beautiful," Neil murmurs, and manages to lift a hand. "Get down here and kiss me."

    He kisses like he fights. Hard and fast and effective and just on the edge of controlled. Neil—as always—keeps up only because he refuses to be left behind. Never quite as skilled, never quite as proper, but Neil's always been cunning and flexible and just about crazy enough.

    Neil holds his own. Always does.

    He fucking loves this job.)

  • Public Bookmark 55

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    Two sleepless souls find solace in each other. [This is my take on how Leta and Theseus may have gotten together, some years before TCOG, on a Ministry trip to Paris, between nightmares and insomnia, the shadows of the past and the promise of the future. Will obvs be canon divergent once the film airs].

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    18 Apr 2022

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    “Do you know,” Theseus remarks, his words soft against her ear, “you’re the only good thing to have ever happened to me in this country.”

    Leta touches where she knows one of his scars is, beneath his pyjamas shirt – she can faintly feel the tightness of healed tissue, the ghost of the wound still intact. “I don’t know. Those sandwiches today were rather nice, too.”

    She can feel his chuckle reverberating through his ribs – and she presses her face to his shoulder, steels herself for what she really wants to say.

    “It’s frightening, you know,” she admits, into the dark, “to feel – for you.”

    “There’s nothing to be frightened of,” he replies, pressing his lips to her forehead, “I’ll keep you safe as long as you wish me to.”

  • Public Bookmark 54

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    Summer. Can't fix just one thing.

     

    [updated chapter 2 notes July 11, 2023]

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    15 Sep 2022

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    "You good?"

    He nodded without looking at her.

    Silence.

    Fuck this shit, she had shank bone to saw.

    "I did text you."

    "Yeah," he replied immediately. "Y-y-you did." He was wound up so tight, practically vibrating. "You coulda also said more. A lot more. Earlier."

    Carmy, getting on her case for being uncommunicative. Oh, this was rich.

    "Yeah," she said slowly, "but I didn't think you needed to hear all the gory details. I was in the middle of figuring shit out. Stressful, chaotic shit. Literal water spewing out from the floor, busted pipe, kind of shit."

    He sighed and abandoned prep. Just sat down, started rubbing at his eyes, hands covering most of his face. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry, I got lost in my head a bit. Panicked."

    "About what?"

    "Dunno. Weird stuff. Crazy stuff. Doesn't matter," he broke off, looked at her. "You can call me, you know. When you're in a jam. Anytime. I won't mind. I would have come this morning."

    Sydney didn't know what to say, took too long to react, 'cause he couldn't have, not if they wanted lunch service, not if they were going to get the Bollito launched tomorrow. One of them had to be here, and he had to know that. "That's ..."

    "Fuckin' stupid, yeah." He laughed, head in his hands. "Jesus, fuck. One of us had to be here. I don't even know what I'm thinking. It's the fuckin' heat. Got my brain melting out of my ears. Stupid."

    "I mean, yeah. Heard." Sydney found herself smiling. "Heatwave induced temporary insanity, I'll allow it." She paused. "It's not that I don't appreciate the offer. 'Cause I do. And I'll keep it in mind," she added, nodding. "If it makes sense, chef, I'll remember to call you next time."

    She wasn't not lying.

    He stared at her like he knew. Like if he stared at her long enough, he'd be able to hold her to it.

    Helplessly, she noticed for the first time that he had not one, but two freckles under his left eye.

     

    (All of a sudden, Carmy so desperately wanted to feel her mouth on him that it physically ached. Biting him. Her lips, the exact pressure, against his. How it might feel. The light suction of a kiss. Fuck.

    He loved her front teeth, he realized. Faintly wine-stained. When she smiled, when she was laughing. And just as much, when she was in the middle of telling him the saddest shit.)

     

    They weren't fucking. Was that better?

    One sideways look from Syd sometimes and it was enough these days to send him spinning off for hours. Feeling defensive, feeling like shit.

    Nothing new about being high-strung. Or having a chip on his shoulder about people taking him the wrong way. So what was it.

    What was his fuckin' problem.

    Best ex-CDC in the universe. You can figure this out, asshole.

    Wiped his face with the rapidly becoming-tepid washcloth.

    Ok, so he wanted to give her things. No shit. And he wanted her to take them from him, willingly. He wanted her all in.

    Carmy fingerbanged a chick the summer after senior year. She offered to blow him afterwards. Nah, I'm good, thanks, he'd said. Turned down a blowjob 'cause he didn't know how to ask for a kiss first. Had assumed that was the polite thing to do.

    She was someone Mikey threw him at. A college girl. One of the many always hanging around Mikey and his crew back then. All Mikey said about it before unceremoniously kicking him out into the back alley where she'd been smoking a cigarette was, "Get yourself a repeat customer, little brother. Make 'em want to come back for seconds."

    She wasn't a server or BOH. Didn't even know how to cook. So they didn't have much to talk about. He learned the rhythm and pressure she liked. Had her coming in 45 seconds flat by August and felt pretty good about it. She'd kept on offering so he found out pretty quick what decent head was like. Never got the kiss

    It was only a kiss. It was only a kiss.

    She'd said it was for luck. Their soft open needed the luck.

    A three minute until they were both trembling drunk dishevelled messes but still counted as only one kiss in the letter of the law kind of kiss, for luck.

    Sharing breath and spit and heat for the length of time a perfectly poached egg takes, for luck.

    Sure got that luck.

  • Public Bookmark 25

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    "It’s a dream, and it will end, as dreams always do."

    Rose and Dimitri on the run in the human world. Canon divergence after 1x09.

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    07 Dec 2022

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    Dimitri gets a job as a bouncer at a club, one that doesn’t ask any questions about his lack of identification and is more than willing to pay him cash under the table. It’s not that they need the money; the bracelet Lissa had pressed into Rose’s hand as they were leaving is enough to pay the rent for months. But he admits that he needs the distraction, feeling at odds with no orders to follow and no one to protect.

    Rose, on the other hand, tries to embrace the unstructured, uninterrupted time. She spends days wandering the city, visiting new neighborhoods to watch the humans meet for lunch, or commute to work, or take their dogs for runs in the park. She visits museums and thinks of Lissa; helps a mother with a toddler wrestle a pram up a flight of stairs and thinks, strangely, of Janine.

    She finds a secondhand bookstore one day and brings Dimitri back the next, hiding a smile as he spends a full hour browsing through the biographies, showing her different titles. He smiles a little more now, too, and she catalogs each one, pinning it in place in her memory like a butterfly under glass.

    Sleep comes easier for Rose as the weeks pass on, except for the nights that he’s on shift. When he gets back, he showers before notching himself behind her in bed, wrapping his arm around her waist and nuzzling his nose into the back of her neck. It’s only then that she feels able to drop off, murmuring good night, Dima as sleep takes her under.

     

    She will lie with her head on his chest and listen to the vibrations under her ear as he reads aloud from books of human poetry, mesmerizing words that open doorways to other worlds in her mind. Hope is the thing with feathers, he will say.

    He once told her that faith was what helped him endure the life they had to live, and part of her had envied that clarity. Faith no longer serves a purpose for her, if it ever did.

    But when the dream ends, these are the images she will carry with her to make life bearable. To remind her of what’s possible.

    We had this, once. It was ours.

  • Public Bookmark 17

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    “An object at rest will remain at rest until some other force acts upon it.”

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    02 May 2023

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    She’s mocking his grasp over the cardinal directions, how he’ll never make it as a desert sherpa because they’ve been walking in circles for what feels like hours. Lost or not, part of him is reveling in it. He hasn't been alone with her for this long in ages.

    Come to think, it’s probably her fault they are lost. She screws with his internal compass. Her presence, her attention, even her malignments all share a kind of magnetism. A force that kept him coming back to her, the flickering arrow of his heart aimed at hers.

    When she points out yet again he’ll never be a coyote or one with the desert, he’s halfway through kissing before she realizes what hit her. Pulling her close the way he’s been waiting to, needing to, like he’ll never get the chance to kiss her again. He leaves her stunned when he pulls back.

    Maria DeLuca, clairvoyant extraordinaire, hadn’t seen it coming.

     

    “A roll in the desert doesn’t change anything.” Maria’s spine arches as Michael kisses between her breasts making his way down to her navel. Michael has half a mind to sink lower, mouthing his way back to the crest of her sex, but her fingers ghost through his curls, lingering before tightening and dragging him up.

    Michael places a kiss on each of her knuckles before accepting the flask she offers him. Whiskey, of course. Burns all the way down, same as her.

    “Nothing has to change. We just go back to being us. No more lies. No more secrets. That’s all we gotta do.”

    Maria shakes her head. “It’s not that simple.” She moves to get up, to pull away, rising to find her clothes and keys.

    Michael remembers the top of the mesa. How Maria teetered close to the edge and wondered if Michael could catch her if she fell, if it would feel like flying. She had placed so much trust in him, wagered on him against all she knew of gravity. Losing that trust makes him ache.

    “Did you just—” Maria accuses when she lands in his lap, back pressed to his chest. He locks his arms around her waist.

    “Ask me anything, Maria,” he whispers into the crook of her neck, “I’ll tell you the truth. But don’t ask me to let you go again because I can’t.”

    “Why lie? Michael, why let me believe?”

    “You looked at my hand and you asked me what was true and what was a lie. And you saw the answer; that I was the same as you, that you weren’t alone when you were with me.”

    “But I was wrong. We’re not the same.”

    Michael holds her closer.

    “Tell me what you see when you look at me,” Michael whispers.

    “A man in desperate need of a haircut.”

    “True,” Michael concedes and she smiles. “What else?”

    Maria sighs, circles the veins of Michael’s wrist with her thumb.

    “I see a wrench and a lockpick. The front door The Wild Pony. I see getting by with a pocket full of cash that isn't yours. Outside of a window, you looking in. I see the interstate, but you’ll never take it. Family, but they’re gonna leave you behind.”

    “See? Just like you.”

    Maria shook her head. “That's just the one hand.” She took his broken hand one more time. Held his old wounds tenderly. The skin was softer now, eased by the salves she made him. When he opens his fist this time, he feels all of himself stretching open, bared to her like an offering, unshielded. “In the other I see… so many lights. More stars than I ever thought there could be in the whole universe.”

    “Ask me what I am.”

    Maria’s mouth opens before it closes again. Her lip trembles and not from the night air. She twists in his arms, angling up to kiss him again and they sink back onto the blanket.

    “Tell me a lie.”

    “I just promised you no more lies, didn’t I?”

    “Just do it.”

    “I wasn’t the one who broke McMurray’s hand when I saw him lifting money out of your cash register. And I definitely didn’t wipe the floor with Jonsey Frederick after he opened his mouth about you—”

    “Okay,” Maria shushes him. Her voice is a breathless giggle in the wind. Michael wants to chase the sound of it forever.

    “Now the truth: I don’t know where I come from. I don’t why I’m here. And I don’t know where the hell I’m going. But I do know that I want you to trust me more than anything.I need you. Some days you’re the only thing on this planet that makes sense.”

    “I know,” Maria offers back, pressing her forehead against his as she entrusts her truth to him at last. That he isn’t alone in this feeling. They’re in this together.

    “Now I gotta ask you something this time.”

    “Anything.”

    Michael takes her hand this time. Kisses it again and again. He looks up to the stars and then back to her. “Maria, do you believe in aliens?”

    She doesn’t answer at first. But she closes her eyes and lets out the breath she’s been holding these past days, weeks, all the time she’s known him. They’ve always been on the verge of this. The cusp of a promise where they have nothing to hide.

  • Public Bookmark 88

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    This is to say that he’s sitting at the bartop, nursing an eggnog and half-listening to the convoluted story Fak is yelling into his ear, and just absolutely staring at Sydney from across the room. She’s with Sugar, watching karaoke and eating one of the ricotta and roasted grape crostinis he made earlier today (they really should’ve hired a caterer). She’s nodding, eyes wide at whatever Nat tells her and Carmy irrationally decides it must be some dig at him- it’s not a totally far-fetched notion.

    Her arms are bare, a rare sight, and it feels stupidly scandalous.
    ___
    She’s trying not to notice him.
    She really is- she’s trying to enjoy the karaoke and the hors d'oeuvres and the story Natalie’s telling her. But Sydney can feel Carmy’s eyes on her from across the room like a sixth sense and it’s really fucking distracting. It’s becoming an issue really, the staring. Sydney can’t tell if he’s really that obvious about it or if she’s just hyper aware of everything he does (either is equally likely)- but whatever the case, she can feel his eyes like strobe lights on her back as she bites into her crostini.

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    16 Aug 2023

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    It doesn’t help that their relationship has always been confusing and messy and weird. Really, they’re doing everything but dating each other. They’ve kissed once or twice, after a long night working on a new dish at his place, saying goodbye after service- it’s not something they talk about. At all. She’s slept in his bed, like genuinely just slept- because the power had gone out at her dad’s place. It’s a weird new tension between them, mutual and intense and so fucking confusing that it keeps Carmy up at night. But it’s inappropriate and unprofessional and Sydney would probably kill him if he acted on it anyway. So Carmy’s not going to subject her to his romantic interests, nobody deserves that honestly. He’s just going to watch from afar.

     

    Her arms are bare, a rare sight, and it feels stupidly scandalous.

     

    Despite being a messy, scatter-brained oaf most of the time, when it comes to Sydney, Carmy’s plagued with the ability to notice absolutely everything. He’s got an encyclopedic knowledge of her scarf collection, can recognize a new one at a single glance. He’s memorized her coffee order, which train she takes to work, which potato chips she likes best. Carmy’s tuned himself into every microexpression, every quirked lip or eyebrow raise. He files it away, analyzes. Over the months, scrunched noses and disgruntled frowns have given way to smirks and amused smiles- a blessing if not an accomplishment.

    She runs cold, her hands like ice every time they brush his too-hot skin, a clashing sensation that feels like burning regardless of temperature. Carmy wonders if she’s cold now, in her pretty purple dress. He wonders if his palms would burn if he placed them over her bare shoulders.

     

    He is such a fucking prick.

    Such a goddamn dog, he couldn’t hold it together at the first sight of her in a dress. This is ridiculous- his hand is on her waist and his tongue is in her mouth and he’s half convinced he’s going insane. So much for not acting on their feelings, so much for professional boundaries. That was all out the window the minute she started squeezing his goddamn thigh.

     

    He’s waiting for her to pull away, knows it’s got to be coming soon. That’s how this was always meant to work out; he steps out of line and she puts him back in his place. But she hasn’t yet and, in the meantime, Carmy is pressing kisses to her jawline and reveling in the feeling of her fingers tugging at his hair, trying not to seem too far gone even though he absolutely is. He feels drunk on this, warm and languid as he presses his body close to hers. It’s like a snapping puzzle-piece type of feeling, like he’s not as fucked up and misshapen as he thought. Like maybe this is how things are supposed to be.

     

    Some part of him wants to insist that that can’t be true. But the bigger part of Carmy is addicted to the smell of Sydney and the softness of her skin and the sound she makes as he captures her lips with his.

  • Public Bookmark 31

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    Toast has the chance to build a family with Slit. But it's not going to be easy when he barely understands the concept of a family.

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    17 Jun 2024

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    “Her hand’s smaller than my finger,” Slit says. He’s gingerly touched one of the baby’s hands with a single finger.

    It’s been three days and he hasn’t left the room except for quick visits to the lavatory. Capable has been bringing meals for him as well as for Toast. Toast isn’t sure what she’d expected from him, but it certainly wasn’t this. She reads in between sleeping and feeding Sylvie, but Slit doesn’t do anything but stare at the baby.

    It was endearing at first, but now it’s almost unsettling. Toast loves her baby so much that the very concept of love has been redefined for her. But she thinks Slit might love Sylvie even more. His attention is fixed on the baby with a single-minded devotion that borders on obsession. Toast imagines he must have looked at Joe with the same worship.

    She’s trying to think of something to say, to engage him in conversation so this unsettled feeling can be dispelled, when the baby curls her hand around Slit’s finger. He starts crying. He makes an odd sound and Toast sees the shine of tears in his eyes.

    Toast rubs his back without speaking and kisses the bristly top of his head. He hasn’t even shaved since he first saw the baby. He needs a bath, but Toast hasn’t figured out how to tell him without insulting him or risking him thinking she’s sending him away from Sylvie.

    “She’s so little and helpless,” he says. “What if the night fevers start and I die before she’s big enough to protect herself?”

    It’s a very real possibility that he won’t live to see their daughter reach adulthood. But Toast might not either, though it hurts to think about it. Slit needs comfort and reassurance though. This is probably the first time in his life he’s thought about wanting a long life - as opposed to a ‘historic death’ - and she suspects he’s scared.

    “She’s safe here. She has me, and Capable, and the Dag, and Cheedo, and Furiosa, and the Vuvalini. And your brothers - they wouldn’t hurt her, would they?”

    He shakes his head. “Wouldn’t hurt a little pup.” His mood swings wildly and he’s suddenly excited again. “They don’t know she’s mine! Can I show them her?!”

    Toast doesn’t want to hurt his feelings, but she’s not comfortable with the idea of a whole group of War Boys around her newborn. She doesn’t seriously think they’d intentionally hurt the baby, but it would easy for them to inadvertently harm her. “Yeah, but let’s wait a few more days, okay? ‘Til she’s a bit stronger and bigger.”

    Slit nods. “Yeah.”

    Toast kisses him full on the mouth and slides her tongue between his lips. He kisses her back for a brief moment, before pulling away and giving her a confused look.

    “I thought we couldn’t?”

    “We can’t fuck, but we can just kiss.”

    “Why?” he asks. His arms are around her and he’s stroking her hair, so Toast doesn’t think he’s asking because he doesn’t want to. She’d told him to ask her about anything he didn’t understand and maybe that’s what he’s doing now.

    “I want to feel close to you.”

    He smiles, and she’s struck anew by how much younger he looks now that the knowledge of his fatherhood has made him vulnerable, and by how handsome he is without the paint and grease. Watching him fall in love with their baby is making her fall in love with him. Toast just smiles back at him for a while.

     

    (Toast picks up Sylvie and leaves the nursery, giving the Dag and Cheedo privacy to have a sorely overdue conversation. She’s just in time to see Slit return.

    He’s in full War Boy mode. He’s powdered every inch of skin that she can see and applied engine grease to half his face. He’s wearing his arm sheath and has another half a dozen blades strapped to him. Even his stride is extra aggressive-looking.

    The dangerous War Boy look is incongruous here in what was the vault, surrounded by books and the potted plants the Dag has placed everywhere. Toast finds it amusing, but she refrains from teasing him, handing him the baby in silence, so she can go retrieve their morning meal from the kitchen.

    When Toast comes back with bowls of fruit and cheese, she finds that Slit has gathered up Sylvie’s hair and tied a strip of white cloth in it. A bow. He’s tied a bow in his daughter’s hair. She remembers looking at children’s books with him and explaining that the illustrators added bows to distinguish female characters from male characters. She’d also explained about artificial constructs of femininity, but that part had gone over his head, as she’d suspected it might.

    She’s overwhelmed with feelings she can’t even name.)

  • Public Bookmark *

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    Slit, under the impression that Furiosa gave Capable to Nux, demands a wife as well. The Wives decide to troll him, and Slit doesn't realize what he's in for when Toast is "given" to him.

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    27 Jun 2024

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    Her shirt didn’t cover her lower back. Her skin felt very soft and very smooth. She’d probably be mad at him if she knew how much he liked touching her skin. But she’d asked him to do it, so maybe she wouldn’t mind him liking it.

    “Thanks,” she said, sounding sleepy. “I owe you a favor.”

    Slit went to sleep thinking of what he could ask her for. She already gave him plenty of Aqua Cola and food, and let him sleep on the bed. And he knew better than to ask her to breed with him, or to do anything else involving his cock. There was probably lots of good stuff she could give him that he didn’t even know about yet.

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    Jungkook's always tried his best to be a good friend, and now that Jimin is pregnant, he wants to try that much harder.

    Follow Jungkook on his journey to falling hopelessly in love with his best friend.

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    02 Jul 2024

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    💜☑️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️

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