#I skim through it and if vegas and/or pete isn’t in it

[shouyou910]

hmm yeah I don’t care about kpts unless it’s about vegas and pete

[fleet-off]

Five favorite things about your latest fic, GO!

Eep! Thanks for the lovely ask, anon. So my favorite thing post-posting is all the ways people are pairing “this is bizarre” with compliments in the comments--variations on “strangest kink, somehow wholesome,” “compellingly odd and stunning,” “super weird, I love it,” “didn’t think I’d like this concept as much as I did.” I am so happy to have created something strange that connected with people.

But I think you’re asking about the fic itself, so! Here are five things I got jazzed about while working on won't give up these ghosts. (This...may get long. I am an analytical dork.)

1. Favorite Love Motif: Handholding

Sandalwood smoke tickles his nose and snakes into his lungs. The world is a narrow peninsula--the island of Pete’s body on the table and the familiar hand anchoring him to lands beyond.

For all the consuming, transformative, codependent ways Vegas and Pete love each other--sometimes they’re not very good at it! Figuring it out is a piecemeal process, and one I paralleled with the holding of hands.

Vegas fails to hold Pete’s hand during the faux-funeral. Pete attributes the struggle to lack of practice, but…his own lack of response isn’t helping. He isn’t reading Vegas’s signals--likewise when Vegas practically strangles his hand during the flashback, and Pete accepts his own numb fingers without recognizing the depths of Vegas’s fear.

Of course, Pete does eventually notice. During the aftercare, their hands skim without catching as they check each other for damage. Pete wraps Vegas’s fingers around the water bottle and makes him drink, Vegas grabs Pete’s wrist to get him under the blanket. They’re trying to care for each other’s needs without facing up to their own.

The sex scene contains indirect progression--Vegas ties Pete’s hands together in a prayer pose. The bondage works for both of them and constitutes handholding by proxy, since Vegas is the worshipper here. Pete becomes the shared vessel of their mutual existence.

Pete takes hand-holding initiative in the aftermath--a reciprocation that precipitates Vegas admitting what Pete’s pseudo-deaths do to him. They talk towards a solution, and--with the Great Coffin Compromise--finally manage to tangle their fingers comfortably. Vegas and Pete are learning to make it work.

2. Favorite Too-Clever (Pejorative) Line: Faux-Corpse Repose

Two spots of red bloomed in the man’s chest and gut. The body staggered and fell, performing the twitching dance of a corpse that doesn’t know it’s dead yet. […] So Pete lay on the floor of his and Vegas’s bedroom, limbs askew in the repose of a corpse that has recently received and accepted the news of its passing, and let all thought and emotion leak from his body into the carpet under his head.

Sorry, this juxtaposition always gets me giggling. It’s the sort of device that thinks itself moderately clever, when really it’s modestly clever at best. But this is fanfiction, and it does serve the story, so I allowed myself the indulgence.

…Also the line about how a hole is a hole, Pete’s is full and the grave’s empty, please let’s fuck. I thought I was going to have to cut that and I was so sad about it. It’s crass, it’s very Pete-practical, and it has about three rhetorical devices attached that lend it just this slight poetic edge. It makes me laugh an awful lot. (Thanks to Lily @theflowergirl for encouraging me to keep thinking on this line instead of cutting it!)

3. Favorite Scene Transition: Void

“It’s like being the only stillness in the world,” he said at last. “The wet sand digs into your feet, and the sea is this massive moving thing you’re not a part of, and all you can see is water and sky and dark. And it sees you, but there’s nothing there to see of you. You’re safe. You’re--a void.” *** Death is a void. Death is the bumps and jolts on the road out of Bangkok with Pete strapped across the backseat. Death is the sunbeams slanting through the car window and warming his shroud, and Vegas behind the steering wheel taking care of his body after its intended use has run out.

It’s cheating when there are only two scene transitions in the fic, but what can I say? I've been thinking more on first lines since I read @giraffeter's gorgeous last ten on an ask meme, and I think I managed to start each scene fairly strong in this story! And I am chuffed by the repetition-as-transition here and by this new-scene para more broadly. There's the juxtaposition between dark and light, between being invisible before a limitless sea and being the center of Vegas’s world…and then there’s the throughline--the void, the physical rocking, the safety.

4. Favorite Glimpse of Vegas-POV: Building the Bier

Vegas who loves breaking things and hates to see him broken; Vegas who lives in fear and awe of his shattering. Vegas’s stoic face, hidden from him as he laid the blindfold over Pete’s eyes and made a funeral bier of their dining table. The apology Pete never got to hear.

I loved slipping hints of Vegas’s read for this scene into the story, because parts of it vary wildly from Pete’s interpretations and Pete has no idea. “Made a funeral bier of their dining table” is one of those throwaway lines a Vegas POV would have absolutely fixated on. The significance of transforming the place where they eat, removing its purpose for the sake of a scene where Vegas starves himself to provide for Pete’s needs? Vegas would chew the fuck out of that idea! (And you just know he’d make some contradictory unholy communion of having Pete’s body spread across that table. So many doomed savior metaphors there.)

And because I still can’t help myself with the hole-is-a-hole line--second place is Pete knowing that Vegas must get something from the symbolism of laying claim to him beside the hole he dug to lay him in the ground. Because of course he does. Vegas is absolutely thinking “his body is the crypt, let me be buried here, let me be reborn in him” and a host of similar weird-ass thoughts.

5. Favorite Life Motif: Heartbeat.

Pete is alive as small things are alive the moment before the kill.

Ending with another motif! I threaded Pete’s heartbeat throughout the fic as the physical manifestation of the “buzz” of life. The first portion of the story is disruptions of heartbeat (buried by the blast of his gun, interrupted by the clicker). As Pete fades during the drive, his heartbeat is replaced by facsimiles--the pulse of the engine, the rhythmic thud of the shovel. Not coincidentally, both of these sounds correspond to Vegas taking care of Pete in his afterlife mental space.

Pete’s heartbeat roars back following his safeword, paired with the panic of realizing that the scene hurt Vegas. Then the sex scene marks a sharing of heartbeat--Pete offers “the pounding rhythm that rocks his soul.” This is set up partially via predator/prey imagery (sans any fear from the supposed “prey”), with Vegas biting at Pete's chest and the pulse in his neck. Pete’s heartbeat is overwhelmed at the climax by Vegas’s presence.

And yet! As the death roleplay was a simulation of death without dying, the sex scene is a simulation of dying without death, and all the more life-affirming for it. Pete’s lays Vegas’s head against his pulse in the after, giving him the chance to hear it. And where Vegas’s experience of Pete’s “death” was as his own dying, Pete now feels Vegas’s heartbeat and takes his turn as the simulated predator vampire-style by biting down on the pulse in Vegas’s wrist.

Thanks again for the ask, anon! This is probably more than you asked for, but I had a very fun time thinking on it. ^^

[giraffeter]

find the word challenge

rules: share snippets of your work containing each of the words the previous poster selected for you.

I was tagged by @kinnbig and by @fleet-off — thank you friends! I ended up going with kinnbig's word set because the results it brought back worked better with this format. My words were warm, shiver, end, love, understand. I went with a mix of WiPs and published fic for this one.

☀️ warm

“Shh,” Gumpa remonstrates. “Go to sleep.” He pats the back of Sean’s neck, the knob of bone at the top of his spine. He presses his palm firmly down along that line to a spot between Sean’s shoulder blades, then does it again, and again, like he could push the tension right out of Sean’s body. Sean sighs, relaxing into him ever so slightly. His skin is warm and yielding beneath Gumpa’s fingertips. — 4 Times Gumpa Didn't Fuck Sean + 1 He Did (WiP)

🧊 shiver

Arm swallows, running his palm up and down Tankhun’s calf. He leans forward and kisses Tankhun’s stomach again, pressing his face against Tankhun’s skin and inhaling deeply. His lips are soft as they skim down over the front of Tankhun’s underwear. He mouths gently at the head of Tankhun’s cock, warm breath through the soft stretchy fabric, and Tankhun shivers with the feeling. — Brave Enough for Everything

🔚 end

For the last two days Vegas has felt like he’s going crazy over him. He’s spent most of his life obsessed with one thing or another — he’s an intense person — but obsession usually makes him miserable. With Pete he feels high, out of his mind; he wants to snort lines of Pete all night, he wants to devour him alive, he wants to cut Pete open and see what’s inside — but that would put an end to his fun, and Vegas isn’t intending to end this for a long, long time. — How Deep It Goes

❤️ love

The ring is a collar. Porsche understands that when he puts it on, just like he understands that Kinn isn’t the one holding the leash. Kinn is the leash, or perhaps love is: Porsche’s love for Kinn, his love for his mother, his love for Chay. He sees the look on Kinn’s face when Korn hands him the ring, the split-second please don’t make me be the one to do this glance Kinn shoots his father. But Kinn has been wearing his own ring for a very long time; he won’t go against Korn’s wishes. — Untitled Kinn/Porsche/Vegas/Pete WiP

🦉 understand

Porsche washes dishes. He waits tables. He tends bar. He learns how to smile at people who pretend not to understand his accent; he learns how to draw a fight out, so people will bet more before he wins. He learns that women will tip more if he flirts with them, that they’ll come back and bring their friends. Sometimes he’ll call the numbers he gets, scrawled on cocktail napkins or credit card receipts, and he’ll get a free meal or two. It never goes anywhere. — Untitled Porsche on the Run WiP

Feel free to ignore me if you've already been tagged or just don't want to do it, but I'll tag @phneltwrites @ginnymoonbeam @ectoplasm-james @magnolia822 @aplethoras with the words: wrist, long, shadow, jump, habit

[bitacrytic]

Overheat [24]

Read Previous Chapters Here

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“Are you alright?” Tankhun asked.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

-

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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

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A quiet couple of days followed, with Pete enjoying his last days of solitude and rest, away from everyone else. Porsche video-called him every night. The first time, Tem, Time and Tay were in the background, asking Pete how he was doing, offering their pity and giving him empty gossip. The second day, when Porsche called, he was alone in their room, talking about everything, but skimming clear of Kinn. Like he wanted to mention Kinn. Like he wanted Pete to mention Kinn. But Pete knew about as much as Porsche did.

He hadn’t seen Kinn either.

“He’s fine,” Tankhun had said, when he showed up Sunday morning to help Pete back to camp.

“Why haven’t I heard from him?” Kinn would have wanted to see Pete off. Or at least, talk to him. Or text him. Or call him. But Pete had received neither.

“He called Papa before he disappeared.”

“Disappeared to where?” Pete asked.

“Who knows?” Tankhun shrugged, slowly urging Pete into the car as he protected Pete’s head. “Kinn does that sometimes. He gets in his head about something and just lists off to fucking nowhere for a few weeks.”

Which didn’t make sense. Kinn was adamant about being a part of “Overheat” and if he wanted to leave, he’d tell Pete. He’d give him a call or something.

“Don’t worry,” Tankhun said. “When Papa told me, I called Big. He’s fine. They’re fine. Kinn just likes to sulk.” As he entered the car, he fixed Pete with a serious stare. “Do you know why he would do that?”

“Do what?” Pete asked.

“Leave. I know my brother. He likes his space, but only when something happens. Last time, when he called me to come be with you, he sounded sad. But then the next day, he was okay again, like nothing happened.” Tankhun moved closer. “Is something going on that I should know about? Something that’s got my little brother fucked up like this?”

Pete kept his face neutral, trying not to give anything away. The truth was right there. It hadn’t been hard to put two and two together. Kinn had a sordid history with Awut that he would never want to replicate. But then he’d started fucking Porsche, who no one knew was an alpha. He’d been so caught up in Porsche that all his free time was being sucked into his personal time with Porsche. They were in a relationship, from everything Pete had seen in the hospital. If Kinn had found out that Porsche was an alpha, after the fact, that would explain his recent, flaky behavior.

But Pete couldn’t tell Tankhun that. It was Kinn’s business. Porsche’s business. Private stuff that Pete would hate to be revealed about himself if he were the one being discussed.

“Nothing,” Pete said, shaking his head. “He’s been fine, lately.”

Tankhun sighed and sat back.

“Something’s going on,” he said. “Maybe he didn’t tell you but Kinn’s going through it and I hate that he’s gone off to god-knows-where on his own. He does this shit. He won’t share until it’s too late and it’s breaking him apart.”

Pete could understand the sentiment.

“If they were blackmailing you for information, why the fuck didn’t you tell Kinn?” Vegas had asked. He was too ashamed to have been caught. He was sure he could do it, anyway. As blessed with the gift of foresight that he was, he’d never seen a future where he would care about Vegas. He’d thought he could handle it by himself.

And he’d ended up being so, so wrong.

***

Pete was met with a cheerful welcome, Monday morning. After his fellow cast members had hugged him and asked about his recovery, the director took Pete up to his room and asked him to strip. Tankhun was in the room, legs crossed as he pretended he was busy with his phone.

“My god,” the director exclaimed, frowning as his eyes traveled down the length of Pete’s body.

“The doctor assured me I’d be scar-free in a month.”

“Pete,” the director started to say.

“I have ointments. I’ll be fine.”

“How do you know that?”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve been wounded. I can handle it.”

This did nothing to reduce the director’s worry as he sat on his bed, shaking his head.

“Is this something we should worry about?”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s a possible scandal, Pete,” the director said. “Ohmovit doesn’t know about it because I told them you were sick but if there’s something we should be worried about-”

“It was a family matter. It’s been solved.”

“A lot of people have invested in this production. If one of our leads is in trouble, Ohmovit deserves to know.”

Pete looked at Tankhun, who was also frowning at Pete. He, unlike the director, was aware of the circumstances that led to Pete’s injuries. He wasn’t frowning out of worried curiosity. He was frowning because he was aware that the probability of problems arising was not zero.

“It will be alright, Sir,” Pete said, pulling his baggy joggers over his tights and reaching for his T-shirt. “I won’t wear revealing clothes for a while, but I’ll be good as new in no time.” He tried to smile. “Just don’t tell Ohmovit.”

As they left the director’s room, the man still had a frown on his face. Pete hadn’t managed to convince him that all was well. But he hoped the director was married enough to Pete’s work that he wouldn’t want to replace him. Whatever he’d been doing before, Pete would have to do more. He had to show the director that he was the best man to play Pawat.

“Are you alright?” Tankhun asked, strolling beside Pete.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Well, Pete didn’t have an honest answer to give that would satisfy Tankhun. So he just shrugged, got into the elevator and punched for the rehearsal floor. He’d lost a whole week of practice because of his injuries. He had to get back to work. A lot was riding on this and he was going to do his best to make sure Ohmovit didn’t regret hiring him.

***

Slipping back into a routine was relatively easy. With the addition of a few new occurrences, everything was going smoothly. Wake up; go to the gym; go to rehearsal; eat; go back to rehearsal; train; take a bath; go to bed while pretending he couldn’t hear his roommate crying himself to sleep. Every night. Like clockwork.

Porsche had never asked about Kinn. Not once. Not that he needed to. Tay had asked. Time had asked. The director had asked. People had asked enough times that, at some point, Porsche must have gotten the gist of Kinn’s absence. But he didn’t ask, himself.

They had work to do. As long as Porsche was doing his part, as long as he focused when they were centerstage, as long as he spoke his lines with the correct affect, as long as he met Pete halfway, Pete was okay with whatever or whoever Porsche wanted to be when they weren’t working.

Unlocking the door to the room, Pete kicked off his shoes and pulled off his shirt as he walked in to find a black hard drive on his bed. It was the same one he'd given to Vegas. Which meant that Vegas had come into the room, dropped the drive and left, without saying a word to Pete.

Kneeling by his bed, Pete held the drive, like a favorite toy, imagining Vegas walking into the room, dropping the drive, and maybe, taking a moment to sit on Pete’s bed. In Pete’s mind, Vegas missed him, as much as Pete missed Vegas.

He’d been trying his best, so far. He’d put his energy into working and clearing his skin. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about Vegas because it hurt to remember how Vegas looked at him, how Vegas had wrenched his arm from Pete’s grasp like Pete was diseased and dangerous.

He couldn’t think of that. Reality was too cruel. Just once, if he was ever going to buy a fairytale, just to survive, Pete was choosing to spend his money on this moment, on believing that in some way, on some level, Vegas was thinking about him, too. Vegas was trying to focus on work, so he wouldn’t remember how good it was between them.

Because it was so good. Pete had never known pleasure like he knew, being with Vegas. The pleasure of looking in someone’s eyes and seeing himself, and loving what he saw, because what he saw was beautiful, was a medicine on its own.

Pete took his phone, opened Instagram and made a story of himself with the peace sign and his tongue out. That was Wan’s sign. Pete had no way to contact him since he always used new numbers. In the next twenty-four hours, Pete would receive a text and information on where to send the recordings.

He showered quickly, got ready for bed and loaded the new recordings into his laptop. He hadn’t heard Vegas’ voice in days. He wasn’t worthy of a call or a visit. But he had the recordings again. Going under the covers and cradling one of his pillows, Pete listened to the soft, clear voice of Vegas, as he went about his day.

When Porsche returned, he was careful about his movements. He always was, whenever Pete was already in bed. Even though he was a clumsy, loud runt, staggering tiredly around the room, Pete appreciated the effort. As he’d done, many nights before, Porsche took a bath and got into his own bed as he switched off the lights.

Pete was lucky to have the recordings, but Porsche didn’t even have that. Whatever had happened between him and Kinn, Porsche was alone and broken about it. Even as Pete listened to Vegas’ beautiful voice, he wanted to be held. He wanted to hold someone and share comfort. If it was that bad for him, he could only imagine how horrible it was for Porsche who had nothing.

Switching off the recording, Pete got out of bed, took one of his pillows and shuffled over to Porsche’s bed. He couldn't see but he could hear Porsche’s crying stop as he turned around in bed.

“What happened?” Porsche asked.

“Move over,” Pete said.

“Why?” Porsche asked, making room for Pete on the bed.

“I want to sleep.”

“You literally just got out of your bed.”

“Yeah, well, I want to cuddle.”

Porsche let out a short laugh as Pete adjusted himself under the covers.

“I don’t think this is what the intimacy director meant when he said ‘get into each other’s skin’.”

“Turn,” Pete said as Porsche backed Pete on the bed and Pete slid his hands around Porsche’s waist. “Sleep. We have work tomorrow.”

It wasn’t much. Every bit of Porsche’s body was intricately different from Vegas’ and Pete couldn’t help making silent comparisons. But this was better than nothing. Holding someone, falling asleep with the warmth of another person, was something Pete had grown used to, ever since he started dallying with Vegas.

Even if it wasn’t perfect, but it was… something. Pete could not believe it, but he found himself, for the first time in a while, realizing that he, just like everyone else, was also in need of some little bit of comfort.