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[lets-blogoff]

Preparing Your Roof For Hurricane Season: A Comprehensive Guide

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[angelofacidx]

Pet

Dark Ghoap x Fem! Reader

CW: Kidnapping, drug mention, violence, death mention.

Johnny had an incredibly easy time keeping himself busy during retirement. There was always something to be done around the house, a new local sport team to join, or an outing he’d convince Simon to humor him on with a bat of his lashes. However, years of military service were not kind to his body. Cleaning the gutters would leave a strain in his shoulder. Bopping around at a shitty punk gig he’d dragged Simon to would wind his muscles tight for days. The nail in the coffin was at his last rugby game, an over compensated move completely throwing his back out.

That was enough for Simon, being the judge and the jury for Johnny’s sentence of doctor ordered bed rest. In the first days Johnny had still tried to keep up around the house, following Simon around and chittering on that he was fine before getting promptly carried back to bed like a sack of potatoes over broad shoulders. He’d fully given up after that point, his little spirit crushed as he laid in bed absently doom scrolling on his phone for hours. That was, before one of your videos came across his screen. Written in the stars by the algorithm.

The video was innocent enough, a ‘Get ready with me’ style set to some cute music which unknowingly doomed you. Thumbs flew across the screen as Johnny tapped on your profile, greedily drinking in your entire post history over the course of a couple hours. His favorites he’d bookmarked and watched over and over again, already memorizing whatever little song you’d picked to go over your video. His heart hammered in his chest and he swallowed a lump in his throat, hovering over the direct message option.

Hello :) Big fan! Do ye think ye could wear that black dress from 20/11 in yer next video? Loved it.

Johnny waits anxiously for your reply and decides to send another message apologizing for coming on strong, only to realize he’d been blocked by his newest little project. With a pout and a sigh he resigns himself to making another account, rinsing and repeating his actions of following you, going through your videos, and bookmarking his favorites. His head is too far in the clouds to even register that Simon had been standing over his shoulder for a minute, watching him.

“Whatcha got there, pup?” Simon’s voice sounds from above, causing Johnny to almost jump out of his skin.

“Jesus! Ye scared me,” Johnny said, placing a hand over his heart for dramatic effect.

When he saw that Simon was still awaiting an answer, he shook his head to rid the jitters.

“A real pretty lass. Somethin’ about her. She’d fit right in.” Johnny said with a dreamy sigh, looking to Simon and trying to gauge his reaction.

Simon’s hand is held out expectantly before Johnny places his phone in his calloused palm. His eyes fixate on the screen as he goes through the videos. He’s right, you’re pretty. His pup’s eyes look as if he’s a child pleading for a new toy at the store and he’s nothing if not a sucker for it. With a resigned sigh, Simon pockets the phone and ruffles Johnny’s hair.

“Bed time,” Simon says with a soft canter to his voice.

Johnny obliges, mumbling good nights and kisses before he’s out cold and Simon makes the trek downstairs to haul himself up on the couch, the room illuminated with Johnny’s phone screen.

You have piss poor internet safety. Simon gathers information quickly, half military training and half having brain cells to rub together. You make it too easy, like you are begging to be whisked away.

A video in your likes about being non contact with parents.

They wouldn’t ask where you were.

A ‘‘jokey” audio about your pet being your only friend

No one would come looking for you.

A video was taken in your work uniform with a name tag and a clock in the background during the shift.

Location and time you’d be on the premises.

Once he was satisfied with his findings Simon trudged back up the stairs, slotting in bed next to Johnny and lazily throwing an arm around him. His pup deserved a playmate while he was down for the count. Someone soft and docile like you to play with. Even if this was a big task, Simon would get what his precious boy wanted.

…

You’re a lot more bite than bark, and Simon had not been anticipating that. Muscling you into his truck and binding your limbs was easy even with the thrashing, but the deep bite mark blossoming purple and red hurt and he was not patient with disobedient mutts. Your screaming was silenced by a metal cage being strapped to the back of your head, the clasps tugging at your hair and a leather bit in the middle that made drool pool in your mouth and any noises come out hushed and gurgled.

“Really don’t wanna drug ya, love. The side effects are nasty and I’ve already got a pet on bed rest.” The masked man driving the car says, his voice deep and gravely like he’s smoked since he exited the womb.

You resign from fighting pretty early on, not missing the 9mm tucked into his waistband; a silent threat and promise. Instead, you focus on your surroundings out of the window which is mostly trees and fields as he drives out of the city limits and to, well, wherever he’s taking you. You catalog this information and commit it to memory and hold onto the delusion that when you escape you’ll be able to tell the police exactly where he took you and which way you went.

The road he’s driving on takes a sharp left and turns into more gravel and dirt than sleek tar pavement. Down the beaten path you pull up to a house, very unassuming and nice on the outside but you can only imagine the state of the inside. Every horror movie and true crime video you’ve ever seen plays in your mind. The filth, the squalor, chains and sex toys and rotting corpses in refrigerators.

The masked man gets out of the truck first, shutting the door with a surprising amount of care and then opening your side. He grabs the middle of the rope, where your hands are bound, and shuffles you out of the vehicle. When your feet meet the ground you’re tempted to run, but his gun remains front and center in your mind. Dumb idea. He crouches down on one knee then, like a parent getting on their child’s level to reason with them as he speaks to you; his grip still strong on the rope.

“Now, I need you to be good f’me and listen. If you make any fucking noise until I tell you to I’ll break your little jaw right off your pretty face and you’ll be eatin’ baby food the rest of your life. Got it?” He says in a soft tone but with no room for thinking he’s joking.

You nod your hand in understanding, too high on adrenaline and fear to cry even though your throat feels closed off and your eyes and nose sting with that familiarity. He rises to his feet then, unlocking you through the door and pulling you through the threshold. You prepare yourself for the worst but you’re met with the most mundane setting you could imagine. The walls are beige and gray, an accent wall in dark blue. A nice leather sectional couch, flat screen TV a few feet away from it. The place looks…underwhelming.

“M’ home. Just puttin’ the shopping away, hold tight up there in bed.” The man calls up the stairs to god knows who before turning his attention back to you.

He leads you by the wrists into a spare room right off of the living room which at first glance looks just as underwhelming as the rest of the house. A desk with a large dog bed under it, a few paintings on the wall, a book shelf, and a board for darts. When you’re being drug further into the room though, you notice it; a sturdy chain mounted to the wall and attached to a collar with a thick padlock. The leather is engraved with a name: Johnny.

The collar is placed around your neck and locked, gapping awkwardly in the back and ill fitting. The man tries to tug it over your head a few times but is satisfied when it won’t go past your jaw. The numb tingling in your hands draws your attention down to them as you try to wiggle your fingers and get some blood flow back. Survival is not guaranteed but you’re relieved that you’re not on the set of Texas Chainsaw Massacre at least.

You’re guided slowly onto your knees with two strong hands onto your shoulders, until you meet the plush carpet. You look up at him finally, a proper look. His eyes are dark and devoid of emotion, like some sort of a living breathing shell. He’s tall and filled out everywhere, even without the gun you now believe his promise of breaking your jaw more. You’ll have to use wit and gain trust to get out of here; you’ll have to fawn.

“M’ gonna go get my boy and you’re gonna act like you’re over the moon to be here.” He says, taking a step back from where you’re kneeling.

“I don’t like to take in strays and I sure as fuck don’t put up with rowdy mutts. Give me a reason to show you, and you’ll learn real quick darling.” He says, before opening the door and shutting it behind him.

You’re left to your own devices then, chest heaving and eyes darting around the room. With him gone you can finally let your defenses down a little so the tears start to cascade down your cheeks silently. The gag, well, muzzle makes it hard for you to catch your breath as you heave and sputter as quietly as you can. You wonder who Johnny is, the poor soul before you in this position. By the way the collar fit, were much larger than you and still fell at the hands of this man. The thought made bile rise to your throat.

Far away voices and footsteps get closer and closer to the door then as you’re frozen in place kneeling. Your chest rises and falls quickly with each breath before it hitches all together as the doorknob is turned. The door opens, and another man has joined your captor. He’s smaller, a dark mohawk and striking blue eyes. He is absolutely elated to see you, apparently. He’s a blur of moment, on his knees by you in a blink and gathering your tired body into a spine crushing hug.

He turns his head behind him to the mask man with an ear to ear grin, beaming and nauseatingly giggling to himself.

“You didn’t!” He says excitedly, like someone reviving a way too expensive present in a secret Santa exchange.

“Just for you puppy. You’ve been down since your injury an’ I figured I could get you a playmate.” The man says, a hint of a smile in his voice.

He seems to care a great deal about this man with a death grip on you, happy just to see him happy.

The man affectionately referred to as “puppy” buries his nose in your hair, sniffing deeply and letting out a deep shuddering breath. You feel his cock twitch against the outside of your thigh where he’s got himself pressed against you. You’re beginning to think this was the Johnny you were feeling sorry for a second ago.

His hands move up towards your muzzle to undo it but the other man stops him, warning that you’re not properly trained yet and might bite. He whines, but gives a nod in understanding, giving you another rib bruising squeeze.

“Don’t worry lass. We’ll take care of ya’.” Johnny says, planting a kiss on top of your head.

The larger man steps out of the room then, shutting it behind him and leaving you to get accompanied with your new playmate and acclimated to your new home. Hope slowly starts to leave as Johnny whispers promises of giving you pups and never letting you out of his sight.

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 4

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.  Christmas on a Friday means you won't be meeting Frankie this week. This break away from each other might be just what the two of you need to consider if you should carry on with whatever this is…

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 @frannyzooey you mean more to me than you will ever know 🧡

Word count: 14.3k

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Chapter 4: Frankie

Frankie scratches the stubble on his jaw. Behind the green screen of his aviators, under his creased brow, his eyes are riveted to the red light in front of him. His grip on the steering wheel too tight for safety. 

Something has to be wrong with this light because he’s been waiting at this intersection for ten minutes at least. 

He takes in an angry breath. Loud, but constricted. Yet it’s enough for your scent to fill his lungs. 

It might be a trick of the mind, because it’s been six days since you’ve been in here, and it’s still everywhere around him. It floats in the cab of the truck. It clings to the fabric of the seat. It’s woven into the suede leather of his jacket. 

It’s probably what it is, just a trick of his brain, but he’d like to know for sure. If your presence has pervaded the whole space, or if he’s losing his goddamn sanity. 

The light changes to green. His head rolls back on the headrest, eyes drifting close. 

It’s a light fragrance. A pale shade of yellow, and celadon green. Orange blossom, citrus, honeysuckle. It’s the very last days of spring, when the air is still chill, but the sunbeams are warm and blinding. Before summer sets everything ablaze, the southern wind, the asphalt, the concrete walls and the bodies. It’s the first sunny day on a pale winter skin. 

And there’s the sweet musk you exude, mixed with his own, when he’s fucked you hard and thorough. 

The car behind him honks and he jolts up in his seat, knees knocking against the wheel. He puts the pedal down to the floor in less than a millisecond, tires screeching, engine revving up. 

What the fuck is wrong with him? What is happening to him? 

The route to Will’s place is a familiar one. He drives absentmindedly down streets and avenues lined with palm trees, his mind wandering. To Lua’s shot, that’s due next week; to his Thursday shift he has to swap with Felix. To the gutters that need cleaning, and the front door he should repaint. To the overnight diapers he has to restock soon. 

To the feel of your smaller hands cupping his face, and the coolness of your touch. To that tiny pink wound on your forehead and the weariness in your eyes. To that scar on your knee in the shape of a grid, and that other one on your inner thigh you try not to let him see. To those two dimples above your ass and your scent, fuck, your scent, it does something to him. Something he didn’t ask for. Something he wasn’t prepared to deal with. 

When he turned around, back in that dive, and his eyes met yours, he didn’t feel anything. Or rather, he felt everything, all at once. The end and the beginning. The sweetness and the pain. Blood and honey. It was all there, contained in your luminous, telling eyes. He saw something in them. Something frightened, but brazen. A hunger. A madness. A longing. Something he recognized, and wanted himself. 

He took in your general appearance, the expensive clothes, the even more expensive bag, and he turned back around. Tried to convince himself you were just some corporate executive, bored with your life, looking for a cheap thrill and a quick fuck. 

He could sense your gaze, burning holes through his shirt into the muscles of his back, those damn eyes, wide, exhausted. And they kept boring into him. Strong, determined. They wouldn’t let go. You wouldn’t let go. 

So he left. He got up and stormed out. Went home to the guest room sofa, and his sleeping baby, and tried to forget about you.

Your eyes kept haunting his nights. And his waking hours too. And since he’s been clean, his days have gotten considerably longer. 

No more drugs meant sleepless nights, followed by never-ending stretches of daytime, with nothing to sustain his focus but stress and coffee. It means going to work, and flying on three hours of nonconsecutive sleep, while his thoughts swirl in his overwrought brain. Nothing to take the edge off.

He hadn’t realized the weight he was carrying until Lua was born. 

As long as he was in the military, he had kept his head straight. So many guys he served with were using; all kinds of shit. A genuine feel good hit of the summer. It was disconcerting, the ease with which they could score pretty much anything, in just about any country where they were deployed. As if it were made accessible to them purposefully. 

But not him. He had never needed it. His focus was sharp, his mood even and leveled, his mind clear. Every fiber of his being striven towards one goal: to watch over his brothers. To leave no one behind.  

Things started going south after he’d retired. They followed him. The ones he had left behind. Those times he’d been too quick on the trigger. All of them, soldiers and civilians. Faces without eyes. Deep, bleeding cavities, and dark gaping holes where their mouths should have been. Brothers and enemies merging into one big shapeless and viscous mass of casualties. 

They came to him at night, and soon, he stopped sleeping. Exhaustion exacerbated his temper. His control became tenuous. But somehow, he still kept going. 

When he met Lupe, he had told her everything. Five days a week, she was the voice in his headset, steady, constant, as she dispatched him and the crew of paramedics to wherever the emergency was located. She sent him to brutal, deadly pile-ups on the highway, burning high schools or heart attacks on remote hiking trails with an even tone that aroused his curiosity and inspired his trust. 

When they’d started dating, he confided in her. The nightmares, the difficulty focusing. She understood, but she also didn’t want anything to do with it. She’d answered with a blunt warning. I have my own shit to deal with, Morales, I’m not in this to save you. He didn’t want her to, anyway. He wasn’t her responsibility. 

He had stayed. And so did she. Things were good enough. They were in love. She was already well into her thirties, with a job that didn’t leave much time for dating, and even less for starting a family. She wanted a kid more than anything, and he thought normalcy would do it. That it would ground him enough to fix him. 

After Lua was born, he resorted to drugs to numb out and function. At the time, he had considered it to be a momentary solution. He needed the energy to care for her, not to keep it together.

The drugs helped at first. It helped with the nightmares. It helped with the realization that flying had, for most of his life, been his sole purpose, main goal and greatest talent, and that he’d used it to destroy, ravage and kill. It helped with the guilt. Even as it generated more of it.

The benzos put him to sleep for dreamless hours, and then the coke kept him awake throughout the workday. He thought he’d find some sort of footing. 

It didn’t help long, though. He got caught fast. Almost as if he wanted to be. And then it was all burning shame, and disintegrating self-esteem, with no means left to escape any of his feelings. 

Lupe gave him hell, rightfully so. His sister said nothing, which nearly killed him. She wired him money so he could hire a good lawyer. She’d been the one to advise him in the first place to think twice about bringing a baby into his mess. He still hated himself for not listening to her.

What hit him the hardest was the suspension of his pilot license. Who was he, if not a pilot? 

After the bust, he invested everything into being a good father. Lupe found it in her to forgive him, and things were pretty good for a couple of months. 

Until Pope came back with his bullshit idea. Frankie watched his friends buckle and fold, one after the other. Ben, Ironhead and Redfly. Until he had no other choice but to follow suit. Watch over his brothers. Leave no one behind.  

Flashes after that: Redfly coming back in a plastic bag, to join the mass of eyeless, gaping holes that kept him awake at night. 

The cruel irony of his suspension being lifted within a mere two weeks after he’d crashed that fucking Mi-8. Pope going into hiding, perhaps dead himself. The rest of them left here to slowly fragment, standing amongst all the things they broke beyond repair, with nothing to show for it. 

And then that one day, you collided into him. 

When he came back to the bar two weeks after your first encounter, it was with the firm intention of giving you what he thought you wanted. Scratch your itch, and his. Fuck you once, use you as an outlet, same way you probably wanted to use him. 

The very moment he saw you step inside the bar, he understood how wrong he’d been. 

You were not out for a cheap thrill or a quick fuck; you were not a bored, cynical executive looking to mix with the very working-class you exploited. 

You were in pain. Numbed out. Withdrawn. Absent.

For some reason, that fucked him up hard. He tried running away from you, but you came after him, headstrong. You sought him out. Without hesitation, or fear. And something held him back, prevented him from running away too fast or too far. He let you catch up with him.

You wanted him. You want him still. 

The sounds you make when you come, that breathless moan, full chest, empty mind, he knew he was in trouble when he pulled it out of you that very first night in the parking lot, against his truck. You clung to him, cold hands with a feverish touch. He was greedy and you thrashed before you went slack in his hold and right away he had wanted more. He risked a taste, licked his fingers, and you were heaven. You were unreal. 

He wanted to know so much more: what did you feel like from the inside when you came? How much of him could you take? What your voice would sound like after he’d fuck your throat? 

How much of you really existed? How much of you had he made up? 

He soon found out. About the sensation of your soft skin under his rougher hands. About your patience. About your scent. A pale shade of yellow and celadon green. Intoxicating. 

At the beginning, he thought you were coming to him for degradation, as much as for pleasure. There wasn’t a single debasing act he could come up with that you didn’t let him do to you.

You’d take anything he gave you.

Week after week, you let him fuck you numb, fuck you rough, fuck you raw. Tie you up, fold you down. Cover you in come, choke you on his cock, spit in your mouth. 

Friday after Friday, you kept looking at him like you couldn’t believe he was still here, pounding you blind into that shitty mattress. Not grateful. Surprised. Or relieved. He didn’t know what to make of it, of that dignity you forfeited when you crossed the threshold of that room that very first night. Of your surrendering. 

In retrospect, you understood your dynamic much faster than he did. Back then, he was still struggling with the idea that you were real. 

He grew wary, and in his head, a refrain started playing. Tonight’s the last night. There won’t be a next week. 

He couldn’t stop, though. One last night, that turned into two, then three, then four. He finally started getting decent nights of sleep, a restful slumber of which he felt undeserving. 

He had to put a stop to this. Just one last night, and there wouldn’t be a next week.  

He knew even more when his curiosity started to drift elsewhere. To your life outside the room with the brown rug and the yellow curtains. To that inner island of yours, the contour of which he was only starting to make out through the fog of his blunt desire. 

You kissed him like you knew he’d never be yours, so you’d be his instead. Like his breath was yours. Like your heart only beat under his hand. And yet, you kept eluding him, silent and slippery. The paradox drove him insane.

He grew restless in between Friday evenings, booking the room earlier each week. He forbade himself any other kinds of relief, and instead turned to books. Browsing, flipping pages impatiently, searching for words and concepts. Intellectual tools to rationalize the feeling of you, to understand your presence and describe your scent, because you wouldn’t let him name you, and probably never would. 

He thought that if he didn’t come inside you, perhaps you’d keep coming back to him.

It only made him want you more. The relinquishing drop in your shoulders, every time he asked you to stop him. He became obsessed with the thought of giving you what you knew better than to want. And in his head, the refrain kept playing.

One last night. One last fuck. One last fix. 

In comparison, it had been easier to quit coke. 

He can’t explain your pull. The way his body gravitates towards yours. He can’t explain the visceral craving. 

Aloof and soothing, with a will so hard and unbending it scares him, you take, everything that festers ugly inside him, and absorb it, making it disappear. You turn it into something beautiful, something that blooms and purrs and breathes. Orange blossom and honeysuckle. 

What do you do with all his rage? How do you cope with it? Where do you get this strength from? 

Your strength. He’s only beginning to fathom the magnitude and depth of it. 

It’s hidden beneath the surface of you, dormant, nestled in your quiet resilience, your accidental resistance. The remoteness of your gaze. It’s in your plea for him to take, until he knows he’ll stop breathing if he stops giving in. 

That place within yourself, where you retreat not to get hurt. That’s where he wants to find you. That’s where he wants to live. 

When you didn’t show up two weeks ago, he should have been relieved. He’d got out easy. You’d taken the decision for him. Inside his chest, however, anxiety chewed up his heart and set his nerves on fucking fire. The possibility that your absence was unwilling. That something might have prevented you from coming. Something, or someone. 

He had your plates written down in the little spiral notebook he kept in the glove compartment of his truck. He could’ve pull some strings, found out your address. Fuck, he could’ve found out your name. But it felt like a violation even thinking about it, no matter how sickly worried he was. Like a step too far into madness. Something he wouldn’t come back from. 

And then, you did show up. Exhausted, wounded. Twice as determined. He felt the overwhelming urge to get you into his truck and drive away with you, and never come back.

He felt the familiar grip of wrath, a blinding surge of hatred for this man who’s not quite your husband.

Pulling in front of Will’s building, Frankie puts the truck in park. He grazes a palm over his face, eyes falling on the ugly condo to his left. The teal-colored, budget paint peeling off the sunburned walls in large flecks. 

He sighs, remembering Will’s former house. The one he shared with his fiancée before she left him. Two stories, bow windows on the top floor, a white porch with a swing. Lilac trees in the front lawn. Conversations about having kids.

He readjusts his hat, fingers deftly combing through his hair, takes the six-pack next to him on the seat bench, and exits his truck, dark eyes quickly scanning the block for Ben’s car. The beat-up Camaro is nowhere in sight. He didn’t expect Ben to be on time anyway, but he’s hoping he won’t take too long to join them. 

In the narrow corridor leading to Will’s apartment, a neon lamp goes off and on in a spasmodic, irritating blink. The damp stench of molded wood cloaks his tense frame. He knows that if he tilts his head down to his shoulder and inhales deeply enough, he’ll find you there.

He doesn’t.  

Before he brings down his knuckles to the door, Frankie exhales long and slow. With closed eyes, pursed lips. It’s useless. His shoulders won’t relax. 

When Will opens the door, Frankie’s taken aback by how good he looks. How normal. Thick blond hair kept short, with a carefully trimmed beard. Brawny shoulders, creaseless shirt, alert gaze. Seemingly unchanged, incomprehensibly constant. 

Frankie leans a little longer than necessary into his friend’s full-body hug. When he lets go, the tall man briefly narrows his eyes at him, a steel-blue, surgical stare from behind long blond lashes.

“How are you doing, man?” Will asks in his lazy drawl.

The dim hallway feels too small for the two of them. Frankie’s skin is pulled taut under Will’s unblinking scrutiny. He lowers his head, tucking his face into the protective shadow of his hat. 

“Good. Same,” he mumbles. 

Benny’s buoyant entrance saves him, and it’s more hugs, bulky shoulders colliding, hands clasping and eruptive greetings as they slowly make their way inside the apartment.

“How’s my goddaughter?” Benny asks. 

Frankie smiles at the question. A genuine smile, crinkled eyes and dimpled cheeks. The warmth of the younger man’s baritone spreads in his chest. It’s the care in his words.

“She’s good. Growing up fast. I think it’s just a matter of days before she walks, now.”

“The minute she walks, I’m gonna teach her how to throw a punch,” Benny grins. 

Every time he visits, it takes Frankie a minute to adjust to the contrast between the exterior of Will’s building and the interior of his apartment, and tonight is no exception. The small, one-bedroom’s white walls look like they’ve been freshly painted. The sofa’s cushions are puffed as if no one has ever sat on it. Every surface is spotless, not a dust particle flying. The coffee table is bare, no glass of water, not even the remote control lying on it. 

Matching frames lined methodically on the living-room walls display family pictures, chronologically arranged, as well as a couple of shots from their time together in the Army. Frankie catches a glimpse of his younger self, cropped curls, sharper jaw, smoother grin. His arm is wrapped around Pope’s shoulders. He averts his gaze. 

In the kitchen, the stainless-steel sink is shiny and empty, clean dishes neatly stored away in the overhead glass cabinets. The stove looks like it was just delivered. 

Frankie knows himself to be tidier than most. When they started dating, Lupe would often tell him it was one of her favorite traits of his. 

But Will’s ability to inhabit a seemingly unlived place is unsettling.   

They take their usual seats around the small, round kitchen table. The two brothers fill up the room. Benny’s presence is bright, cheerful, in complementary contrast with his brother’s density and observing silence. Frankie lands somewhere in the middle. Like a bridge. Like a common ground.

The conversation flows between them, effortless. It would be easy to believe nothing has changed. Up until nine months ago, they used to meet at least once a week. Fight nights, bar nights, gym nights... Pope was rarely in town, Tom busy trying to make ends meet, so it was often just the three of them. 

Now, Frankie seldom sees the Millers more than once a month. But after thirteen years, ten of which they’ve spent serving side by side, he knows them well enough to notice the invisible changes. 

There’s a new sort of gravity to Benny’s demeanor. His laughter isn’t as loud, not as immediate. A loss in spontaneity. There’s Will's unusual patience and leniency toward the young man. The nervous glances at his watch whenever his brother’s late. 

Lately, Frankie has caught himself envying the two men’s bond. The many quiet ways in which they look out for one another. A tightly packed unit. Blood tied. 

He could call his sister. Hell, he could even hop on a plane with Lua and fly across the country to visit her, Lupe could probably use the break. His sister would listen. She already has. And she never judged. 

Will places three more cans of beer on the table. Frankie hesitates. He doesn’t need a DIU in his Christmas stocking.

“What are you guys doing for Christmas? Going back to Colorado?” he asks, stalling.

“Yeah, we’re flying tomorrow,” Benny answers with a slow nod. “Can’t leave mom alone.”

Frankie finds himself trapped under Will’s gaze again. It’s charged, with what, he cannot tell yet, but he’s ready to bet he’ll find out before the evening ends. That fourth beer is really tempting. Instead, his thumb finds the target tattooed on his left hand, blunt nail worrying at it. 

“Say, Fish,” Will starts. 

Here it comes.

“I met Lupe the other day at the grocery store.”

Frankie nods, steeling himself. Chin up, to meet his friend’s eyes. There’s the metallic crunch of a tall boy cracked open, followed by the bubbly, high-pitched hiss of the beer.

“Wanna tell me why she’s under the impression that we see each other every Friday evening?”

A second pair of storm-blue eyes dart to his face. If he wasn’t caught in the middle of it, Frankie could find the scene almost comical.

“Wait,” Benny cuts in, “you guys are back together?”

Frankie shakes his head. “No. No, we’re not.”

“But you still live together,” Will states, impassive, carrying on with his interrogation.

“For Lua,” Frankie says flatly. 

Those two words have come out of his mouth for what feels like a thousand times in the past nine months, to family, close friends, colleagues, and acquaintances alike. Today, for the first time, he realizes how incomprehensible, how irrational it might have sounded to all of them. 

“Why are you lying to her, then?” Will leans in closer, his face contrasted in harsh shadows under the overhead suspension. 

“Look Will,” Frankie starts, his tone a notch too defensive, “I appreciate your concern, I know this comes from a good place, but I’m not on anything, ok? So you can– you can drop it.”

The request is rhetorical. Desperate, really. Ironhead is not known for letting go, once he has latched onto something. Across from Frankie, Benny drinks up in silence, eyes flickering between the two men and the growing tension that hangs like smoke between them. 

An ugly apprehension creeps up along Frankie’s nape. 

“I know you’re not using. I can tell. You look better than I’ve seen you looking in a while, aside from the fact that you’re wound up pretty tight. But we’re in this fucking aftermath together, Fish, so I gotta ask: what the fuck is it that you do every Friday evening?”

Frankie sits up straight, folding his arms over his chest, blood simmering. 

“Are you saying you don’t trust me?” he asks, keeping his voice even.

“No. That’s not what I’m saying.” Will cocks his chin toward Benny as he adds, “I trust you with mine and my brother’s life.”

“But not with mine,” Frankie whispers, comprehension finally dawning on him, and somehow, his friend’s concern hits him harder than an unlikely lack of trust. Something snaps and goes slack between his shoulders. 

Benny moves suddenly, his massive frame leaning forward. Propping his forearms on the table, he lets out a long, low whistle. 

“Holy shit, man,” he says, “Fish got himself a new girl.”

Will frowns. His eyes do a quick back and forth between his brother and Frankie, who hangs his head, hiding under the brim of his hat, hissing an angered fuck.

Benny erupts in thundering laughter. Around them, the tension bursts open, the entire atmosphere dripping with it, the air moving again. 

“No. No, I don’t,” Frankie mutters, shaking his head.

His denial is drowned under Benny’s booming voice.

“Come on! Look at yourself, old man, you’re fucking blushing! You got yourself some pussy!”

“Do you? Did you meet someone?” Will presses, trying to lock eyes with him. 

Frankie gives it to him. Raises his head and looks him dead in the eyes, shaking his head still, a vein ready to pop in his corded neck. 

“I didn’t meet anyone. She’s not a girl. I’m not talking about her here,” he grits.

Will leans back in his chair. It creaks loud and tired under his weight. He lets out a heavy sigh, of relief perhaps, or deepened worry.

“Come on, Fish! Give us something. At least tell us what she looks like,” Benny teases. 

He opens another beer and slides it over to Frankie across the table. 

Will’s eyes have yet to leave his face.

“Why don’t you tell Lupe about it? She’s the one who broke up with you,” he remarks. 

“Less than nine months ago. After I fucked up, yet again. She’s the mother of my kid, Will, she’s been through enough on my account.”

Will nods in silence, apparently satisfied with this explanation. 

“Anyway, it’s nothing. There’s nothing to tell,” Frankie adds, swallowing the bitter taste that sits at the back of his tongue.

Silence settles over the three of them. Frankie grabs the can and brings it to his lips, downing half of its content in long gulps. 

Your scent is there, right there, meshed into the fabric of his jacket. It takes all of his willpower not to turn his head and breathe you in.

“She’s married, is she?” Benny asks with a shit-eating grin. 

Will’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline in sheer horror. 

“Is she?” he asks, plunging forward to look at him. 

Frankie grinds his teeth, jaw flexing, eyes clenching shut. 

“Fish, is she married?” Will repeats, a shrill undertone in his usual low drawl.

“Well, I, for one, am not judging you,” Benny declares, giving his brother a pointed look and raising his can as if to toast Frankie.

Frankie sighs. 

He’s never going back to that motel.

—

You don’t like champagne, but that’s all Adrian’s parents ever serve you. It’s fine. For once, you don’t mind. You’ll be driving later today, so you need your mind clear and your reflexes sharp.

You cradle the tall glass in your hand. The taste has long gone stale, the liquid lukewarm in the warmth of your palm. The bubbles are flat. On your lap, your phone buzzes quietly with a new message. Across the table, Adrian’s eyes dart in your direction, annoyance darkening them. 

You swipe your thumb across the screen, and a smile plays on your lips at the sight of Ava and Polly grinning for the camera. They’re sitting in the middle of a large group of women, you quickly count twelve of them, wearing a rainbow of paper crowns. 

They’re gathered in front of a festive table. A small living-room, brightly lit, cluttered with art, lamps, and plants. A Christmas tree stands in the left corner. In front of them, the plates are loaded with what looks like turkey and roasted vegetables. Napkins, cutlery, candles, and decorative pine tree branches scattered on the table. There’s a large cake dish at the center, on top of which sits the highest lemon meringue cake you’ve ever seen, the topping at least three inches high, clearly homemade. 

Some of the women are holding wine glasses, white or red, half full, lipstick smeared on the rim. The photograph has captured them mid-cheers, their lips pursed around a word that’s not yet a smile. The picture is all crinkling eyes, ringing laughter, colorful clothes and flushed cheeks. 

You tap your thumb on the screen in fast motions. 

Gorgeous! All of you!

Wait, is that turkey vegan?

You add a winking emoji to clarify your tone before pressing send.

The three dots blink briefly and the dark-haired, shrugging emoji pops up on the screen. 

You chuckle. 

It’s Xmas!!!!! Lexi’s filling is fkg delicious!!!!! 

What abt u? U holding up????

The little round yellow face, with its mouth turned downward, stirs guilt in your gut. 

Ava was tearing up again, when you dropped her at the airport two days ago, despite your many reassurances that you would be perfectly alright. It’s not your first Christmas apart, but it’s the first one with over a thousand miles between you. You want to put her mind at ease. For her to remain carefree as long as life allows her to be. 

I’m good, pup ♥ But I’d be even better if I was about to eat that meringue cake, OMG!

It’s not a lie, not exactly. Of course, it’s the first time in decades you’re completely sober to face the ordeal that is Christmas diner at Adrian’s parents. It’s almost an outer body experience. But strangely, not the nerve-racking one you feared. You anticipated worse. For every sensation to be impossibly loud, blinding, sharp. For your mind to spiral downward at the first uncomfortable interaction. 

It hasn’t. You’re nervous, but also focused. And that grip provides you with just enough balance. This year, you’ve got a clear course of action. At least for the upcoming couple of days. One step at a time.

Pinching the screen, you zoom in on Ava’s face, before your eyes flicker up to the dining table you’re sitting at and the people around it. 

Everything’s beige. From the tablecloth linen to the leftovers growing cold on the plates. From the Christmas tree and the guests’ clothing to Adrian’s mother’s hair.

Beige, bland, boring. Ashen.

The only touch of color is on Adrian’s face. Those ruby-colored specks spreading to his cheeks from the neck, standing out in his pale carnation. A reaction you only seem to arouse when he’s furious with you. 

His mother announces dessert will be served in the jardin d’hiver, which is how Beatrice insists on calling the back porch. 

Your phone vibrates, signaling another text from Ava. You slide it in the pocket of your jumpsuit without opening it. Adrian glowers at you a second longer before walking over to the end of the table to assist his grandmother. 

His brother nearly races him to it. You watch the grown-up man in his bespoke Armani suit get up so fast he nearly trips over the legs of his chair. 

Their motivation is not honorable. Affection doesn’t play into their eagerness. There isn’t a member of the Mountcastle family who harbors love or respect for the 92 year old, acrimonious matriarch. In their defense, she’s a dried-up, nasty piece of bigotry, built on pure, solid hatred, even by their conservative standards and values. 

But she owns the estate and she holds the money. And so the two Mountcastle spawns scramble to their feet to make a show of their devotion.

The whole clan gets up to form a procession behind the old woman’s frail, hunched silhouette. Parents, aunts and uncles, in-laws and cousins, children in ruffled dresses and short dress pants flittering around them. Your so-called family. You can barely tell them apart. 

Detached, you stride slowly behind, toward the back of the house. You haven't worn heels in two weeks. It’s quite surprising how fast you got unused to them. Your slick, black pumps press uncomfortably on your little toes, rubbing your skin raw. But you won’t be wearing them much longer. So you suck in the pain. You let it ground you. 

Your choice of outfit elicited a stern glance from Adrian when you slipped it on this morning. He hovered behind you, disapproving and silent, still riled up from your earlier confrontation when you had announced you’d be driving your car to his parents’ house, so you could leave early. 

You stood in front of the mirror, rigid and hesitant, sliding up the side zipper. A sleeveless black jumpsuit with a V-cut cleavage in the front, and a deeper one exposing your back, bought in a thrift store ages ago, when you were still in college. You exhumed it from the depth of your closet, in hopes it would convoke the boldness you had briefly experienced during this short period of your life. You’re done dressing to please anyone but yourself. 

The help walks briskly past you through the double, ornate-glass doors leading to the porch. She lays a porcelain tray on the console near the railing. 

“La bûche de Noël!” Beatrice declares triumphantly, opening her arms to gesture theatrically at the brown mass on the tray. 

A wave of blond heads undulates toward the console, blue eyes in every nuance darting at the dish where a log-shaped lump of a cake sits.  

“What is this monstrosity?” her mother-in-law croaks. 

The entire family falls silent. Your eyes grow wide and you bite down on your grin.

Beatrice instantly loses her carefully crafted composure. It’s never been obvious to you until now, how vacant her gaze turns whenever something upsets her. You briefly wonder what’s her drug of choice to escape. You sure hope she has one.

“Oh but it’s French, Abigail,” she murmurs. “It’s a delicacy. I bought it from Sucré Table, on Kennedy Boulevard.”

“What’s wrong with an American pecan pie?” the matriarch spits out without so much as a  look for her daughter-in-law.

Beatrice smiles her empty smile, sharp yellowed teeth, hardened gray eyes. You can’t bear to look at her any longer. You turn your head, and your gaze meets Agatha’s. 

The young girl instantly lightens up, straightening her back in her baby-blue seersucker dress, smiling at you with something you can only describe as relief. She raises a little hand and wriggles her thin fingers. The ten year old is your favorite. You love her dearly. Her bubbly personality and burgeoning sense of humor have seen you through many family gatherings. 

Today, it hurts you to admit, you’ve kept her at arm’s length, selfishly preserving yourself from Beatrice’s favorite question: when will you have a child of your own?

With a slight wince, you blink away the vision of Frankie holding his little girl in the photo booth picture. Their full heads of curls. Their dimpled grins. 

Charles, Adrian’s father, is the first to break the uneasy silence, with a playful albeit daring remark on his mother’s failing sense of adventure. The assembly lets out a collective breath. Beatrice takes a seat on one of the cushioned wicker chairs, curtly signaling the help to cut the bûche and serve it.

You exhale slowly through parted lips. If you wait any longer, courage will fail you. 

Smoothing your palms over your belly, you make your way to Adrian, where he’s leaning against the railing at the rear end of the porch. 

“I’ll be going, now,” you whisper, eyes not quite meeting his. 

He sighs, something constrained and hostile, facing away toward the sprawling, lush garden, hydrangeas, willow trees. Tension rolls off his lanky frame. Your stomach turns, your mind swivels, grasping for words of reassurance. 

Incomprehensibly, you want him to talk to you, even though you’re terrified of what he might say. The poisoned words he’s capable of, somehow preferable to his irate silence. 

“I’ll excuse myself to your mother before leaving. I’ll be discreet. I promise. I won’t do anything to jeopardize your–”

He turns to face you so fast it startles you. 

“You could at least tell me where you’re going.”

You look up at him, taken aback by his pained expression. Under his pinched brow, his features are twisted in an unfamiliar expression. He slithers a hand around your waist, drawing you close, and it strikes you: he’s pleading. 

A breath hitches inside your chest. From this close, you can see the flecks of green in his pale blue irises. You had forgotten their complexity. Their refined beauty. He tightens his grip on you, fingers curling into your tender flesh. The lie tumbles out of you before you can hold it. 

“I’m just going to check in on Ava. It’s her first Christmas on her own.” 

You catch a glimpse of his mother in your peripheral, handing out Bone China dessert plates. The heady perfume of the hydrangea bushes is going to your head. The day is swirling inside your brain, around you, jardin d’hiver, French dessert, delicacy. Agatha’s desperate little wave, her loneliness, your cowardice. Adrian’s eyes of green and their angry plea. 

Your lungs constrict, not letting you breathe.

Adrian tilts down his face, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath skates your skin when he speaks. 

“What happened to us, babe?” 

His lips brush against the edge of your jaw. Static scrambles your brain; your hand motions upward of its own volition to rest on his back. The pain, the remorse in his voice sits like a razor blade inside your throat. You have to talk around the taste of your blood, voice unrecognizable. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise.”

It’s not a lie. You will be back tomorrow. Facing a blank page, the rest of your life to figure out, to navigate with what you’ve learned about yourself. 

His hand moves, sliding down to rest in the small of your back, the muscles of his back flexing under your light touch, and your palm, your entire body registers the difference. In sensation, in mass, in warmth. 

“I miss you,” he whispers against your lips. 

—

The car stereo plays a classical rendition of Let it snow. Ten minutes into driving, you gave up trying to find a station that would broadcast something other than Christmas tunes. 

The traffic is fluid, the roads eerily deserted. The windows on both sides are cracked open, and the warm, late afternoon air that wafts in soothes your sore rib cage. 

Your mind keeps wandering to the previous Friday, when you sat nestled into Frankie’s side as he drove aimlessly. To the smooth fabric of his jacket under your cheek, to the heat of his chest, to his solid breadth. 

You stop it.

The memory is always a thought away. But it shouldn’t be summoned at random. You can’t risk its erosion. There won’t be another one. 

You’re disappointed to find a lanky young man sitting in Raul’s place behind the counter of the motel’s office. His blond hair is tied in a bun on top of his head, and his phone blasts pop tunes in audio slices of fifteen seconds through revolving TikTok videos. You want to cover your ears. Or smash up his phone. 

He hands you the key, and you all but rush out of the office, only slowing once you’ve reached the front door of your room. 

Before stepping inside, you halt under the porch. 

Beyond the parking lot, beyond the road, over the horizon, dusk descends in dark tangerine over the canopy of trees. Slowly, the sky turns saffron in seamless gradations. The air feels textured, grainy like an old photograph, like long-gone, sunny vacations, like faded memories. The evening breeze is pleasant. The night envelops you, violet-blue, regrets and losses. 

Inside room number 2, you draw the yellow curtains. You stand still for a few moments, confused, your routine disrupted, since you’re not expecting him.  

It’s too early to sleep, but the tension that has run through you throughout the week, culminating with Adrian’s kiss, is now flowing out of your body, leaving you limp. 

Adrian hadn’t held you like that in years. With passion and intent. Perhaps even sincerity. He’d never done that, attempted to use your nostalgic heart to his benefit. Intimidation had usually sufficed.  

Toeing off your shoes, you slowly undress. You fold your clothes in a neat little pile, similar to the one you found on the desk last Saturday. Military-like. 

The questions you never asked Frankie flood your brain. All the things about him you will never have the time to learn. They form a lump in the dip of your collarbone. They prickle under your eyelids. 

You clench your eyes shut, and invoke the image of his daughter’s face, trying to picture their Christmas celebration to strengthen your resolve. Pecan pies and half-nibbled, minute portions of roasted turkey. Red boxes wrapped in white ribbons under the blinking tree. A teddy bear. Jigsaw puzzles with large pieces. Plastic toys with pushing buttons and synthetic lullabies. A rocking horse, maybe. 

The image of him with that little girl has plagued you, continuously, throughout the week. Pain cloaking you like mist, seeping inside you, breaching the molecular structure of your flesh. Redefining it. Until you woke up one night, drenched in cold sweat, with a certitude ringing out inside your head: you had to give him up. Give him back, back to his wife and daughter. 

You’d go to the motel one last time, one last indulgence, to say goodbye to the idea of him, and you’d give him back to his family.

When your heart rate has slowed down, you walk over to the bathroom to wash your face clean. You’ll miss your reflection in that black-edged mirror. You don’t smile and say, “Stop me.”

The bedspread is gross. The polyester fabric, once a peach shade of orange, is darkened in multiple places by stains of various shapes and consistencies. You’re probably responsible for most of it. 

Grabbing a corner of the heavy quilt, you slide it off the bed entirely. The white linen underneath seems clean enough. 

You climb into bed, and repress a shiver. You switch off the lights and pull up the sheet to your chin. The fabric is threadbare, starchy. 

How can you be so cold, in the mild evening?

Lying curled up on your side, eyes strained on the curtains, you don’t feel yourself falling asleep. 

Soon, you’re miles away from the motel, your naked body drifting into the Pacific Ocean. You’re half-immersed, but afloat. The undercurrent is strong underneath the white crests of the violent waves, but you’re not scared. As long as you lie in the water, as long as you don’t try to resist, you’ll be fine. Ears beneath the surface, you’re isolated by the silence of the dark abyss, eyes staring up into the immensity above you. 

It’s a different kind of sunset. Flamboyant, carmine, and the whole sky is ablaze with it. The horizon is on fire, but you’re safe in the water. 

A vague intuition roils your peace. You’re supposed to look for something. How, you don’t know, because you cannot shift from your position, or you’ll sink. 

Suddenly, something tailspins across the sky in a fast downward fall. Too small to be a bird, too slow for a shooting star. Thick streaks of ominous gray fumes trail behind it in its descent.

Should you be scared? Should you try to get away from it? It’s so far in the distance, it can’t be much of a threat. It’s too late, now, anyway, you tilt your head to the side in time to watch it collide with the surface of the ocean. 

You feel the impact in the undertow. Something too big stirs between your lungs, and you gasp as the muted sound of the collision reaches you in a vibrating shockwave. 

The ripples of the impact are crawling fast over the surface, in your direction. A sense of dread, of impending doom, scrambles your brain. You jolt upward to a vertical position, legs and hands beating against the current, pushing against the water. 

The balance is fractured. You’re pulled under.  

You’re sinking fast, as fast as that thing fell into the ocean, and above the surface, the crimson sky is turning dim. 

Instinctually, you rebel against it, screaming for help but it’s water, not air, that fills your lungs. Salty, cold, abrading your throat when you choke on it. 

You’re dying, or you’re dead already, because something firm and soft radiates heat against your back. 

“Shhh, it’s ok.”

A strong arm bands firmly around your chest, warm palm, splayed fingers, pulling you flush against warm skin. 

“I got you, baby.”

Your eyes shoot open. The dark bedroom materializes in your blurred vision, the silhouette of the bedside table and the lamp, the pale square of the window. Its shape detached from the wall, dancing in the darkness. 

“Frankie?”

Frankie presses you into him, a short, strong squeeze of an answer. 

But your dream is clinging to the edges of your consciousness, salty water sloshing at the bottom of your lungs. 

“‘S that really you?” you ask again, words slurred through sleep, panic in the inflection of your question. 

His hand wraps around your breast. He slots his face into the curve of your neck, the scruff of his jaw a tickle against your bare skin. 

“Why, you were expecting someone else?” 

You close your eyes, tears rising, sudden, like the tide of the Pacific Ocean. 

“I’m not still dreaming?” you breathe out. 

His response is immediate. His teeth graze the slope of your shoulder. The bite is shallow, but firm, and you let out a little sound, between a surprised gasp and a relieved exhale. 

“See? Not dreaming. Go back to sleep, I’ll take care of you in the morning,” he mouths against your skin before kissing it better. A pointed kiss, plush, parted lips. A promise. 

The impact of that thing on the surface of the ocean is still pulsating through you. Ricocheting around your rib cage. You wiggle into his hold to turn around and face him, your palms finding the plane of his broad chest. 

Your entire body registers the difference. In sensation, in mass, in warmth.

In the semidarkness, you can only make out the outline of his sharp features. You scoot closer, tucking your face into his neck, taming the vibration with his scent. 

“Will you still be here in the morning?” 

You feel the thick swallow in his throat against your temple. It’s a beat before he moves, tilting his head to rest his chin on the crown of your head, both arms circling your waist. Engulfing you in his hold. 

“I will.”

—

Frankie knew you’d be at the motel. Instinctually so. A gut feeling, unnerving in its clarity. 

He hadn’t planned on going when he headed out. He had decided never to set a foot there ever again, and he was going to stand by his decision. After he’d put his daughter to bed, he just needed to get out of the house. Escape the charged atmosphere. 

It was Lua’s second Christmas, and he hadn't even managed to keep his family together that long. 

Lupe was watching a movie in the living-room. He’d leaned against the door frame, already in his hat and jacket. She hated his hat. She had forbidden him to wear it inside the house when they started dating, and he still abided by that rule. A belated mark of respect. 

“I’m heading out,” he announced, as neutral as possible. “Not sure when I’ll be back, don’t worry, ok?”

She was done being worried about him. He knew this much. He understood. He accepted. 

They still shared a roof, however. Bills, deadlines, and most importantly, responsibilities regarding the child they had brought into this world. He owed her basic information on his whereabouts. He may have lied about where he went, but he had always been back home before Lua woke up, as agreed between them.

“Yeah, ok,” she answered, without lifting her eyes from the TV screen. 

As he pushed away from the lintel, she turned to face him, as if remembering something. 

“Wait, Francisco?”

She hadn’t called him Frankie since she’d broken up with him. 

“Yea?” he said, backtracking to stand on the threshold. 

Her dark eyes glimmered, lit up by the TV screen’s flickering light. She was beautiful. A superior kind of beauty. Like gilded age Hollywood nobility. Dolores Del Rio, Linda Darnell. Even when tired, even with a bare face, and sitting in her pajamas with a bowl of chips between her crossed legs. Frankie hoped Lua would grow up to look like her. To be like her. And not take from him and his rough features. And his fucked up brain. 

“Could you stay in to take care of Lua next weekend? I know Friday’s your night, but I— I’ve got an opportunity to get away for the weekend. I might not be back until the 2nd.”

He recognized it in her demeanor. In the way she tried facing him without being able to look straight at him. The discreet, unconscious fiddling of the hem of her t-shirt. The concealment. Handing out a part, but not all the truth. Only what’s convenient. 

He briefly wondered if he’d been this obvious when he was running around on drugs. Probably even more so. How she didn’t kick him in the jaw was still a mystery to him. He owed her so much for her patience alone. 

“No problem, I’ll be here. Happy to do it for you,” he said in earnest, hoping it didn’t sound too awkward. Hoping she’d get the meaning behind it: she deserved someone else. Someone better. 

“Ok. Cool.” She paused before she added, “Appreciate it.”

He nodded in silence and turned around, walking toward the front door. 

Originally, the plan had been to drive without a goal. Pop an old Jefferson Airplane album into the truck’s stereo and listen to the music, drifting into the night. Slowly ease down from the day’s tensions. 

Your scent had eventually dissipated from the cab. It’d been eight days. He was never going back to that motel, and with her request, Lupe had just made his resolution easier to translate into action. 

The words formed inside his mind. He pronounced them out loud. 

I’m never going back to that motel. 

And he knew. You were there, at this very moment. He couldn’t explain how, but he knew. You’d said you couldn’t come, but it was Christmas evening, not Christmas Eve. Most families were done with the celebrations, heading home, cleaning up, storing away the china until next Thanksgiving. 

He pictured you sitting on the edge of the bed, a lonely silhouette peering out into the twilight beyond the yellow curtains, and a violent pain shot through his chest. He thought he was having a heart attack, the way his heart squeezed and sank. 

It hadn’t been more than a split second between his vision and his decision. He hit the brakes, ignoring the white SUV honking and swerving behind him, and U-turned on Ocean to head toward the 589 northbound. 

When he pulled into the parking lot, the night was pitch dark. Your gray sedan appeared in his headlights. He let out a sigh of relief as he parked behind it. The pain inside his chest was only starting to ebb. 

He got out fast and climbed onto the porch in front of room number 2. You hadn’t even locked the door. 

—

Dawn wakes you. The light gently tugging at your consciousness, little by little. Pale but insistent, nudging your eyes open. 

The room looks so different in the daylight. A miracle you have yet to tire of. Dust particles dancing in the grazing sunbeams of an early winter morning. Quiet and peace.

It’s been a long while since you last slept this well. You sigh at the cliché. A good-hearted, full-chested sigh.

Frankie’s heat behind you is nearly too much. His chest pressed against your back, his left arm, limp and heavy, resting across your waist. 

His breathing is deep. Slow, and steady. With each rise and fall of his chest, a thin sheen of sweat glides between your two bodies. His breath ruffles the thin hair on your nape in a gentle tickle.

Carefully, so as not to wake him, you try peeling his arm off you. You’ve almost made it when he suddenly brings it back down. 

“Nope,” he mumbles with closed eyes. The word is sleep-heavy, but the corner of his lips are twitching.

You stifle a delighted giggle.

“I have to use the bathroom.” 

“Mmh.” 

There’s a pause as he considers it, as you vainly try to bite down on your childlike grin.

“Ok,” he finally says, with exaggerated reluctance. 

He doesn’t move his arm, though. You have to wiggle yourself out of his hold. 

When you exit the bathroom, he’s still in the same position. The room is flooded with light. The sun darts its rays into his sleep-mussed hair. From golden strands to darker depth, his curls are pointing in every direction. 

You tiptoe in silence, doing your very best to climb back on the bed without disturbing his slumber. You want this. More than anything you’ve ever wanted. This tranquil moment to yourself, alone with his sleeping body. 

Kneeled behind him on the mattress, you take in his breadth, impressive even in this position as he lies on his side. You breathe in his scent, leather, cedar wood, and the musk of his skin, warm from sleep, from the morning sun, from your own body. 

There’s a larger freckle on the left side of his neck. Your fingers hover over it, curious, tempted. Drifting higher, your gaze uncovers a faded tattoo behind his ear. You can’t make out what it represents. The green ink is blurred, as if smeared underneath his skin. You doubt it was professionally done. It tugs at your heart with a sharp little pang of a pain to imagine him as a teenager. Tall and lean, smooth cheeks, smooth skin, a friend hunched over him with a needle and an ink pen.  

There’s another one on his left hand. This one, you know well. You’ve kissed it. Licked it. Held on to it. It’s nestled on the muscle between his thumb and index finger. Two circles and a dot in their center. A target, you assume, but you can’t be certain. The pile of clothes folded in military fashion springs to mind. 

Your eyes continue their exploration, flicking to his other wrist, with its inked arabesque, but it’s over in a second. 

You let out a sharp gasp, and he moves so fast you can’t deflect. His arm seizes you by the  waist, strong and unyielding. He drags you over his body, and you stumble onto the mattress in front of him. 

“What are you doing, back there?” he husks, a smile in his tone, and you giggle, again. 

He pulls you in close to him. 

“I’m looking at my Christmas present,” you answer.

He lets out a low chuckle. You made him laugh. Pride flares up in your chest. He smiles a dimpled smile, and you suck in a shaky breath, more pain blooming inside your rib cage. 

“You’re so pretty in this light,” you whisper in wonderment.

“You’re pretty in every light.”

“How would you know, you haven’t opened your eyes yet,” you tease.

You tease. Your levity makes you dizzy. 

His eyebrows disappear in his soft curls. He lifts one eyelid, pursing his lips. The morning sun catches at the mahogany of his iris. 

“You questioning my judgment here?” 

Smiling, you move your hips closer to his, to where you want to feel him. The low rasp of his voice is dripping down inside you, slowly, surely. Swirling like honey. Thick, rich trickles of amber, sticky and sweet. Like the light playing on his freckled skin. Like his warmth under your hands. Too much and not enough, pooling down between your legs. 

Reaching up, you scratch your nails in his beard, tracing the heart-shaped, bare patch on his jaw with your fingertips.  

“Is it ok that you’re still here? At this hour?” you ask, focusing on the tip of your finger.

“I don’t know. I hope my truck is not gonna turn into a pumpkin,” he answers, giving your waist a little pinch.

“I hope not. I like your truck.” 

Your fingers travel down along his strong neck. 

“How’s your head?” he asks. 

The bobbing of his throat is mesmerizing. It’s a minute before you’re able to answer.

“You still don’t believe I fell, do you?”

“I believe you. It’s him I don’t trust.”

You’re brought back, violently so, under Beatrice’s porch, into Adrian’s arms and his lips pressed to yours, prying them open. To his taste on your tongue, bitter like stale champagne. Yesterday afternoon. Forever ago. 

Perhaps he sees the memory clouding your gaze, because his leg wedges between yours, his body curling around your body. Protective, possessive. He nuzzles into the curve of your shoulder, taking in a deep, full breath. His lips trail open-mouth kisses, tickling and wet, along the line of your throat. You burrow into his chest, into his hold, into his world.

The words bubble up from the depth of your chest, from where they formed between your lungs, where the creature is purring, lapping honey, warm and content. 

“My name is Lee.”

Frankie pulls back immediately with a wide-eyed stare. You see, more than you hear, the name rolling around the tip of his tongue, as he tastes it on his palate. 

“Lee. Lee. Lee.”

On the third occurrence, his hand circles your hip and slides down to the round of your ass, grasping your flesh as if to hold you down. Make sure you won’t vanish. There’s that perpetual crease between his brow. His heart is thrumming hard and fast against yours. You grow restless between his arms.  

“I hate it,” you say.

“What?”

You swallow thickly, mouth cardboard dry. 

“My name.”

He props himself up on his elbow to better face your scowling expression, eyes piercing you under his deep frown. 

“Why?”

“They gave me my grandfather’s name. Lee Abbott. Lee Abbott & Son, import export,” you recite. “It’s not even mine.”

Your eyes flicker, scanning his face, trying to read the ticking of his jaw, the widening of his pupils. 

“I think it’s perfect. Lee’s perfect.”

His voice is breathy, like he just took a punch to the gut, and it sends your mind reeling. Is this what he sounds like when he’s lying?

“How?” You wrestle the question out of your throat, and it’s still barely audible.

“It’s fearless. It’s fucking badass,” he answers without missing a beat, his tone softer than you’ve ever heard it. 

“What?” you scoff incredulously. You shake your head on the starched pillowcase. “I’m not badass. I’m not fearless, Frankie, I can guarantee you that.”

The pink tip of his tongue darts between his lips as he narrows his gaze on you. His hand leaves your hip. He brings it up to your face, and he pauses. An inch from your skin, like he’s taming an animal, scared, wild or wounded, or all three, before brushing his knuckles to your cheek. 

It’s overwhelming, his body hunched over yours. Crowding your senses. Filling your vision. His rhythmic strokes, rough hand, gentle touch. It’s something you had foreseen but weren’t quite ready to experience: his ability for tenderness. 

You’re cornered. Entirely. You should probably be scared. To some extent, you are. But you know you’re safe, the feeling instinctive. You must trust the waves, trust the tide of this deep dark ocean. It’ll keep you afloat. Embrace the impact. Embrace its concentric ripples. 

“Ok,” he starts. “Here’s how I see it. Marion… Marion, she’s hiding. She’s running away with something that’s not hers, right? Something she stole. Whereas Lee… Lee got out there and she took chances. She got what she wanted. She made it hers.”

Your heart beats inside your throat, blood flushing your face and rushing through your ears with a deafening roar. 

“Did she?”

He nods. 

“Yea. Yea, she did.” 

He leans down, slowly lowering his lips to yours. His kiss is patient, reverent, slow-building. Plush lips wrapped around yours, tongue gently prodding, softly coaxing you open. Between your arms, his shoulders tremble under the force of his restraint. 

When you ease into it with a quiet whimper, he draws you in closer. You arch up in his embrace, fingers threading through his curls, right leg brushing up along his. 

His mouth crushes yours with a groan. He licks inside you, tongues entwined, swirling. Honey dripping down your spine, fire licking up your core, electricity tingling along your limbs. 

Kisses that are more teeth than lips, when he trails the line of your jaw, the coarse hair of his beard scrapping your cheeks. Calloused hands spamming the expanse of your smooth skin, cupping your breasts, rough and needy, and you feel the hot press of his hard length against your belly as he rocks against you. 

Your heart is impossibly light. Like it’s going to rip through your rib cage and fly away. Like you’ll be left without one, and the wild creature, always demanding more, will take its place. Because that’s what it’s been waiting for, since the very beginning. 

Forgotten, your good will and resolutions, weak promises you made to yourself. Pushed back, pushed down, guilt and photo booth pictures of his dimpled baby girl. Drowned, intrusive memories, blue eyes, white porch, French delicacy. 

He’s yours, he said so himself, didn’t he? For the first time ever, something’s yours, wholly. You got him, because of everything you surrendered. 

And it matters not that you’re lying to yourself. That, really, he belongs to somebody else. It matters not when his mouth is all over you, greedy, taking. Devouring you. When his fingers are gliding through your soaked folds, breaching your entrance. When they’re buried inside you, thick and curled and pumping. 

When you’re blooming sticky and wet, pretty and dazed, bursting open under his touch, moaning his name. 

He’s yours now. In this room. In the gift of your name. In your heart that’s flying away from you as you clench and shatter on his hand. 

He pulls up, blown out pupils, damp wild curls falling on his forehead. He drags his fingers out of you and the emptiness prickles at the corner of your eyelids. His eyes are trained on you as he licks them. As he smiles, a cocky grin stretches his gorgeous lips and dimples his pretty face, and perhaps this is as close as you’ll ever get to see him looking like his teenage self. That smug smile. All pride and confidence. 

You’re sinking into that shitty mattress, weighed down by melancholy and pleasure and regrets. And something else. Something more stubborn than you, that you still cannot name. 

Frankie fastens his mouth to yours, sharing your taste with you, wedging his body between your legs, spreading your hips with his waist. 

Your emptiness is throbbing at the center of you. 

“Frankie please, please.”

“Yes, baby. Told you I was gonna take care of you.”

Flexing his hips, he rubs his length against your scorching heat, coating himself in your slick. Anticipation tingles through the blunt edges of your previous release. You squirm under the weight of him, knees touching the mattress, cracked open, vibrating. 

He lines up at your entrance, dark eyes focused on your face, and oh god, the fucking size of him. The fucking stretch. The burn as he inches in, excruciatingly slow. It has you blinking away tears of pain and gratitude, it has you whining his name. 

He’s all blown-out pupils, taut muscles, and slack jaw, as he sheathes his cock inside your heat, all the way in. Round head nudging at your cervix. The sight of him, nearly wrecked, control waning, as he makes room for himself inside you rips through you. 

“You feel so damn good, Lee,” he says, impossibly soft, and you feel it inside your chest, with the way he’s lying on you. 

It’s a stretching glide, when he starts moving. A spreading grind. You can feel every vein, every ridge of him. He hooks an arm under your knee and folds you around him. He’s not fully pulling out, he can’t, he needs you wrapped around him, this much you understand, clearly, through the annihilation of his deep strokes. 

Forehead to forehead, chest to chest, you can’t breathe and your body’s a thinning envelope between your heart and Frankie’s. It’s too much, his weight inside and over you, his breath in your mouth, his smell everywhere. 

You’re overwhelmed, forced to surrender to the fire coiling inside you. With the coarse hair at his base scraping against the sensitive bud of your clit, with his cock, hot and heavy, dragging against your walls. 

Your body jerks underneath him, fingernails digging into the meat of his shoulder to draw him closer, your other hand pushing him away and he moves fast, strong fingers circling your wrist and sliding your hand above your head, twining your fingers. You’re pinned down. Helpless. Willing. Unmoored by the intensity of the building impact. 

He feels it, feels your frantic flutter around his cock and the frenzied racing of your pulse and he drives in deeper, faster, harder. The room fills up with the sound of his sweat-damp skin slapping against yours. Louder than the creaking bed, louder than the headboard’s thud on the wall. 

“Oh god!” you cry.

“Come on, baby, give it to me,” he grunts into your mouth.  

—

Frankie sees the plea in your eyes, shiny with tears, too wide, too glassy. Come with me, you’re begging him, come inside. He’s never fucked you like that, not you, not anyone, he’s never bared himself so fully. He’s gonna lose himself for good, this time. 

You’re breaking up under his rolling hips, bucking hard against the press of his body. Eyes rolling to the back of your skull, clenching cunt, clenched eyelids. 

Something blares up in the back of his head. A signal. An alarm. 

He can’t even fuck you through it. You let out a broken cry when he pulls out, spurting dense ropes of come on your mound with a tense “fuck.”

A dry little sob rattles through your chest. Muffled, apologetic. 

He untangles his fingers from yours, unhooks your leg from his arm. Pushes away from you on the rumpled sheets, and it’s etched on your face, in your pinched brow, in your quivering lip. The disillusion. The void he’s failed to fill. 

That fucking heart attack of a pain squeezes at his chest again. 

He rolls onto his back, freeing you, and you gulp in a large breath. 

In the room, the air is stifling. Charged with the coppery smell of sex. The daylight is unforgiving with the chipped furniture and the moth-eaten curtains. With that ugly painting of the Appalachian. 

“Let’s go clean you up,” he says, sitting up with a cinch. Unable to bear your silence. 

“No,” you whisper. “I need a minute.”

You shut your eyes close. You retreat. He watches you disappear beyond the shore of your inner island. Where he cannot follow you. 

There’s noise coming through the paper thin walls from next door. Several voices, a television, maybe. Further away, the low humming of a vacuum cleaner. 

How long until room-service robs you from him?

He lies back down. Stares at your profile, still and absent, cut out in amber against the light from the window. 

Lee. 

The most beautiful name he’s ever heard. He briefly noted the similarities: three letters, starting with an L. Lee. Lua. A perfect balance. 

It tastes like honey. You said, “My name is Lee” but what you meant was, “I trust you.” 

What has he done with your trust? 

How could he ever imagine himself capable of living without this? Without you? Without this room, even? 

His mind drifts to his early morning routine, Lua curled up on his lap, drinking her bottle with those hungry, little grunting noises. Chubby little fingers wrapped around his thumb. 

He was always an early riser. Which was practical during his time in the Army. The nightmares, the drugs, they disrupted that. He could be up, without being awake. Without being there. 

But lately, he’s the first to rise again, no matter how late sleep finds him. 

He loves that Lua seems to know he’s awake. She never cried in the morning. When she was just a newborn baby, she would make those quiet babbling noises. Now she calls his name. Papa. 

He comes into her room with her bottle ready. Most mornings, she’s up, already, holding herself upright with the bars of her crib. That smile she gives him, when she sees him. That’s his morning sun. 

He picks her up with one hand, she weighs so little, and yet so much. He covers her face in tickling smooches until she stops giggling and starts pushing him away, making grabby hand gestures at her bottle. 

These moments of a peace he doesn’t deserve, in the early, blue hours, he owes them to you. You’ve smothered the nightmares. You’ve quietened his mind. Patiently chipped away at the walls he had erected between himself and happiness, with your quiet, determined strength. 

Fuck. 

You’re getting up. He watches you climb off the bed and saunter off to the bathroom. He doesn’t want to stay alone on this bed, in this room. Without you. 

So he follows you, standing on the threshold, leaning on the door frame of the windowless bathroom, looking at you as you clean yourself with a towel. 

The paint is coming off on the lintel. The small neon above the sink lights up shit. The shower head is crusty with limestone. Humidity speckles the ceiling in black, hairy dots above the bathtub. 

He hates himself for taking you here. 

Back in September, he had chosen the place because it seemed sufficiently remote. Because he hoped it would deter you. Scare you away. 

He hates that you didn’t even flinch. 

He hates that he’s grown fond of this shithole. 

You turn and hand him a glass of water. He steps inside with you. You watch him drink up, head tilted and your big, searching eyes on him. The resolve that sharpens them, that he witnessed emerging, Friday night after Friday night, as resignation receded. That’s what guides him now. 

There’s something intrinsically soft, a new kind of intimacy, about standing together in that bathroom. Soon, you’ll have to part. The imminent separation hangs heavy and silent between you. Tangible. He wants you again, already.

You’ve sensed the storm raging inside his head. He can tell, because it’s as though you’re trying to absorb it with your calm demeanor. He resents that. Doesn’t want you to. His moods are not your burden to carry. 

You take the glass from him and run the water over it to clean it. As if the cleaning service won’t do it once you vacate the place. 

His eyes flicker up to that mirror, to your dim reflection. Mussed hair, relaxed shoulders. Your face, solemn, illegible. And his, darker looking. A trick of the weak lighting. Pitch-black eyes, flexing jaw. Towering over you. Threatening. 

The reflection is like an old photograph, a decayed daguerreotype that reveals a ghost. A girl and her demon.

He moves forward to crowd you, until your hips knock against the sink, his own pressing against your cheeks, his cock half-hard already. The glass falls into the sink with a clatter when he grasps the hinge of your jaw, twisting your head upward and to the side. 

“You like it when I spit in your mouth, Lee?”

You nod. “I do.” 

He gathers it inside his mouth, and you open yours, diligent, hungry, pulling your tongue out with a soft whimper, and his cock twitches in the small of your back. His spit rolls down his tongue to yours. You raise to your tiptoes with a needy little moan. He watches your reflection as you swallow. 

His mouth crashes over your lips, sloppy kiss, scraping teeth. Hands kneading rough at your tits, rubbing their hardening peaks between his fingers. 

“I want to fuck you in that shower,” he growls, teeth finding the edge of your jaw. 

You arch back into him with a broken moan, but to his surprise, you say, “We can’t.”

His hand skates down your front, down the slope of your belly, fingers roughly parting your folds and fuck. You’re soaked. You’re dripping for him.  

“Why?” he brushes against the shell of your ear. “There’s time. I want you again, Lee.”

“I want you too, Frankie, I—” you try to move away from the sink, your strength a poor match for his. “We can’t because we literally can’t, that shower is impossible.”

Your laughter startles him. Stepping back, he gives you room, and you move immediately, sitting on the edge of the tub to demonstrate. Smeared with your arousal, his fingers circle his cock, absentmindedly, brain fogged in a lustful haze as you run the tap. 

“There’s no hot water. Well, there is, a little, but look, there’s only pressure with cold water. And…” you look up at him with a cheeky grin, “that’s kind of where I draw the line.” 

There’s a glimmer of pride in your eyes as you deliver your joke.  

His heart fucking sinks. He’ll get that heart-attack, eventually. 

“You’ve showered in there, with that broken tap, all this time?”

You nod with a bemused smile before you shrug, comfortable, easy. 

“Well, at the beginning. I haven’t in a while.” You pause before you add quietly, “I like to keep you on me.”

Frankie lets out a long sigh. His cock resting thick and heavy against his thigh. You make him so fucking hard. You make him stupidly soft. You drive him out of his goddamn mind. 

The words come out of him before he gets the chance to think them over. 

“I’ll bring my tools next time. I can probably fix it, if I can access the boiler.”

Getting up, you close the distance between you. 

“You could fix it?” you ask, wide eyes gazing at him in amazement. 

He chuckles, a velvety rumble from his chest, something assertive and low, the sound of which he had forgotten. He considers telling you about his engineering degree. Enumerating all the aircraft he can fly. Fucking boast about it. Because he wants you to know. 

The memory of the crashed Mi-8 in the middle of the coca field invades his mind. Twisted rotor, broken hull. Smoking motor, shattered glass. He can smell the gasoline. Feel the sting of his own sweat and blood in his left eye. 

You skim your hands up along his arms. Bring him back to you, to room number 2. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he grits through a clenched jaw. 

“Like what?” you ask, voice honey sweet. 

You curl your fingers around his biceps.

“Like I can ask you anything.”

“Why not? You can.”

He has to tell you. Tell you he cannot come next week, but that he’ll be back the week after. And the following. As long as you’ll have him. 

Only he catches it before he has a chance to speak. That shadow that plays across your face. The beginning of your retreat, behind the clouding of your eyes. 

“What is it?” he asks, and he has to swallow down the taste of dirt in his mouth. 

You let your hands drop to your sides. You can’t even look at him. 

“Hey, what is it?” he presses, cupping your face. 

“Can’t come next week.” 

You’re so quiet, leaning into his palm, no more than a whisper, and it fucking breaks him. 

“I’m going to that— stupid ski resort. Every year, I– I don’t even ski. I hate it. I just hate it. All I do is wait around all day.”

Eventually, you raise your eyes to his face as he flexes his jaw. He sees you police your expression for him.

“It’s not that bad. I get time to read,” you backtrack. 

Like you triggered the fury his eyes are burning with, and not that piece of shit of a man who takes you to places where you don’t want to be, just to keep you around fucking waiting. 

But his anger subsides abruptly. Everything falls into place. Your presence here last night, your sudden sadness. Like him, you had decided not to come here again.

“Were you going to tell me?” he asks, trying to suppress the resigned sorrow from his tone.

He doesn’t need you to answer. He knows the refrain. He’s never going back to this motel. 

“I saw the picture in your wallet, Frankie. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. But I did.”

Three letters. Starting with an L. A perfect balance. 

“And what does it change?”

His grip tightens, hands sliding through your hair to the back of your skull, thumbs rubbing circles into your cheeks. You’re cold to the touch. You grasp his wrists, hold on to him, like you did last week in the parking lot. Eyes glimmering, a first tear dangling from your lashes. 

“Listen,” he starts, “if you want to stop… this, obviously, I won’t hold you back. But—”

He has to pause. Rake his brain for words, words that fail him, words to express the sadness and the loss and the fear. 

He breathes deep, and your scent fills his lungs. A pale shade of yellow, and celadon green. 

“But I will miss you, Lee. I will miss you so fucking much.”

That tear breaks free. Rolls down your cheek, and he catches it on his thumb.  

“I’ll miss you too,” you whisper.

“Then come back to me. Keep coming back to me, baby.”

There’s that pull. The violence of it like a blow. And you must feel it too, because you leap up to him as he leans into you, and your mouths collide. He’s crushing your lips, licking into you, cocking your head to deepen the kiss. Fingers digging into your waist, into your hips, down your thighs as they roam. A harsh, restless furrow. Looking to bruise, to leave a mark, an imprint of him. 

Your arms fold around his shoulders, pulling him in, nails denting little red crescents into his skin, and he groans into it. A primal sound that rumbles around you and bounces off the dirty tiles. 

His mouth drags wet and hard along your throat. Biting down, sucking in, teeth sinking into your pulse point. He follows it down to your heart. The beating thud, the flowing bloodstream. Hunched over you, lips trailing to your sternum, face burying between your breasts. He bites into the swell of it, pushing the flesh of it into his mouth, latching onto your nipple. A hard suck. Sharp. Painful. 

You keen. Folding over him when he falls to his knees. Threading your fingers through his curls with a choked off moan when his teeth scrape the soft flesh of your belly, where you still taste of him. He can smell your sex, rubbed pink and raw from when he fucked you earlier, less than twenty minutes ago. 

He bites into the tender skin of your inner thigh, around the long, thin scar you hide there, and you spread your legs wider. 

“Good girl,” he grunts.

There’s a knock on the front door. Someone calling “room-service” from outside, and you gasp, hand flying to clasp over your mouth. He couldn’t care less. 

“Don’t fucking move,” he growls into your skin. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you answer, voice high and breezy, and it shoots straight to his cock.

He lifts your leg, slides it over his shoulder, and you grip the sink for balance with a little shriek as he dives between your folds, fingers curled around the swell of your ass. It’s not soft, it’s not tender, there’s no Stop me. It’s urgent and commanding. It’s messy, desperate, demanding. 

His mouth is hard, wide open, cupping your cunt, his neck pulled taut. Tongue curling around your clit, flickering, plunging into your wet, hot center. Licking your slick straight from your walls, drinking you up. You buck into it, riding his tongue, your pleasure, his face, and he groans into your heat. 

His face presses up into you until you nearly topple over. You’re all ragged breaths and wanton whimpers. He wants more, wants to feel you from the inside, and it’s a need, really. Your skin melding with his. Your sex scorching him raw. 

It’s your louder cry, loud enough to cover the repeating knocking, when he pulls away.

“Gotta fuck you, baby,” he rasps, getting up, grabbing you by the waist to turn you around. 

His voice sounds wrecked, as wrecked as he feels. Cock throbbing angrily between his legs. 

“Fuck,” you pant, “I want— I want you to— want you to fuck me.”

He watches you, transfixed, as you face away from him, bracing your hands on the slippery porcelain of the sink. Back bowed, ass perked up. Offered. Waiting. Wanting.

“Oh shit,” he pants. “Fuck.”

He catches his reflection in the dark mirror. Black eyes, hungry. Lips shining with your arousal. A carnivorous expression. It scares him. Like he’s about to eat you whole, eat you raw. A girl and her demon. No one to stop him. 

Circling his cock, he spits down on it, smearing the saliva down his length with a couple of strokes, and he’s at your entrance, hot like a fever, leaking wet and sticky for him. 

Hand brushing up your arched back to curl around your nape, holding you still for him, he drives into you to the hilt with all his strength. 

A broken cry rips through your chest. He pauses inside you, sweat breaking on his forehead, eyes trained on where he disappears inside you, forcing you open for him. Less to let you adjust than to revel into it, the feel of you from the inside, clenching around him. Gripping him, breathing heavily with the stretch of him. 

“Good girl, good fucking girl,” he husks with an obscene smirk, something akin to pride at how well you take him. 

Your head dips between your shoulders and he hears your breathless laughter. 

He pulls out of you, cock catching thick and stiff at your entrance, glistening with your slick, and thrusts right back in. He keeps moving. Long, thorough strokes, fast and steady, dragging along your walls, bumping against your cervix. His other hand a bruising hold on your hip, and those little grunts tearing through your throat with every slap of his hips against your ass. 

You’re standing on your tiptoes, legs trembling, but pushing back into him. Meeting him thrust for thrust, with your small hands braced around the edge of the sink in a white-knuckle grip, and he can’t take his eyes off it. Off that line pulled taut between your shoulders, your grip, your grit. 

Your greed for him. Your fucking determination. 

There’s that pull again, that hunger for more of you, all of you. He bands an arm between your breasts and draws your back flush to his chest. You’re always so pliant. His hand a careful wrap around your throat to hold you upright and fuck. You’re a sight to behold. In that black-edged mirror. You’re a fucking vision. The mess he’s made of you. Fucked out, flushed skin, cock drunk. Sweat-damp hair glued to your beautiful face. 

You’re gripping his arms with both hands, holding on to him, and your eyes find his in the reflection, burning a hole through his soul like they did all those months ago, back in the bar. His heart trips. It swells furious and pounding inside him, how good you look together, how right this feels, your two bodies entwined, surrendering to each other. 

“I feel so good, Frankie, so good when you’re moving inside me,” you tell him, eyes fluttering. Your voice trickling like honey inside him, your sweet slick dribbling around him, soaking the hair at his base. He can hear it with every one of his thrusts. Can taste it where it lingers on his tongue. Lick it from his lips. 

It’s gonna fuck him up. How much he wants to be yours. Fuck up his sanity and everything he’s got that he hasn’t yet destroyed, just how fucking much he wants you to belong to him. Only him. 

He will carve you into his shape if he can’t carve you out of him. 

He skates his hand down to your mound, kneading your soft flesh along the way, the bone of your hip, the small slope of your belly. He finds the hardened peak of your clit, fingers gliding around it. 

Driving into you in deep harsh strokes, he presses his lips against the shell of your ear, hot breath fanning your skin.

“Gonna fucking ruin you for him, baby. Won’t let you go until you’re fucked full of me.” 

“Oh god yes!”

You clench around him, cunt impossibly tight when he shoves you down on it. He sees the tears streaking your cheeks. Feels the shallow bite of your nails into the tense muscles of his forearms when he grinds against your soft cheeks.

“Watch me, Lee. Watch me fuck you full of my come. Gonna fuck it so deep inside you, you’ll be leaking me for days.”

You suck in a sharp breath. Mouth gone slack, eyes locked on him in the mirror, wild and craving. Everything else disappears, the world fades around your two bodies. There’s nothing but your weight between his arms, the feel of you around him. 

Hand wrapped around your neck, he angles up his hips, reaching deeper than he’s ever been, into that spot that makes you cry. His fingers rubbing at your clit, more slick gushing out of you. 

There’s a fast coiling heat in his loins. A fire, licking up his spine, balls drawing tight, cock swelling. 

“I’m coming,” you whine, “Frankie please—”

The words stretch out of you as you trash into his arms, crashing hard around him. He follows with a grunt, loud, primal, possessive. Pumping his come, thick and searing, deep inside your gripping cunt. His vision darkens. 

There’s blinding pleasure. Your skin. Your scent. 

The knowledge that you're his.  

****

[blorbocedes]

somno/norstappen 😈

cw: dead dove, do not eat

Lando has a bad habit of falling asleep just about anywhere.

The first few times it happened, Max basically brought the house down. Dragging Lando to safety, convinced someone had spiked his drink because how could he just pass out in the middle of a party, in the club VIP rooms, in the business class lounge like that?

It's not his fault, Lando is a sleepy drunk. He doesn't even need a bed, even the floor is comfortable enough when drowsiness catches up to him.

"You can't just fall asleep everywhere! You don't know if people will take advantage of it." Max admonished for the nth time.

"I'm sorryyyy." Lando whined.

It happens again.

At Max's house party in Monaco.

Lando wakes up on the floor, feeling cold, sticky and wet. The house is quiet, the party's probably over. Lando's not wearing a shirt, and his underwear is bunched up against his knees. His chest is sticky, like dried beer foam.

"Ow." He says. It cramps to move, so he doesn't. Groping around, he notices there's some Polaroids stuck to his body. Someone drew a flower around his nipple.

The first one is tame. He's asleep, but still clothed, and someone's drawn a penis on his forehead. Real mature.

The next is his shirt lifted up to his reveal his belly, and SLUT with sharpie written across his abs. Above on his chest it says FREE USE.

It gets worse. His bare ass this time underwear pulled down, with a pink handprint. He's surprised he didn't wake up at the spank; even though he can imagine the sting.

The V's of his hips have CUM and GUTTERS written on each side, and the next Polaroid confirms it was used for just that. Shiny droplets of someone's come, milky rivulets of semen in an artistic Polaroid. There's a sinking feeling in Lando's stomach, that one person isn't capable of producing that much.

The next one is a dick next to his parted lips. There's a hand on his head, half obscuring his face and Lando's sucked that dick enough to recognize it as Max's. But the queasy feeling comes from the fact it was clearly someone else photographing it, not Max.

The final picture looks like a donut with cinnamon roll sauce on it. It takes Lando a moment to realize what it actually is, and sure enough his hole hurts as it clenches on nothing.

Max shows up, freshly showered and holding a warm wet towel to help clean Lando up. Even after all that, Lando lets Max wipe him down and leans into the firm, gentle touch; head still groggy.

"Sorry, you had to learn your lesson." Max shrugs.

"Fine. Just don't post it online." Lando sulks, and is caught by surprise with a yawn. Clearly they wore him out. He could use a real nap this time.

Lando.jpg has posted 10 new photos!

[weewoow-20706030]

I need a fic where Tim gets de aged and everyone just gets to see how obnoxiously independent he was as a kid.

Like- they lose him and are all franticly searching for little 7yr old Tim just to find him cooking at the stove.

They find him cleaning the gutters with no safety gear, no ladder either. No one knows how he got up there.

He just does things. He never had to tell anyone anything when he was younger so he keeps forgetting to mention what he is going to do.

[is-the-snake-video-cute]

What's the Most worrying situation you've ever seen one of your snakes get themselves into?? Do snakes understand being grabbed in a panic for their own good? [Ex. About 2 seconds away from something dangerous]

Once I was cleaning my old blood python, Frankie's, enclosure, and I always held him while I did that. I wasn't paying enough attention to him and he almost put his dumb little body right on the ceramic heat emitter that was cooling down on the shelf right in front of us. I yoinked him up real quick - that could have been a very serious burn if he actually had put himself on it, and it was a good reminder not to leave them within snake reach while they're cooling down.

That's the first one that comes to mind, but I've also had to relocate snakes who got themselves into Situations such as being inside vehicles, inside farm machinery, on a busy road, inside gutters, etc. The general consensus is that they do not enjoy being Yoinked for their own good. Pet snakes like Frankie tend to be more forgiving (but even they'll get a bit spooked if grabbed suddenly and roughly in panic) but wild ones who I've had to grab for safety will usually try to bite me about it.

[empirearchives]

Napoleon and Sewers and Sanitation

Excerpt from the book Aaron Burr in Exile: A Pariah in Paris, 1810-1811, by Jane Merrill and John Endicott

Napoleon began in 1805 to build a modern vaulted underground sewer system in Paris, following the topography of the streets. Practical changes for the better were already in place when Burr was in Paris. Sewer floors were lowered and new lines were created everywhere between 1805 and 1812, while at the same time the existing sewers were disinfected and the flow of water purified.

During the Enlightenment there was a movement for improved hygiene in France, and investigations of public health. Napoleon was a forerunner of hygiene for his armies and for Paris. In the first place he paved streets and did away with the flowing gutters in the middle of the road. Second, he wanted to give Parisians clean water. In 1802, he commissioned Pierre-Emmanuel Bruneseau as his inspector of works for the City of Paris to chart the sewer system and also keep them clean. Under Napoleon, the existing network was extended, 19 new miles of sewers were added. By 1812, vast improvements had been made.

Bruneseau died in 1819, but Baron Haussmann studied Bruneseau’s maps in the mid-century, rebuilding, constructing new gas-lit and vented sewers. The sanitation models of Paris were adopted by other cities in France and around the world.

A survey of 50 kilometers took seven years. It was dangerous as well as putrid work. While Bruneseau was hailed as an intrepid adventurer, he had difficulty all along with hiring assistants to keep up with him. Victor Hugo was Bruneseau’s friend and hailed him as an adventurer. The engineer inspired Hugo to write the portion of Les Misérables in which Jean Valjean carries Marius, wounded at the Barricades in 1832, through the sewers to safety. Hugo called the sewers “the conscience of the city” and created a whole metaphor around the sewer system: “A sewer is a cynic. It tells everything.” It wouldn’t have been possible for Jean Valjean to make his way carrying Marius through the sewers before the curage methods introduced by Bruneseau. The rushing water when gates are opened to clean the sewers with great hydraulic force, as well as the manholes and dripping pipes, are well described in the novel.

[Bold italics for quotations by me]

[wangxianficrecs]

Your Shelter by cosmicmilktea

Your Shelter

by cosmicmilktea

T, WIP, 2k, Wangxian

Part of the MDZS Mini Remix for Tired Adults™

Summary: “There is no need for sorry,” Lan-gege had told him, what seemed like such a long time ago, “Robes can be cleaned.” But a soiled robe in Lotus Pier means lashes on his back and a night of kneeling in the ancestral hall, even if Jiang Cheng and all the other disciples also came back with mud and reeds painting their robes. A soiled robe means hearing baba and mama's names spoken in malice and ridicule. It means a gentle chiding from shijie as she pats his head and offers him a bowl of warm soup, which only made him miss the warmth of Xian-gege's safe embrace. His back hurts, and his knees ache from kneeling so long. Beneath his robes, Lan-gege's ribbon presses close to his heart, and it reminds him how he had felt so safe with the two men. How baba and mama had also made him feel safe even without the shelter of gilded walls and roofs. He longs to be that safe again, the longing building and building in the too-small confines of his chest until Wei Ying can not hold it in any longer. He runs. Kay's comments: This story is such a little treat and I'm very curious to see how it continues! In which Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian have an incense burner dream where they care for young and still homeless A-Ying for a day, only it's actually a different reality and from that moment on, little A-Ying's life changes. He comes to Lotus Pier knowing what love and home feel like and so, he leaves soon after being taken in by the Jiangs and becomes a rogue cultivator instead. A very somft story. Excerpt: In the end, perhaps Lotus Pier is not so different from the streets, with how clearly your place is marked when you were not born a certain way. With how alright it is to do such bad things to others as long as you are big and strong and rich. Lotus Pier has food and it's warm, but A-Ying have been warm before even when he only had the skies above his head. Had his baba not chosen to leave despite all the warmth and safety of Lotus Pier, taking mama and A-Ying with him? Xian-gege and Lan-gege had been travelling as well, a donkey of their own trailing behind them. Had they not been happy? Wei Ying might be an ungrateful gutter rat, the uppity son of a servant, but his mama and baba had loved him and they were happy. Lan-gege and Xian-gege had saved him and was kind to him, the way the jiejies in the brothel and the old auntie in the Yiling market had been. And wouldn't that mean there are yet somewhere he could belong?

pov wei wuxian, canon divergence, incense burner, wei wuxian leaves the yunmeng jiang sect, child abuse, rogue cultivator wei wuxian, friends to lovers, sunshot campaign, loss of parents, dimension travel, fluff and hurt/comfort, lan wangji/wei wuxian get a happy ending

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[wh3nturtlesfly]

A continuation of this per the lovely request of @vernilliom :)

Part 3 | Part 4

CW/TW: Choking, Mention of sedatives

It came in flashes, all of which the Hero couldn’t quite remember. Their clothes soaked with rain, warm as they lay limp in the hands of Villain. They couldn’t have struggled if they wanted to, their consciousness rushed over them in waves, never enough to form a coherent thought.

Hero’s eyes had blinked open lazily to catch a sliver of a door. It was silver, metallic and heavy. They heard three knocks, and again it was dark.

There was a long while before they had regained awareness. Then, after who knows how long, Hero heard a sound in the distance. Running water, and the padding of footsteps across a tile floor. They shot up from where they had been laid and immediately regretted it.

Hero sucked in a breath, falling back onto the sheets. Something coarse shifted across their skin. Bandages. Their rain soaked shirt had been removed and placed on a chair in the corner. In its place were layers of white cloth partially stained with a deep red. An IV had been placed in their arm. Their muscles ached as Hero drew in shallow breaths.

“Finally awake dear Hero?” The sound of running water flicked off and Villain dried their hands with a plush towel. Hero tensed, gripping the edge of the sheets tightly as they approached their bed, “You were asleep so long, I was afraid you may never wake up.”

Villain studied the Hero with a greedy expression. They reached out, running a finger down Hero’s exposed collarbone with a chuckle, “You ought to be more careful out on the streets… you never know who may find you.”

Hero pulled away and winced from the movement. Streetlights and gutters. Rain against the pavement. It had all been so much, they hadn’t even thought of what could come. A mistake, and a detrimental one at that.

“What do you want?” They rasped. Their voice was still hoarse from screaming, they didn’t know how long they had cried out for help that night before Villain had come. “I don’t have secrets if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Oh darling, I wouldn’t dream of gaining such boring things,” They retrieved a clean roll of bandages from Hero’s bedside, “I want you.”

Villain’s hands brushed over Hero’s old dressings despite their attempts to pull away. As they unwrapped the stained fabric Hero got a good look at their wound. A gash, and a large one at that ran, down the length of their torso; the brutal consequence of failing to dodge quick enough.

Villain’s fingers were cold as they trailed along Hero’s skin, even as their wounds were dressed it felt wrong. They needed to get out of here.

Hero was patient, biding their time with bated breath. Villain cleaned their injuries in silence. It would have been an act of kindness if it didn’t hold such an error of possession. Hero felt it in the way Villain’s touch lingered a moment too long, or how their bandages were pulled just tight enough to force a gasp from their lungs.

The perfect moment came when Villain turned to discard the old bandages. Hero’s heart pounded a million miles a minute. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Villain turned round again and Hero sprung forward. They bit the inside of their cheek to push away the pain.

Hands thrust out towards Villain, Hero latched their fingers around Villain’s throat pushing them back and squeezing ever so tight. If they could only get them to fall unconscious-

Tighter and tighter, Villain eyes widened with surprise as they gasped. Their hands flailed around, grasping desperately at the sheets. Hero didn’t dare stop. They had to get out of here- had to run to safety.

Villain’s eyelids grew slack, slim as they threatened to close. Almost-

Then something shifted.

Terror morphed into something more clever. A ruse. Hero hadn’t caught them reaching for the remote at their side until it was too late.

A wave of bliss flew through their veins with the press of a button, filling their core with something sickeningly heavy. Hero felt their limbs slacken, away from Villain’s throat and down to their sides. No, no, no- they were slipping away much too fast.

“And you thought you were so smart,” Villain rubbed at their throat as they stood from the bed, holding up the remote like a prize. Hero felt the solution pooling into their system, the IV… They reached for it desperately but Villain caught their hand, “Ah, I can’t have you doing that darling. You’re mine now.”

Everything was immersed in fog, thick and heavy. Hero fought to keep awake, they had to keep awake… It was interesting how the pain disappeared. They couldn’t think. Hero’s eyelids drooped and their arms fell loosely to their sides.

“No, don-” Their words slurred. Helpless. Hero’s thoughts drifted farther away, impossible to grasp as they were pushed under a wave of fatigue.

“Aw, don’t look so disappointed,” Villain caressed their jaw and Hero could do nothing but fight to stay conscious. “I’m sure we’ll have all sorts of fun when you wake again.”

Hero wanted to scream, pull away, anything. Instead the edges of their vision faded until the whole world was black.

[precisionroofcrafters]

3 TIPS TO PROTECT YOUR ROOF FROM SUMMER STORMS

With summer finally here, it’s the time of year that many homeowners are looking to get outdoors and enjoy the sunshine and all of the various fun and activities that summer brings with it.

Unfortunately, with the arrival of summer, we also have the arrival of hurricane season, and all of the tumultuous weather that can bring along with it from time to time. If you are like most homeowners, you want to do everything in your power to make sure that your home is adequately protected from these summer storms, and one of the best places to start is with your home’s roof. Your roof forms the first line of protection your home has against the elements, and as such, it is important to make sure that you give your roof the care and attention it needs to make it through the summer months in one piece. So where do you start when you want to protect your roof from the summer storms? In an effort to help you with this dilemma and help make the process a little bit easier for you, our team of professionals have taken the time to put together this short list detailing a few of our top tips for protecting your home’s roof from anything the weather can throw at it this summer.

GET AN INSPECTION

As you likely know, water is extremely talented about finding its way into your home through any conceivable leak or gap that might exist on the exterior of your home. Sometimes, these gaps or cracks can be difficult to spot, especially if you are trying to spot them from the ground. One of the most important maintenance tasks you can take when it comes to your home’s roof is to make sure that you have a professional come out and provide you with a full roofing inspection. During the course of this inspection, a roofing professional will be on the lookout for any subtle signs that your roof might be experiencing issues, especially leaks, and help you address them right away. While these leaks might not amount to much on their own, they can very easily become a serious problem for your roof and your home overall if a particularly rough storm rolls through the area. Professionals will also be able to spot any of the smaller issues that tend to go unnoticed with a home’s roof and have them repaired before they have a chance to cause any damage to the rest of your home.

TRIM YOUR FOLIAGE

If you have a property with a great deal of overhanging foliage and trees, now is the time to start taking a look at what should stay and what should most likely be trimmed back. While that large oak tree that overhangs your home might look nice and give your home characters, those branches could spell disaster if one were to come down on top of your roof in the middle of a storm. Take the time now to inspect the trees around your home or have a professional do so. During this inspection, you will want to take note of any dead branches that might be a threat to the safety of your home’s roof and trim back any overhanging limbs that could cause damage to your home if they were to come down in the middle of a storm.

CLEAN YOUR GUTTERS

There are many homeowners out there that don’t truly appreciate the important role that gutters serve on your home. While many think that gutters are almost purely for decoration, they actually perform the vital function of directing rainwater down off of your roof and away from the foundation of your home. This helps to relieve the pressure on your roof and make sure that water doesn’t get somewhere it isn’t supposed to be. Now is the time to get up there and make sure that your gutters are clear of any leaves and other debris that might prevent them from functioning like they should. Clogged gutters can cause rainwater to pool on top of your roof, letting it leak in under your shingles or tiles, and cause serious damage to your roof’s structure. Conversely, the added weight from this extra water could actually cause your gutters to tear away from the side of your home, leaving you with a serious mess and serious potential damage on your hands.

If you are looking for a professional Houston Roofing contractor then please call 1-713-799-8555 or complete our Online Request Form here. We look forward to serving you.

[realtorjamier]

Seasonal Refresh: Revamping Your Home For Springtime

6 Ways to Spruce up Your Home for Spring 

The longer days and warmer temperatures might entice you to spend your time outside, but before you do, there are a few things to take care of inside! (And some outdoor items for those truly spectacular spring days.) 

Declutter before you start cleaning, then designate boxes for donation, garage sale, or garbage.

Wash windows, sliding door tracks, and overlooked surfaces (like baseboards, door frames, walls, light fixtures, under furniture and appliances, and refresh window treatments.

Deep clean your bedroom—you spend a lot of time there sleeping. Now is a great time to rotate and flip mattresses, wash mattress pads, blankets, comforters, bed skirts, and area rugs. Don’t forget to clean your pillows, too. You can send them to a pro, hang them outside to air dry, or even freshen them in the dryer on a low or no-heat setting.

Transition your wardrobe - streamline your closet by putting warm-weather clothing at the forefront. Pack away gloves, hats, scarves, and boots. Be sure to label everything for the fall.

If you haven’t done so, do a safety check on smoke and carbon monoxide detectors. Check your fire extinguishers and make sure you know how to use them.

Do an exterior home refresh: plant flowers in beds or movable pots, lay fresh mulch, and power wash the siding, windows, sidewalks, and driveway. Clear rain gutters, repaint your front door, clean off the outdoor furniture, or better yet, after all that hard work, treat yourself to some updated decor.

With just a few days of elbow grease, your home will be ready for a summer of sun, fun, and much less cleaning. 

[newrelasecondos]

[boltdxbblog]

The Ultimate Guide to Cost-Effective Property Maintenance in Dubai

Welcome to the comprehensive guide to cost-effective property maintenance in Dubai. Whether you're a long-standing homeowner or a fresh face in our bustling city, staying on top of property upkeep is essential. In this guide, we'll explore top-tier strategies and insights tailored specifically for property maintenance in Dubai.

Understanding Needs: Before diving into maintenance strategies, assess your property's unique needs. Identify areas that require immediate attention and prioritize tasks accordingly. This proactive approach not only saves time but also prevents potential costly repairs down the line.

Choosing the Right Service Provider: When it comes to property maintenance in Dubai, partnering with the right service provider is key. Look for companies with a track record of excellence, responsive support, and competitive pricing. Customer reviews and testimonials can also offer valuable insights into their service quality.

Efficient Appliances and Fixtures: Investing in energy-efficient appliances and fixtures is a smart way to cut down on maintenance costs in Dubai. Opt for products with high energy ratings, as they not only reduce utility bills but also require less frequent repairs and replacements.

Regular Inspections and Maintenance Checks: Regular inspections and maintenance checks are the backbone of cost-effective property management in Dubai. Schedule routine visits from professionals to assess your property's condition, identify potential issues early on, and perform preventive maintenance tasks.

Budget-Friendly Tips: Not all maintenance tasks require professional assistance. Embrace budget-friendly tips to tackle minor repairs and upkeep tasks around your property. From fixing leaky faucets to repainting walls, a little DIY effort can go a long way in saving costs.

Identifying DIY-Friendly Tasks: Begin by identifying maintenance tasks that you can comfortably handle on your own. Simple tasks such as replacing light fixtures, cleaning gutters, or caulking windows are excellent starting points for DIY enthusiasts.

Maintenance Schedules: Create a maintenance schedule for tasks based on seasonal needs and the condition of your property. Regularly inspecting and maintaining areas like plumbing fixtures, HVAC systems, and outdoor spaces can prevent major issues and costly repairs.

Equipping Your Toolbox: Invest in a basic toolkit with essential tools like a hammer, screwdriver set, pliers, measuring tape, and a utility knife. Having these tools readily available can empower you to tackle various maintenance projects around your property.

Educational Resources: Leverage online tutorials, guides, and instructional videos to enhance your DIY skills. Platforms like YouTube and websites offer step-by-step guides for a wide range of home maintenance tasks, making it easier for you to execute projects efficiently.

Safety First: Prioritize safety when engaging in maintenance. Always wear appropriate safety gear such as gloves, goggles, and masks when handling tools or working on projects that involve chemicals or dust. Familiarize yourself with safety protocols to prevent accidents or injuries.

Community Support: Engage with local communities or forums to exchange tips, seek advice, and share experiences with fellow DIY enthusiasts. Networking with others who have similar interests can provide valuable insights and support for your DIY endeavors.

Mastering cost-effective property maintenance in Dubai is all about proactive planning, smart investments, and regular upkeep. By following the expert tips and tricks outlined in this guide, you can ensure that your property remains in top-notch condition without breaking the bank. Here's to hassle-free maintenance and a thriving property in the dynamic city of Dubai!

[pbandjesse]

I'm working a wedding tonight and I'm already having so much fun. This is such a nice group. They're super fun and super funny. And they are absolutely willing to buy into being a little silly. Like I just found a couple of people wearing the gas station costumes and pretending to wash the car. Hilarious.

Honestly everyone I've interacted with today has been so good. I had a very long day at camp and I'm very tired right now. Like my eyes hurt but it was really good and I just feel like we accomplished so much.

I do wish I got to sleep a little bit longer. I slept an extra 15 minutes but I had to get up. That was not thrilled. But I got washed and dressed and I felt good and excited. Today was going to be a really nice day.

James sent me off to work with an egg salad sandwich. That I ate while driving because traffic was horrible. And I ended up getting to work at like 8:15. Still beat everyone else. I went to the girls latrine's first to drop off cleaning material. And then I texted Heather to check in because I needed a few things. Gloves and tape and stuff like that. But she had already texted me asking me to create sign up sheets. Can do.

I would stop at the art building first. Collected some stuff I wanted to bring home. Put some stuff in the building I needed to put away. And went back to the office to do my little tasks before the volunteers came.

It was a very busy day at camp though. With three different rentals. Which I didnt even think we did. But whatever. Everyone seemed really nice.

And it was a lot of fun. After I finished printing everything and checking in with Heather and getting some material from her car. I would go outside and see that a couple are volunteers were over at the office. So I collected them up and walked with them to the lodge. And oh no we had like 30 40 people there. And they were so nice.

There was some confusion because of the other groups. And I was standing outside kind of directing people who were parking inside and a guy comes up to me and he was like hey we're from BGE. Do you know where supposed to be here. I'm like yeah and he's like oh where is everyone I was like oh my god they're inside he was so relieved. I don't know what was going on but he seems so worried. And then everyone just did so good. We got everyone to sign up for different areas and we had a little safety talk and no one signed up for painting the latrine with me so instead I would join Joe's group at the pool.

I was not thrilled. Because I thought that I was just going to overheat and get sunburned but I did remember to put on sunscreen and bug spray and it ended up being really really fun.

I led my group over after stopping to take a group picture for them. I actually almost dropped a phone and caught it and it was very impressive. But I took multiple pictures on multiple phones and then we broke up into our groups and got over to the pool to meet Joe.

The plan was to have a few of them work on skimming. A few of them work on moving The plants. And then we would have another guy using a leaf blower to blow out all of the debris in the gutters. I was very surprised when we got to the pool to see how many tadpoles were in there. Thousands of that. They were everywhere. And I felt so bad because we had to skim out the leaves and they were coming with it and thankfully they were mostly on the edges so I tried my best to avoid them but there was no way. I'm sure so many of them died and I felt horrible about it. Like they were in the book it's with the leaves but those leaves were going to get dumped out into the yard and they're just going to dry out and I felt like a monster.

So after a while of me standing in the shallow end with the tiny pool skimmer while the guys had the deep end ones, I told Joe how the tadpoles were upsetting me and he said that he would get me a bucket so I could start trying to at least collect them. And so that's what I spent the next hour and a half doing.

I was standing in the water and walking back and forth on the stairs collecting as many tadpoles as I could. And I got a good amount. A couple hundred if not a couple thousand. They were just so small. But I did my best. And honestly I was having a good time being in the sun. I was surprised. It wasn't too hot out. The sun was bright but it wasn't oppressive. I was having nice conversation with the guys. And alexie was working hard too with that big skimmer and we were just making really good progress.

I had to stop collecting tadpoles when the water truck came. And I had a nice conversation with that guy because I was curious how much the water level would change. Cuz this was a huge truck. But it ended up only being like 2 in. He said he would come back about four times. And then it would fill the rest of the pool. Surprised me. Very neat.

Around 12:00 I realize that I could not collect anymore tadpoles. I was trying but I was only getting a few on each pass and my bucket was getting pretty full. So I told the guys I was going to walk it over to the pond. And all of them wanted to go see the pond so we carried the bucket ( we found that the bucket was actually cracked in the bottom so we put the bucket in another bucket but then that bucket had a hole in it. So we did our best not to lose any tadpoles ) and walked up to frog hollow.

And it was so pretty over there. I wish I had brought a net because I really would have liked to catch a frog to show the guys. But we did see a few frogs. One of the guys also said he saw a water snake but I don't know if I believe him. And we spent some time just flipping logs and rocks and looking for things but it was too dry out to really see any salamanders. So a bunch of worms but it was not a great creature day. Just tadpoles and frogs. To be fair of the real lot of those. We got to see other types of tadpoles as well. One of the guys had their two sons with them so I was glad we could show the kids something cool as well.

We spend some time just chilling by the frog pond but then I was like you know we should probably go back to the pool before I get in trouble. So we went back and checked in to see if there was anything else that we could do at the pool. But we were basically done everything that was going to get accomplished today. And so I walked them to the lodge for lunch.

Alexi would spend a little time telling them about rentals and a bunch of them were super excited about the idea of having birthday parties at the pool. And having corporate parties as well. But mostly the birthday party. And the woman who organized the whole event and me had a really lovely conversation. She told me that she came to camp when she was a child and in foster care and that when she was in foster care they weren't allowed to hug her. But when she came to camp she got those hugs that she needed and doing these volunteer days are like her giving a hug back. And that was just so sweet. Just made me want to cry. I'm so glad that camp is so important to her too.

They did not really order enough pizza I think. But everyone got a couple slices and I really enjoyed the pasta salad they got. And I was really just grateful that they shared with us. We hung out and talked and Alexi and Heather and Elizabeth would give some closing words and invitations to the music festival next weekend and just a lot of really nice stuff was said today. This was a really good group of volunteers and I really hope that you come back and become more involved. It was just really good.

Though. I waited for a little bit walking around the lodge seeing if anyone wanted to walk to the barn to see the horses but most people just wanted to go home. Couple people stayed to do the climbing tower with Sarah and Nick but most people left. And I didn't blame them. So I walked with Elizabeth and Heather to see the fire pit that got moved for the new wedding venue. And then I went to the office to get the gator so I could go and put things away.

But on my walkover Margaret called me. And she officially offered me the job. It's going to be pretty part-time for a while which is totally fine. But they're going to be paying me like double my rate. And I'm just very thrilled about that. So I'm really excited even though I'm a little nervous about having to be very decisive and be in charge. But I think Jesse's going to do a really good job telling me what I can and cannot do and giving me the tools to go into this new role and not just feels really awesome. So she's going to send me more official stuff and we'll see when everything moves forward.

I would go grab the gator and drove up to the barn to collect all of the tools that Heather had used and all of the materials I had left at the latrine this morning. I went to the salt mines and put them away and just kind of bopped around camp putting things backwards they belonged. While I was over at Joe's building I finally found the lamp that Alexi said I could have. He had put it in the scrap metal pile. So I collected that. I also found two broken trombones. So I took those as well. And went back to the office.

I would stay for a little while. Chatting and checking in about stuff but there wasn't much else for me to do and I was very tired from the sun. I decided that it would be really nice to go to Rita's before I went home. So I said goodbye to everyone and I left.

I went to the Rita's in Hunt Valley. I got a mango misto which was very good. I was having an honing for a second because last year I remembered I got a fruit mistow and it wasn't very good.. like it was really boring. And I couldn't remember if it was peach or mango. So I decided to go with mango and I was correct in my choice and it was great. The only thing that would have improved it would have been a pretzel but I did not want to stop at the Dutch market again because I wanted to go home and take a shower. I was covered in pool juices and dirt.

And I had to deal with some traffic. And I was not happy because I was so tired. And I was hoping that I could have a few minutes of just sitting down. But I would get home a little after 4:00 and everything would be okay. Even though I was pretty upset.

I had brought home one of the fake grass mats that I had in the art building and I thought I got all the dirt off of it but I apparently did a terrible job because the back of the car was covered in dust and then we picked it up I was covered in dust and then everything was covered in dust and it was horrible. I had to quickly run it into the house and to the backyard so I can throw it on the ground but then sweepy came out and I didn't know and I threw it and he came out and he was under it because I threw it on top of him and he was so upset and dirty. It was a mess.

So I let James know when they said that they would help vacuum when they got back. And I went to go take a shower.

In the shower helped. I also did my hair nice. Brushed it and put oils in it. And just wanted to feel pretty. I got changed and then I sat in front of my mirror to do my makeup and do my cuticles trying to make my fingers look pretty. I did break one of my nails pretty severely but it's fine. And then James was home. And they came and gave me a kiss and then they vacuumed and tried to make everything better again. I love them so much.

I'm pretty soon after that I have to go. I sat with them downstairs for a few minutes but they had a lot of chores to get done before they were recording and I had to go to work. So we said goodbye and I went to the museum.

And man was it a nice night. I had trouble finding Jesse at first but I walked around the museum chatting with the caterers that I knew and meeting the wedding planners and this couple was so nice. Their friends were excellent. Everyone I've talked to this evening was so good. I was out on the pier with Jesse for a bit though once I found him. And he has such funny nervous energy when it comes to issues. Like the department of national resources police were there and they were going to walk through the wedding and he was like oh my God we have to stop them. And then just random people coming off of the street to walk to the water and he was so worried about them being near the wedding and it was interesting to see the problems with I might have to deal with and thinking about different ways I might deal with them. But our security guard is great and took over a lot of the interacting with the public part so everything was okay and the wedding was beautiful. Like I was crying because it was so sweet. And it was just such a beautiful day for it. They really lucked out with weather. It was sunny and a little breezy but not cool and everyone was beautiful It was just so nice.

Before it was time to go inside for the guests I ran inside to make sure that the doors to the exhibits that were not open were actually locked. And I was very annoyed to find that they were a mess. Like whoever was the educator is today did not put away any of the materials and it looked terrible. And my tray that says please do not touch four events was out. Rude. That is not yours It says don't touch it. So it was a little pissed off about that but it was fine. I cleaned up a little and let James know and it was just annoying to come into that. But we move on.

And I have an excellent night. This was probably the most people I've ever had come up into the exhibit but people are so excited to see the machines get turned on or have great conversations with people and I was just having a blast. We did have one issue with caterers kept coming back with trays of drinks into the exhibit and they're not supposed to do that. And one of them dropped a tray and ice went everywhere. Thankfully it was an empty cup but still ice all over the ground was not ideal. And so I had to let Jesse know and that was embarrassing. But I handled it everything was okay. And I gave lots of really good talks and I had a lot of fun. My throat hurt a lot by the end and I drank all my water but that's all good.

I stayed a little bit later because I was enjoying talking with Jesse about different procedures and how to turn lights off and all those things and I also was telling him about this project. How I've been documenting for so long and how important it is to me. And he thought that was really cool and he was like I mentioned it I was like oh my God yes you are because I mentioned everybody. And then the caterers brought us dinner and he didn't know that I don't eat meat so he felt really bad that I only had mashed potatoes but I honestly wasn't hungry anyway and was only eating some to not be rude. Because my stomach hurts and I really just want to drink water and juice and not eat actual foodstuffs right now. I am trying my best to hold it together. Thankfully today I am not as nauseous and not as quick to run to throw up. So I think we're doing good.

But I just pulled up to the house and I am very excited to go to bed. I might take another shower even. And I hope about tomorrow is really good. Jess is going to come a little early and Callie's going to meet us at the house and then we're going to go to the flower Mart! I'm so excited I haven't gone to the flower bar in forever! Cuz we missed it last year we were on our honeymoon. So I'm really looking forward to that and then in the evening is our housewarming. And we have a couple friends coming over and James is going to make interesting food things and I'm really excited to just show people our little house.

I hope that you guys all have a great night and you take care of yourselves. I love you all. Good night.

[anguilliforme]

Bushfire / Wildfire preparation and survival (long post)

Because of climate change, we will be facing increasingly difficult fire seasons not just for this year, but for what I can only assume will be every year from here on out. While I fully recommend contacting your local fire services to find information most helpful to you, here is a list of general advice for bush/wildfire preparation and survival. This list will cover:

General things you should know before preparing for fire season

Pre fire season preparation

Your evacuation kit

What to do on fire risk days

What to do if you choose to evacuate

What to do when you evacuate too late and your car is about to be caught in the fire

What to do if you choose to stay and defend your home

Firefighting tools

How to defend your home from a fire

What to do as the fire front approaches

What to do if your home catches on fire while you're in it

No house no car no evacuation centre- best places to use as emergency shelter

I am Australian so I will be using the word "bushfire" because that is what I am familiar with, please feel free to replace it with wildfire or whatever your local term is. Information is taken from the CFA, Fire TAS, and the NSW rural fire service but please check with your local fire authorities for the best information for your area.

General things that you should know:

You don't have to be in the middle of nowhere to be at risk for a fire. If you are located near paddocks, grasslands, costal scrub, or if your neighbourhood borders bushland (or woodlands/forests for my non aussie friends) you can be at risk.

Familiarise yourself with your local fire danger rating system (FDRS) I can not stress this enough. Go on your local fire services website now and look it up. I will be using the Australian FDRS as a reference because it is what I am most familiar with. It looks like this:

You should understand what your local FDRS levels are, because they are extremely important tool for communicating the possible severity of fires, and can help you make important decisions on how you should act.

You should also familiarise yourself with your local wind patterns. You would be surprised by how many people die in bushfires because they are unfamiliar with wind change patterns and get caught out.

Pre fire season preparation- your house

Prepare your property! This is basic fire safety, and most people who live rural will be familiar with the motions but for those who aren't in the know:

Keep the grass in your lawn cut to 10cm (4in) or less. Rake your lawn so there aren't loose leaves or twigs in the grass. Clean your gutters while you're at it.

Store any wood piles and flammable liquids away from your house (put it in a shed or any building that isn't attached to your house).

Cut back any trees that are overhanging your roofs. Generally you want 10m (or 33ft) of clearance. Prune the lower branches of shrubs to separate them from any possible fuel underneath them.

Line your garden beds with pebbles instead of mulch, if you have any shrubs or bushes under windows get rid of them.

Evacuation kit

You should have an evacuation kit ready to go during fire season. This is different for every individual but here are a few things that should go into it:

Scan all of your important documents (birth certificates, wills, passports, drivers licences, insurance documents, etc) and put them on a USB. Put this in your kit alongside the documents.

Your medication. Your prescription paperwork if it is not digital.

Portable chargers for your devices.

A battery-operated radio (check the batteries regularly).

100% wool blankets. Enough for everybody in your household to be fully covered. Do not pack anything synthetic. These blankets need to be accessible if you are travelling by car so do not pack them in the bottom of any bags.

"Bushfire fits", clothing that is either wool, heavy cotton, or denim. Once again, no synthetic fabrics. Shoes should be leather boots and not sandals or runners. There needs to be enough to clothe everyone in your household.

If you have pets you need to have their carriers, medication, food/water and bowls ready.

You should also have food and (more importantly) water for yourself and everyone in your household ready to go should you need to evacuate.

Other pre fire season preparation things

Practice packing your car at least once so you know exactly how long it will take you to get ready if you do end up needing to leave.

Talk with your neighbours. If you can't drive they might be able to drive you, if they're staying they may be willing to help defend your house if you let them use your water. You'll never know if you don't ask.

You need to talk with the people in your household and decide whether you will stay to defend your home from the fire or evacuate. If you want to evacuate you need to agree on which FDRS danger level you will evacuate on, or what your trigger to leave will be.

If you will leave, decide ahead of time how you will leave and where you will go. In a fire, phone services ay go down; have a physical map that shows not only your main evacuation route, but also your backup ones. Have these clearly marked.

On fire risk days

Stay informed. Listen to your local radio and use more than one source of information if available. You want to know if a fire starts near you.

If you have a deck or verandah with mats or furniture on it, move them away from your house. Hanging pots need to go too.

If you have a car behind an electric gate or garage door take it out and have the car facing the road ready to go.

Ensure your evacuation kit is ready to go. Make sure that everyone is aware of the evacuation trigger and has agreed to leave.

If you choose to evacuate

Leaving early is always the safest option. Many things can be replaced, but your life can't. This is the official stance of the Australian government. Leaving early (as in, before the fire even starts) will prevent any issues being caught in your car during a bushfire can bring. You do not want to drive through heavy smoke, and you do not want to accidentally block roads for emergency services.

Make sure everybody is in their bushfire fits, even if you can't see the fire. Better safe than sorry.

Turn off your home's gas and (if you have the time) plug your downpipes and fill your gutters partially with water.

Close and lock all of your doors and windows.

Leave your front gate open.

Tell somebody that you are leaving, and where you are leaving to.

Late evacuation- my car is about to be hit by fire

If you evacuate late there is a chance you may find that you are unable to drive safely due to smoke or flames. It is considered extremely dangerous to shelter in a car, however you can do the following to increase your chances of survival:

Do not park on a road. Emergency service workers do not need to be dealing with car crashes as well as the fires.

Park your car away from dense bushland, preferably in a clear area. If you can find a rock wall to buffer some of the radiant heat even better. Face your car towards the oncoming fire.

Stay in the car, close all windows and doors. Shut all vents and turn off your engine.

Cover yourself with the wool blankets from your evacuation kit. sit or lie down below window level. Drink water.

Once the fire has passed, get out of the car and move to burnt ground.

If you choose to stay

The best way to prepare to stay for a bushfire is to have an action plan that you have both written down and practiced with your household. During a bushfire there is a high likelihood of service disruption both during and after a fire, so do not expect for there to be phone service, internet access, electricity, or water. You should expect:

Embers and spot fires which will move ahead of the main fire. Embers can also land for hours after a fire has passed. Embers are the number one cause of house fires when there is a bushfire.

Darkness. You will never truly understand how dark it can get in a bushfire until you are in it. It's darker than midnight.

Smoke will also make the air difficult to breathe. Invest in good face masks.

Local roads can be blocked from fallen trees or power lines, burnt out cars, dead animals, or emergency service vehicles.

Radiant heat. This is the biggest killer of bushfires. There is very little way around this. Long term radiant heat exposure will kill you long before the main bushfire gets to you. You can block radiant heat with solid walls (such as brick or concrete). Stay away from windows.

Your weapons in the fight against fire

You will need at a bare minimum 10,000 litres (2200 gallons) of water to defend your home. Have a petrol/diesel pump ready to use close by your water source.

In Australia you can find specialty firefighting hoses. Check your local availabilities, but you can still use a gardening hose in a pinch (be aware that plastic will melt once it gets too hot, get ones with metal fittings). Any hose you use should be able to reach all the way around your house.

Sprinklers. Ensure any plastic hoses connected to them are buried so they don't melt.

Buckets. And mops. Yes, you can whack an ember to death.

Metal rakes and shovels which will help break up burning materials.

Metal ladders so you can reach your roof.

Defending your home

If you are planning on staying to defend your home there needs to be at lease two fit adults. They both need to be physically and mentally willing to work for several hours in difficult and distressing conditions.

Everyone who stays also needs to be aware that there is a chance of dying. Survival is not guaranteed if you stay to protect your home.

Make sure you are all wearing appropriate clothing. Put on your bushfire fit. Wear eye protection and face masks to block out smoke. As funny as the picture of the bloke in his shirt and thongs standing on his roof with a hose is, it is a monumentally dangerous move.

Turn off your gas supply, air conditioners, and close all of your windows and doors facing outside.

Block your downpipes and fill your gutters with water, put wet wool blankets (or cotton towels) inside of windows and as door stops.

Check that pets are safely contained, and your car is ready to go in case of a late evacuation.

When embers appear, turn on your sprinklers.

You will need to patrol for embers, and put out any spot fires which occur. As embers float through the air, you will also need to check your roof as your home can easily be set alight from roof embers.

You will be patrolling for embers for several hours, as they can show up before, during, and after the fire front has passed.

Keep hydrated, even if you don't feel like drinking.

As the fire front approaches

You will begin to feel the radiant heat. Remember- you will need to protect yourself from this. Once the heat outside is unbearable you must retreat indoors or you will die.

Hose down any decks and/or garden beds connected to your house.

Collect your fire fighting equipment and bring them indoors. Anything plastic will melt. There are specialty fittings that will let you attach your fire fighting gear to washing machine taps to make it easier to fight fires inside your house.

Stay hydrated. Drink water, and splash your face with water to cool down.

If you are caught in your home during a bushfire

You will still need to patrol inside your home to check for embers starting fire. This includes going into your roof space, as embers enter most easily through the roof.

Make sure the room/s you are sheltering in have two exits- one to another room and one to outside your house. Keep all of the doors inside your house open.

Do not shelter in a room with frosted windows as you want to see what is going on outside.

If your house catches fire and it can't be put out

Close the door to any room that is on fire. Move away from the area/s on fire, keep low to avoid breathing in smoke. Close all doors behind you so you know not to turn back.

As soon as the main fire has passed your house get out! Please do not stay in your on fire house. Instead move to burnt ground.

Drink some water. The last thing you need is to be dehydrated.

Once the fire front has passed

Use your own judgement on whether the outside radiant heat is bearable. Remember, solid walls protect you from radiant heat, so it may be hotter outside your house. Once you can go outside, you are back on outdoor ember patrol.

Do not take your bushfire fit off. Yes, even if it is warm. You don't want bare skin in bushfire conditions.

Put out any fires that have started near or on your house.

Hose down the outside of your house, all of it including the roof and under the floorboards.

Call your friends and family. Let them know you are alive, and that the front has passed you.

Drink water. Do not die of dehydration or heat stroke now.

You will need to stay vigilant for several hours after the front has passed- embers can still start fires.

Places to shelter

If you are caught in the open with no options available to you, you can use these as a last resort shelter:

A stationary car in a clear area such as a bare field.

A ploughed paddock, field or park.

A body of water such as a river or dam.

Thats all I can think of right now. If anybody has any more information to add before this years fire season starts feel free.