#I need the same frequency and passion... plea

[ruuari]

I will always strongly be of the opinion that cis people should be able to write trans character fanfiction. please write trans character fanfiction

[white-collar-lawmen-and-conmen]

Pulse Point

A/N: Requested by anonymous. Warning for canon-typical violence; minor character death, nightmares, and post-traumatic stress. Also: borrowed Dr. Sweets from the show Bones.

Summary: A near-death experience leaves you with recurrent nightmares. Neal offers some comfort.

Word Count: 5,154

The steady beeping of hospital equipment was driving you insane. It had been hours now of nothing except the monotonous noise of your own heartbeat. If it didn’t shut up soon, you would claw your ears off. With a stiff body and an ache that penetrated down to your bones, you forced your body upright and pinched open the pulse monitor on your right hand.

You let out a relieved sigh as the equipment went silent and dropped yourself back onto the well-padded pillows behind you. The pulse monitor clattered to the floor on its long white cord and you settled down for a nap. The ache in your bones made you feel heavy, like lead. There was nothing quite like a well-deserved nap.

In mere seconds after you had closed your eyes, the equipment started acting up again, this time blaring one long, constant shriek. The surprise made your heart skip a beat, but your eyelids were too heavy to look and see what had happened. Then your heart kept skipping, and your throat tightened. You couldn’t breathe. Your chest burned. It wasn’t a heartbeat; it was a flatline.

You were dying.

The leaden feeling in your body doubled. Your muscles didn’t respond to trying to move and you couldn’t force your lungs to take in a breath. Footsteps pounded around you, incoherent shouts going in one ear and out the other. You were desperate for your paralyzed eyes to open. Was this what you’d have for the rest of your life? Nothing but darkness and unintelligible, mind-numbing noise, punctuated by electrical humming and the pain of a vice clamping itself again to your finger?

The flatline paused for a second. Your ears rang and you thought, for a moment, that you were safe, your heart was beating again. Instead, your stomach twisted and you realized you were losing feeling in your toes. No blood. No life. When the screech of your flatline came back again, it was louder, more piercing. The shrillness reminded you of screaming.

As soon as you remembered it, it was there – the same screaming as before, somewhere in your room, echoing from every corner. In the next pause of the flatline, it turned into a hoarse shriek and a plea. “No! Please!”

You couldn’t hear anything underneath it, no more overlapping voices, and your panic increased. Where were the doctors? Did they think you were gone? Help me!

Your eyes opened with a sudden snap, the droning of your alarm clock replacing the flatlining of the monitor.

As you stared at your ceiling, you panted for breath. Rationally, you knew, you had probably never stopped breathing, but in the panic of your nightmare, it felt like you’d been smothered. Terror powered your desperate gasps and convinced you that your feet and hands were numb, even as you could feel that one foot was poking out from the end of your blanket. After a long moment, you dared to move your arm, ready to scream if you weren’t dreaming after all and still couldn’t move. You turned your alarm off easily.

Soft rain pattered against the glass windows, creating shiny-looking streaks as droplets collected and streamed down the side of the building. It was much more soothing than the silence that usually reigned in Dr. Sweets’ office when he was waiting for you to talk. Maybe he should invest in one of those noise machines with rain as an option. You thought about making the suggestion, but knowing him, he would probably call you out on the procrastination, or deflection, or whatever else he wanted to call it.

You broke the silence. “I’m certain I can wait you out for the next…” You checked the clock. “Twenty-seven minutes.”

Dr. Sweets raised his eyebrows, still leaning his head on a closed fist, propped on the arm of his chair. “I’m equally certain I can recommend you remain on desk duty for the next…” He pretended to check his watch. “Twenty-seven weeks.”

You scowled.

Psychological clearance was a bureau mandate after something traumatic occurred during the course of the job. You’d been lucky enough not to need it up to this point, but after… that, you hadn’t been given a choice. Dr. Sweets was a highly qualified psychotherapist, and you were sure that he did amazing things to help a lot of people, but so far you felt neither amazed nor helped.

“Agent L/N, you went through something incredibly harrowing that you were very close to not walking away from.” The psychologist finally took his head off his fist and put his arm down in his lap. At least he’d taken the bait and you weren’t the one starting the discussion. “You were a half-inch or couple minutes from bleeding out.” He pinched his fingers to demonstrate as if you didn’t have a scar on your body that distance from your femoral artery. You’d never be able to forget what half an inch looked like.

“But I did walk away, and the person who did that to me is in prison for the rest of his life.” You crossed your legs, trying to look more comfortable than you felt. You weren’t sure how effective you were going to be at convincing a therapist that you didn’t need therapy, but it was worth the try.

He looked utterly unconvinced. Actually, the jerk looked like he knew exactly what you were trying for and thought it was cute that you thought you could trick him. “Justice, or even retribution, which it feels like you’re leaning towards, doesn’t erase a wrongdoing or its associated harm.”

“I didn’t erase it, I healed from it. I took medical leave, now I’m back.”

“Physically, you healed. It takes a lot longer to heal mentally from those kinds of wounds.”

“Does it?” You challenged.

“I think your nightmares speak for themselves,” Dr. Sweets said pointedly.

You glared at him, at a loss for a quick comeback. You knew you didn’t look like a million bucks, but you hadn’t thought it was that obvious you were losing sleep. If he knew, then the coworkers who spent a lot of time with you must know, too. Especially Neal – nothing got past him. Oh, that was embarrassing.

The nightmares had been recurring for weeks now. They had started once you had a return date to the office, but after actually resuming your work, they had increased in frequency and intensity. They weren’t identical, but they did all share some similarities: some fatal injury had you dying, alone, in the dark, like you almost had in real life. You never got to the point of actually dying in your dreams, you didn’t think, but you were just fine with that. They were bad enough as they were. Yes, they were a sign of trauma and anxiety. But if your mind didn’t heal itself from weeks safe at home, then you knew returning to normal as fast as possible was probably your best bet at getting over what had happened.

“I’m not your enemy here,” the therapist said to you more gently. You couldn’t say he was heartless, even if you didn’t enjoy the half-hour sessions where he tried to talk about your feelings whether you wanted to or not. “My goal is the same as yours. I want you back at work, safely, able to sleep through a night so you don’t jeopardize yourself or the people around you.”

You let out a deep sigh. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me about the affect this has had on you.” Dr. Sweets encouraged, not for the first time. “You’ve accepted what happened. I can see that. But the next step is processing what it means for you, as an agent, as a person… maybe both.”

You felt helpless. What was that supposed to mean? You couldn’t very well tell him you were terrified your job was going to actually get you killed or cost more lives on your watch. When your employer paid your therapist’s bills, you couldn’t fully trust doctor-patient confidentiality. Maybe it was just paranoia, but you couldn’t bring yourself to risk it.

“I can’t sleep,” you admitted. Your tone sounded mournful. In a way, you were mourning for a time when you could sleep through the night and enjoy your days at work. It wasn’t like white-collar crime was your passion, but you did like puzzles, and you did like being around the people you worked with, especially a certain blue-eyed felon. “I keep having nightmares that I’m… injured, and I’m alone.”

“Your wire was jammed and your team didn’t hear you signal for backup.” Dr. Sweets talked slowly, patient and pragmatic as he validated your nightly anxieties. “You expected help, but they didn’t know to come.”

“They did come,” you said with a shrug. “It just… almost wasn’t in time. I know it wasn’t their fault.”

Your words about time felt glued into your ears. Yours had come really close to running out. And for what? Insurance fraud? No amount of money justified murder, and you likewise couldn’t put a price tag on a life. So why were you so eager to leap back into the same job that almost cost you yours?

It was something you had been mulling over since it happened. Your job was dangerous. You had always known that. You’d been shot at, been near explosives… your partner had been abducted by a murderer not that long ago, and your best friend had had guns in his face so often that, honestly, you’d lost count a while ago. Somehow it just hadn’t clicked, you supposed, that you could legitimately die. You were protected by the bureau and your body armor, until that wasn’t enough. Other agents had learned that lesson in a much harder way; being confronted with that was hard to simply get over.

Apparently, your use of the word “fault” led Dr. Sweets to talk to you about guilt and anger around the incident. You didn’t blame your partner or feel angry, except at the man who shot you, but you let him continue around your noncommittal, half-assed answers. You knew he at least suspected you were putting him on again, but you also knew you hadn’t given him much to work with. Then again, he didn’t call you on your bullshit replies, either, so you weren’t quite sure what he thought.

While Dr. Sweets had yet to approve you for field duty, there was still plenty to do at your desk. You pretended not to notice the itch in your legs to go somewhere while you kept yourself busy, preparing documents, performing research, helping delegate and manage case files, and topping off your team’s coffee whenever they got low. You had become even more of a desk jockey than Neal; at least he got to go out with Peter when given the green light. You missed outings with your partner, or really with any other agent.

Comparing yourself to a caged tiger was likely on the dramatic side, so you put it out of your mind and refused to feel sorry for yourself. You understood the protocols and the routines and they were for your benefit as much as the bureau’s. Besides, your team wasn’t treating you like you were fragile or demoted. They leaned on you to help just as much as they ever did, the assignment of duties just went a little differently.

You doodled a cat on your notepad during a meeting. Everyone had great ideas and you tossed in some ways you could contribute when you’d been quiet for a while. Peter’s proposed field op was going to go smoothly. Odds were high that any hiccups could be taken care of by Diana’s swift running of interference. Neal was raring to go and Jones was a little too excited to play the part of an intimidating brute, in your opinion, and Peter was appropriately apprehensive (someone ought to be, after what had happened to you).

“Let’s sleep on it,” Peter decided after looking out the window and seeing how low the sun had sunk. “If we’re all still in agreement in the morning, we’ll set the ball in motion.”

Jones graciously commented, “Good idea. We can all think on it.” He was probably the most cautious of all of you.

“Y/N?” Neal asked. You immediately looked up from your (admittedly lopsided) cat drawing. The forger was still in his chair, even while the others were pulling on their coats and blazers. “You’ve been quiet. Do you have any concerns?”

You shook your head, but not too quickly that it raised suspicion. You could get away with doodling – Peter often turned a blind eye to it; after several years, he’d developed a soft spot for you – but only if you were still paying attention and participating, so you didn’t want to give him a reason to suspect you weren’t.

Peter, Diana, and Jones all said their goodbyes. The two younger agents left the room, but Peter lingered at the doorway.

“Neal, do you want a ride?” He offered.

Neal looked from you to Peter, and then shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ll find my way. You don’t want to be late for roast,” he added when Peter looked unconvinced. After glancing at you, your partner decided that he really didn’t want to be late for roast and left without another look over his shoulder.

Now that you were alone, Neal softened his expression. “Seriously, Y/N, what’s going on?”

“I told you, I’m not worried. We’ve thought of just about everything we can predict.” You said with a straight face, pretending not to know that Neal wasn’t just talking about this specific case anymore.

He wasn’t having it. “Don’t lie to a conman, Y/N,” he chided you with a small, fond smile. “Come on. It’s not just today, you’ve been quiet ever since you came back. It’s not like you.” You raised an eyebrow and pursed your lips, uninterested in talking. Neal reached partway across the table for you but stopped there. It was an invitation but not a command. “I’m worried about you.”

The thing about your history with Neal was that it was a close one. You went from strangers when Peter got him out of Sing Sing to best friends within the span of two years. You trusted him more than you trusted just about anyone, and there hadn’t been a time when one of you needed the other and was turned away. He didn’t come to you when he was upset – seeking out reassurance and comfort was not Neal’s strength, because it involved professing vulnerability – but he never turned you away when you came to offer it, either. Now it seemed to be his turn to do the offering, as he had realized over the last few weeks that you weren’t going to ask.

You reached for his hand and silently sighed in relief at how solid and warm it was to the touch, so unlike the few dreams where you screamed and cried for someone to help and found yourself grasping at tricks that weren’t there. Neal turned his hand to hold yours and gave it a squeeze.

“It’s been so hard, Neal,” you told him reluctantly. “I have no idea how you do it. How you just walk away from all the close calls.”

Neal frowned a little. “I don’t just walk away,” he objected. “I have bad nights. I have bad days. Sometimes I have a whole bad week, or a few bad months.” You knew the latter was a reference to losing Kate, and you sympathetically gripped his hand tighter. “But, you know… there’s always something I can find to focus on instead, and after a while, the things go in the past. I let go.”

That advice was entirely unhelpful. “I’ve been trying to let go,” you said sourly. It wasn’t directed at him, exactly, but moreso at your brain, which was failing in its task of moving past what happened. “It’s not working. I can’t sleep. Sometimes I don’t think I can breathe.”

“It’s not easy,” Neal agreed, stroking the back of your hand with his thumb. It was an intimately affectionate gesture that comforted and eased the nerves beginning to bubble in your stomach. “Company helps. The reminder that I have backup, even when it doesn’t come right away. I’ve got Peter, Moz. You.” He met your eyes with a small smile and raised your hand to his lips, gently kissing your knuckles.

“Company?” You echoed uncertainly. If you were unconscious, how was company going to make a difference to what you dreamed about? Then you remembered what you had said to Dr. Sweets about your nightmares always ending with being alone. If you knew, on some level, that you weren’t alone, maybe you would feel safer. “Like, overnight?”

His expression didn’t change to give away whether you were right or wrong. Instead, he just asked, evenly, “Is that what you need?” The way he looked at you then, without judgment in his eyes, but with determination in the set of his jaw, you just knew that whatever you said you needed, Neal would move a mountain to give it to you.

“I’m not sure, but… maybe?” You hesitantly guessed. If it worked, it would be worth the awkwardness. Even just one night of solid sleep would do wonders for how you felt, and it wasn’t like it would be the first time you had stayed with Neal overnight. Long marathons on slow weekends, and the less pleasant nights after Kate’s death, meant he kept an extra toothbrush and a set of your pajamas in his penthouse.

“Okay,” he said right away with nothing but quiet matter-of-factness. It was so comforting to be proven right that you could rely on him to help you with what you needed. His tone just said, you need this, so we’re doing it, full-stop. You just hoped you were right, both so you could finally go eight hours without fearing for your life and so you weren’t inconveniencing him for no reason. “Let’s get dinner on the way. We don’t have to talk about it,” he quickly said, seeing your face. “Whatever you need.”

Everyone should have a friend like Neal, but everyone should find their own, because this one was all yours. If it weren’t for the table in the way, you would’ve launched yourself at him in a tight hug. As it was, you settled for a squeeze of his hand and a grin as wide as you could muster. “Dinner sounds great.”

The stickiness of your pants along your thigh made your hands shake, unable to bring yourself to look at your palms. You knew what you would see all over them. The fire lancing up your thigh told you what you already knew. So did the weakness in your body and the fog in your mind. It was done. The hourglass on the desk was trickling through the last of its sand. Moretti was nowhere to be seen. You couldn’t even die in the presence of a murderer.

There was screaming coming from another room. It was the desperate wail of another agent begging for their life. “No! Please!”

“No,” you mumbled, using all of your energy to turn your head to the doorway. He couldn’t… not now that you were down… you couldn’t even raise your voice to cry for help. You were completely helpless. You couldn’t save him.

Your chest burned with the effort of your heart, ironically helping you to bleed out faster. Your breaths came labored, and then they couldn’t come at all as your vision faded. The dark carpet blurred from a mass of pilled fibers into a solid navy sea. The pain in your leg was excruciating, it was all you could feel; the idea of feeling peace ever again slipping away.

Screaming. Banging. Footsteps. More screaming. Pounding. Shouting. It was all indistinguishable, a mess of men’s voices and loud gunshots. Then, you heard it. Just your name, barely audible above the rest, in a voice that made you strain to see past the blackness.

“Y/N!”

You’d give the rest of your precious seconds away just to see him one last time, just to know he was beside you and you weren’t alone.

“Y/N!”

Footsteps came closer and the pressure on your chest intensified. The blood loss made you dizzy and your body shook.

“Y/N!”

You jolted awake, eyes snapping open in time to see Neal leaning out of the way just in time to avoid your hand flying at his face. You processed slowly that his hands were on your shoulders – had he shaken you? – and it was still dark. You could barely see his face, but his figure was lit from behind by the lamp next to his bed. You could tell from his messy hair that he had been sleeping not long ago, and you felt awful for waking him up.

After cursing, you sat up and gripped the warm blanket on your lap tightly. “I’m sorry,” you said remorsefully, feeling like a fool. Not only hadn’t you been able to sleep through the night, but now you’d ruined his rest, too. You cussed again. “I really hoped being close… just not being at my apartment, alone…”

It had felt like a safe bet off to a good start. You had gotten dinner together near Gramercy Park, then watched a lighthearted movie before turning in for bed. Neal offered to let you take his mattress, but you didn’t want to put him out and you had slept over enough that he didn’t feel like a bad host for letting you insist on the sofa. You’d been out by ten, but now you could guess it had been less than four hours. Your heart was still racing, your leg still tense with an imagined pain.

“It’s okay,” Neal said, sounding unsettled. He kept his hands on your shoulders like he was keeping you grounded on the earth. “Don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”

Neal’s eyes must have already adjusted to the low light, because his aim was spot-on when he lifted a hand from your shoulder to cup your neck instead. His profile ducked and you felt his lips land on your forehead, checking your temperature, signalling forgiveness, and administering reassurance all at once. He rubbed his thumb across your jaw as he stood up straight, releasing you, and walked away around the couch.

You put your legs down in front of you and rubbed your face, exhausted mentally and physically. Helplessness made you want to cry. Time wasn’t healing. Sleeping pills just made it harder to wake up, letting the nightmares ravage your psyche for longer. Not even the proximity of someone you trusted and adored was enough to let go of the past.

The light in the kitchen came on, bright enough to illuminate the studio but far enough away not to be blinding. Neal came back to the couch holding a bottle of water and offered it to you before sitting down. He looked so adorable, still sleepy and with a bit of pink in the side of his face from sleeping with his arm under his pillow. You scolded yourself for even thinking about how cute he was when you were the one who had woken him up.

You sipped at the water. It was so nice and smooth on your throat. You felt fine, now that you were awake, but the vividness of your nightmares always left you feeling parched and you always expected swallowing to hurt as if you had strep. Neal leaned into the back of the couch and put his arm up along the cushions. You capped the water, bent your knees to pull your feet back up onto the furniture, and let yourself lean into his side. Neal dropped his arm softly on your shoulders, holding you in a tender sideways hug.

“I’m sorry,” you apologized again after a couple of minutes. You felt much better, much faster than you usually did, thanks to him, and if you were being fully honest, you were not ready for him to get up and go back to bed, but it wasn’t fair to ask him to stay up cuddling you at god-knows-what-time just because you were a wreck.

“I told you, it’s okay,” Neal said, his voice firm. If you apologized again, you figured he would start scolding you for it, so you let it go.

“I just – I should’ve expected this,” you said with frustration, feeling like you were confessing to knowingly bothering him. “I haven’t been able to sleep well in ages. I keep having these nightmares, I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Neal was quiet for a few seconds, making sure you had said all you were inclined to. Then, knowingly, he asked, “This is about the Moretti case, isn’t it?”

“I can’t let it go,” you said with a whimper. “It won’t leave me alone. Every night, it’s a little bit different, but at its core it’s always the same.”

Neal’s voice cutting through the fog of your nightmare had been a saving grace, giving you peace even in your unconscious, but now that you were awake, you realized with clarity that his voice saying your name wasn’t the only voice you could make out. In fact, you always heard the same thing, every night, no matter what else changed.

“What’s the same, Y/N?” Neal asked you, trying to help. He stroked your upper arm with his open hand. You were already shaking your head. Neal could comfort you all he liked, but he couldn’t bring back the dead. In grief and shame, you turned your head and bent your neck to bury your face in his shoulder. Neal tilted his head so his cheek was resting gently on your hair. “Tell me, darling,” he coaxed in a whisper.

You felt like someone’s hands were wrapped around your throat, strangling your reply. “Agent Flynn,” you answered dryly, barely more than mouthing his name. “In every nightmare, I hear… I hear his last words. Begging Moretti not to take the shot.”

Neal was quiet for a long time, but never pushed you away. He held you closer when you started to shake, crying against him as quietly as you could manage. The artist rubbed your arm and periodically kissed your head, but he knew that there was nothing he could say to erase the horror of what you had heard or take away the guilt that you had survived because Moretti was distracted by taking out the other agent.

Moretti was part of a family gang, often in conflict with the Barellis, who, interestingly, paid a little deference to the white-collar division ever since you and Peter had recovered a stolen Book of Hours. The Morettis had no such connection or gratitude, so their response to the FBI sticking their nose into an embezzling scam was violent and bloody. Moretti shot you in the leg and intended to finish you off, but one of his own men had reported you came with someone. He left you to bleed out, and only a few rooms over, you had heard Flynn’s pleas – and the subsequent gunshot. Your team, wising up to the dead signal, arrived for a takedown before Moretti could make his way back to you, but it was too late for your teammate.

Neal shifted after what felt like forever, only to pull you closer to his chest and wrap both arms around you. You trembled in his embrace, but that just made him hold you closer, like you were delicate and breakable. When he next talked, his low voice was quivering, just like your body.

“I thought we lost you,” he said, cupping the back of your head in a gentle hand. He massaged his fingers into your scalp, even as he kept you cuddled in his lap. “I thought I lost you, Y/N. Two gunshots. I thought…” He struggled to find his words and you hiccuped, trying to stop crying. “I was the one who found you, and I was so scared I was too late.”

You sniffled and uncrossed your arms to melt against his chest and hug him tightly around his waist instead. “I didn’t know you…”

“We found him first, but you weren’t there and I needed to find you.” Neal now sounded equal parts frightened and furious. “If he had taken you away, I would’ve…” He shook his head and pressed his forehead to yours, as desperate to be close to you as you felt to be close to him. “I would’ve shattered. I can’t lose you, Y/N. I just can’t lose you, too.”

“I’m so glad I didn’t die,” you blurted, almost in a sob. You felt so safe with him, but now you knew for a fact that your own safety wasn’t what had been tormenting you. It was a nearly debilitating case of survivor’s guilt. “I just wish I hadn’t been the only one who survived.”

“No one wants that,” Neal promised you, untangling his hand from your hair and stroking it down instead. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could fix this and take it away, but all I can do is be here and hold you and tell you it’s going to be alright. It wasn’t your fault.”

You sniffed. Neal’s words were more of a comfort than you had thought they would be. They changed nothing about the situation, but… you weren’t alone. You hadn’t been alone since you met him. You just agonized that Flynn had been. “Neal, I can’t lose you, either. I love you, you’re… you’re who I’m going to heal for.” You had to find a way.

Neal seized your lips with his in a searing kiss. It wasn’t as sexy or patient as you may have imagined, but you gripped his shirt and gave as good as you got, and wow, the man gave verygood. It was a desperate kiss, needing to bring you together and reaffirm your life. To you, it was the seal of a promise that you wouldn’t let the past crush your spirit. When you could sleep through the night and had a handle on your post-traumatic stress… if he would just be patient, you would be his the way you wanted him to be yours.

He released you to breathe, eyes opening wide as if he only just realized what he had done. Before he could pull away, you pressed your forehead to his again, urging him to stay close. Your breaths mingled between you and you were sure you could feel his heart beating through his chest.

“I love you, too,” he said once he had caught his breath.

[demytasse]

[Shizaya] Of Pleas and Boredom - Ch 1

Summary: Two sides of the same tragedy; what boredom and the fear of being left behind can do to a relationship that was built from thrills and high tension. A bittersweet, established relationship fic to which Izaya and Shizuo actively fuck things up out of desperation. (Previous Chapters)

You drive me... a faulty wheel to which you forfeit; tread me a weary path that you love to fumble.

...make me... a cardinal sin to which you frequent; claim me a novel bore that you hate to fixate.

...wear me... a moral crime of that you fashion; accuse me a guilty deed that you write as fiction. But — Don’t create me... a pity loss to which you fancy; dub me a boring muse you force to forget. Please — Don’t tire of me... a healthy flame to which you see feeble; view us a heat-less fire you fear to foster.

    "...and Shizu-chan, you wouldn’t believe the grand finale! And here I thought it was a lost cause!”

A solo conversation for two ran in fast forward. It was an afternoon of hyperbolic proportion, one that starred the master of monologue — a dancer who jumped tangents just as quick as he landed, to whom barely left pause for dramatic effect let alone a breath to regain his strength, his gusto provided by the thrill of the moment.

Once desperate to keep pace with Izaya, Shizuo relinquished his attention in attempt to make sense of multiple stories that criss-crossed paths. He cleared his eyes of glaze and attempted to do the same of his comprehension.

    Shizuo stammered his response, “which forum was this?"

The way his mind referenced notes in a scurry transformed him into a student caught off guard — Izaya, the mad professor dissolved his excitement mid-lecture. His animated gestures fell in a way that told of his unconscious prediction coming to fruition. It was a sight Shizuo hated to see let alone count the rise in frequency; just as well as he despised to be the cause of it.

    "Ah, it’s okay. I didn't expect you to keep up."  

    Flashed fever clammed his skin — a drop of sweat rolled down his spine, "I can keep up just fine, flea!”

With immediacy, the pest took up a feigned task, his eyes flit over lines of text as fingertips skated the phone screen. It was his brutal way of showing disgust; replacement of one disconnect with another, tit-for-tat for those unable to share his exercise of intelligence.

Shizuo grumbled; he knew of that audacious play quite well, to which Izaya brandished his petulance like a child just to swing it haphazardly.

    “Seems like a different one than yesterday, is all."

    "Oh, that's because it is.”

    “Hu?”

    “Honestly, I was only there for Momo-chan."  

    "She's…” he paused to grab the right wording, “not there anymore?"

    "Well it’d certainly be troublesome for her not to be,” Izaya chuckled emptily. “She is the admin, right?”

Shizuo nodded though couldn’t tell if he actually recalled it or if he never knew the detail in the first place.

He followed the arc of Izaya’s tossed phone, perceptively read the other’s tired disappointment over something specific. That’s what he’d found of that particular sigh and that sigh was something of a forecast. Izaya wasn't the only one keen of the other's idiosyncrasies, though Shizuo wasn't a braggart.

    “She was dragging on my every nerve. Constantly asking for more advice, more tips, more this, more that... The forum’s popularity boomed just like she wanted,” he mocked an explosion with flayed fingers.     “Just as she begged me to help her achieve. Though was she prepared to handle the duties of being an admin?” He answered his rhetorical question with a huff.

Even though Izaya tiptoed the edge of vehemence, he paid the memory disinterest. Normally he quaffed let-downs like a drug and this time was no different. He reaped whatever benefit he could: appreciated a rise of any kind. It was cheap ecstasy.

Shizuo frowned upon Izaya for his committed sin.

    “I was running her forum while she floundered. So I told her it was a sign she wasn’t cut out for it.”     His tone grew chill, ”the truth shouldn't warrant her calling me a bastard, but as a favour I let her scream to her heart's content in PM before I dropped the account.”

    "You lost interest in her that quickly?”

    “I suppose.”

    “You’re okay with cutting someone out after chatting with them for months?" Shizuo’s nerves ran frantic with a chip in his voice.

It was that ever-lurking boredom that clung to Izaya that reared its fearsome head — yet again, Shizuo lamented.

    "I wouldn’t consider six weeks months. What illogical mathematics do monsters practice?”

    No sooner he insulted, Izaya squashed what inspired Shizuo’s twitch of anger that rose beyond his instinct. “But to continue that thought, yes, I would.”

    “Why?”

The air struggled to support the hefty stall. Izaya appeared to suss if it was a serious question, though Shizuo meant it a plea for the selfishly cut tie to be reconsidered; to believe he himself wouldn't meet a similar fate.

    “I was being saddled with a project I couldn't afford. People are supposed to grow once I assist them, Shizu-chan. At the very least they should have interest in themselves."

Izaya idly snipped his fingers in the air like scissors, his eyes focused on a thought already distant. As the exhaustion set in, he slowed his pantomime. Weariness draped his eyes.

Shizuo witnessed that exhaustion sans empathy.

    "How often do you do that?"

    "As often as needed." Izaya’s absent mind responded too quickly.

    "Izaya..."

    "I’m not dodging the question, Shizuo. I just can't give you a solid answer. I love and appreciate people, but...”

Their eyes met at middle ground and Shizuo immediately ached with the pain of Izaya’s constitution that begged for him to reciprocate.

“Have you ever felt yourself gradually lose reasons to talk to someone? The topics you can share quickly diminish?"

"Not really.”

The admittance was a crime and Izaya’s chuckle incarcerated him — exposed without a defense against the accusation Shizuo swallowed nervously.

    “Consider yourself lucky, then. The countless times I’ve watched people fail to uphold their potential is nothing short of… Well, it’s tiring. The injustice individuals pay to the human race is abysmal.”

His charming smile traveled upward, yet his vigor neglected to perform its passionate abandon. Shizuo treasured that of Izaya, that rare joy that would drown anyone within short distance. At no fault of his own he watched a travesty of that raw beauty; though he was stabbed with blame that twisted with guilt, just before it was yanked out to create him a casualty.

Shizuo sickened as his own silence grew deeper while Izaya filled the void with his muse.

    “Relationships are two way streets, and really — truthfully — it's tragic how difficult it is to find those who’ll comply.”

    Izaya’s age caught up to him at once. “I don't enjoy cutting ties with people, Shizu-chan, but it happens. Oh well.”

His youthful air and wise maturity were purposely built strong, yet they were functions of a glass canon. It was rare that anything would get passed his own valued fortitude that he too desperately clung to. Though Izaya stacked the odds in his favour, occasionally something chipped his kayfabe, dramatically destroyed his character that appeared a child, while his years barely counted higher than a teen.

But now he was revealed too old and Shizuo had no means to fathom the leagues that Izaya’s weariness dove.

    “Sorry…”

It soured the sympathy he’d given Izaya, like he offered empty condolences to an immortal whose wonder had disappeared long ago, alongside the people he’d watched leave — one at a time, crushingly the same, indefinitely. Yet that man wielded hope like a rusty weapon to attack his forever depression.

It was a hard belief that they were two beings of separate race — a bumbling human ruled by primal law and a god among no peers burdened by a lack of finality.

And what deity Izaya was went unnoticed by the man himself, though not by the man to whom he fancied at that moment.

Shizuo worried that he was merely a footnote.

Maybe all he was to Izaya was a temporary partner to entertain him before he moved on down his farcical timeline of his deathless life. Maybe he was an interest whose clock was about to tick its last tock and reset once more as a new bore.

    Perhaps…

A novel chirp interrupted their simultaneous, yet separate thoughts.

Shizuo observed the perk in Izaya's aura like he regained his childhood. A new toy he approached with re-awoken wonder as a text message lit his waxen features. The delighted beam snipped attention that was strung to Shizuo; their conversation hung dead.

    “Well that’s certainly a surprise…” a skip to his step, Izaya left the room to pretend himself an informant during a round of make-believe at recess.

He smiled with glee no longer a treat for Shizuo to indulge.

Perhaps, he’d already crossed the threshold of Izaya's boredom. That insecurity had already began to fester, but now it burrowed, rather drilled furiously deeper to take foundation in the gut of his anxiety — Shizuo’s fear attempted to replace his faith that he’d stay connected to Izaya.

    Snip!

He recalled the image of Izaya cutting the tie of that once budding relationship.

    Snip-snip!

The threads began to cut away from their seam. Though sewn tight, Shizuo had so little thread to rely on.

[toumakibangs]

°*TouMaki - Advent Calendar 2018*° DAY 12 - “SLEIGH” by @somecallmemichelle​

Mod’s Note:  @somecallmemichelle​ returns to warm us up with some well-deserved and long due Christmas passion, because we all enjoy our seasonal fluff of course, but there’s nothing wrong in spicing it up a bit, every now and then! ;) Thank you so much for this second entry of yours, @somecallmemichelle​!

Author’s Note: “I hadn’t actually ever written something quite as intense as this. I prefer my hand holding and my gentle kisses, though honestly Toumaki has a way to get me to broaden my horizons. In the old fanfic lingo this would be called a ‘lime’, I believe. Proceed with caution.”

It’s the way those tender hands touch and prod all over Toudou’s body that makes him fall backwards and knock over the sleigh. Though it’s set to leave a mark, and it wasn’t exactly a graceful fall, unlike everything he does, Toudou doesn’t seem to mind, his arms only grasping forward, pushing, pulling, trying to grab onto Makishima. Makishima who’s playing it rough, apparently, and who only smirks as he sees Toudou sprawled on the floor. Well, some parts of him are on the floor, while the body lays hung over the tipped over sleigh, giving him access. Something he pretty much enjoys as he dives in with the kisses. Makishima is nothing if not methodical and efficient, the same hands he uses for sewing, sewing until he can no longer feel his fingers, and to grip the handle of a bicycle are also delicate enough to oh so carefully curve Toudou’s curves. To tease, and make him whimper, begging, hoping for more. Something Makishima is glad to oblige.

It’s not exactly a comfortable position, and perhaps in his excitement pushing him down might have been something to condemn, but Makishima can see through Toudou’s excited little pants that he doesn’t care. His eyes hold within them a silent request, a desperate plea that Makishima doesn’t take long to understand. Being careful not to grab onto the long locks - because that’s a deal breaker, and Toudou would never dream hurting his oh so wonderful lover and boyfriend, but yet still grabbing onto the back of his neck, Toudou can’t help himself, he pushes the other boy, the other man towards him. 

It simultaneously fills him with as much joy as conquering the peak, and it’s seemingly as riding. Their bodies fitting together so that Makishima is on top, and though they’re covered in layers, layers upon layers, that don’t allow for a more contact, they can feel their breathes touching, as their lips meet, and Makishima’s hands roam all around.

This is no time for sneers, or funny little comments teasing the other, this is a moment of raw passion where Toudou, even if he had tried, couldn’t say anything. The way that tongue roams through the edge of his ear, and goes down, through his lips, his neck, edging down, and down, passing through every exposed piece of skin…and some which are yet covered.  Though careful, Makishima’s pace spoke to how much he desired Toudou, as, despite the fact his movements were slow and controlled, there was a frantic passing to the whole thing. It should have been a paradox, something that wasn’t meant to happen, but despite that it’s a moment where they feel so close they care not about how long it’s taking, or how indecent the touch could very well be…Lost in that single moment, where they need one another. A moment where nothing else really matters.

It’s soft little whispers, it’s caresses that go nowhere, but make them feel complete. It’s a touch that simultaneously refers them the notion of desire, something that urges them forward, something that they need so much they can barely grasp it, and the notion of love. Hot, gentle love, it’s the words pronounced in between kisses and touches, it’s the “I love you” and the “I love you too”

At a certain point Toudou doesn’t see anymore, as he has closed his eyes. He just loses himself in the pleasure of Makishima’s roaming hands, for he’s everything that matters at this point. He doesn’t quite move, too lost in pleasure. He only groans and moans, and bites his lip, and tells Makishima what he’s doing is right and correct and for a moment all else can be forgotten. They lose notion of time, and place, as they seemingly meld together into one. Not quite going there, because there’s time, and there’s a place for it, but so indecently groping, feeling, touching and listening it might as well be more intense, more delicate, and more personal. There’s no closer position for them to be. Positioned over the overturned sleigh, lying down together exchanging kisses.

It’s rough, and it’s intense,  and it’s delicate all at the same time. And Toudou can’t help but think that this is probably as close to perfection as the moment can come. Enjoying his boyfriend, his words, his breath, his body. Feeling it rub against all the right spots, and feeling just content. Happy, like nothing else matters. It’s nice, and he’d probably not mind if it lasted forever, but at a certain point it stops. Makishima, who’s sweaty, and bothered, and also very much in a compromising position stops him.

“I think…we should move this to the room”, he whispers, taking the time to use his breath for the first time that afternoon not to tickle Toudou’s nose, or neck, but rather to whisper a complete sentence. Other than I love you, which he has repeated with quite some frequency. Toudou at first refuses to move, possibly inebriated with all the love and pleasure he had been receiving. He aches with need. He desires release more than anything, and yet his eyebrows raise, his eyelashes flutter, and his dopey smile gives way to a questioning one. “Why, Maki! This is just perfect as it is…”, it’s the same lazy grumbles and refusal to get up that plagues their mornings together, when Makishima goes to do his job, and Toudou turns around and mumbles for five minutes. Makishima would think that what with his family owning and working at an inn, he’d be accustomed to an early rise but that’s not really the case. It’s one of those little annoyances that Maki has with Toudou that seem so inconsequential given how much he loves him. Makishima pushes a hand through Toudou’s navel, which had been revealed by the rather vigorous activities they had done earlier. Tickling it, he gently gets Toudou up. He’s groggy, but, an absolute rarity when he’s forced to get up from a comfortable position, not grumpy. In fact he still maintains his smile as he finally moves. The words “you’ll make it worth my while”, can be heard, barely perceptible, but still audible, by Makishima. He smiles, an impish smile, a smirk of confidence. He’ll make it worth his while indeed. Toudou moves to leave, but Makishima discreetly stays behind, though the sleigh, a decorative item had fallen, there’s no need to leave it as such. Turning he straightens it. A sleigh of passion indeed. He can’t help but think.

[ladylynse]

Shift (FF.net, AO3):  Maddie’s capture of the phantom was routine--until she saw the shift in colour that meant it suddenly, horribly, wasn’t.

Note: Blood/light torture ahead

“You can’t do this!” the phantom exclaimed as it strained against its bonds. Its struggle was pointless, of course. She’d tweaked the composition of the net’s coating herself, and not even ice would be able to break it now. Between that and the Fenton Cuffs, the ghost wouldn’t escape before she got it back to the lab. “Please! You don’t understand!”

Maddie understood perfectly. She and Jack had studied the paranormal for years, and despite the setback that had turned Vlad’s interests to more socially acceptable things, she hadn’t regretted dedicating her life to it. She might not have been born a Fenton, but she had always shared their family’s passion for the supernatural, and she had enough grit and ingenuity of her own to be more than a match for Jack.

And certainly more than a match than the ghost in front of her.

Maddie cast one last discerning eye over the back of the Fenton Family Ghost Assault Vehicle before deciding that, yes, there was nothing the ghost could use to get its way. She tossed it inside, ignoring its squawk of protest as it landed and the Fenton Containment Unit automatically activated. It shifted to look at her, wheezing out another pathetic please, and she slammed the door shut on its pleading green eyes.

Ghosts lied.

Ghosts didn’t feel pain.

Ghosts were master manipulators, using their skills to get their way or feed on the human emotions they lacked to sustain themselves in the human realm.

None of her research had ever proven otherwise, no matter what Jazz insisted.

The trip home was a short one. She found herself missing Jack as she manhandled the phantom down the stairs and into the lab—it took considerable effort to get the squirming ghost in position for the automatic straps to activate and hold it spread-eagled on the examination table—but he had taken the kids out in the Ops Centre to make sure they knew how to use it should it come to that. She regretted punishing Danny the first time he had used it—in retrospect, the situation did appear to have called for it—and this was one of the things they were doing to try to make it up for him. She wasn’t sure he had ever heard their apology, but actions spoke louder than words.

It was a sentiment the ghost in front of her would never understand. Apologizing would have become a foreign concept to it after death; ghosts always believed they were in the right, something which made their defense of their territories even more terrifying. If capturing this particular ghost meant she could help put an end to the territorial disputes that had erupted over Amity Park, then all the better.

Jack would be sorry he had missed it, but she couldn’t afford to wait for him.

The phantom whimpered and writhed, but she had managed to contain more than its ability to phase; it wasn’t able to do anything from build up a ghost ray to a block of ice, and Jack’s invention should have taken away the power in its voice. Considering it wasn’t trying to do anything but plead with her and mislead her, she had no reason to think it hadn’t worked. It certainly didn’t have the physical strength beyond what she would expect of a child, and considering how easily she had wrest it into place and strapped it down, it wasn’t old enough to have learned to evade attacks without using its powers.

“How can you be so heartless?” the ghost cried. “Just think about what you’re doing! Would you really do this to another human being?”

It might have been human once, perhaps even recently compared to the other ghosts that haunted their town, but it certainly wasn’t human anymore.

But perhaps Jazz was right to maintain that the reason some ghosts looked more human than others was because they were younger. Newer, Maddie had tried to correct, but Jazz insisted on humanizing the ghosts. She was happy to take on anything she didn’t see as human, and quite well, too, but she still hadn’t realized how much the humanoid ghosts were taking advantage of her mercy. But, as Jazz had pointed out, Jack and Maddie had no proof that the older ghosts could change their appearances even when they weren’t known shapeshifters. They had no proof that ghosts could alter their appearance to look more innocuous until they chose to show their true colours. Nothing definitive. Nothing Jazz would accept.

It was a good thing Jazz and Danny weren’t here now, with their conviction that Danny Phantom was the town’s hero instead of a manipulative menace in disguise who had only let its façade slip a few times.

“Please! We can talk this through,” insisted the ghost. “Talking’s good, right? You can hear my side, I can hear yours….”

Maddie sighed and decided to indulge the phantom, despite knowing she’d likely regret it. “You seem to be under the impression that I have something to say to you. I don’t. You are a ghost, and that’s all that matters.”

“But I’m not just a ghost!”

She considered reaching for a roll of duct tape so she could have some peace and quiet while she worked and then decided she didn’t want to give the ghost an opportunity to control anything. Ghosts didn’t really have saliva, but ectoplasm could come in different forms, and they could utilize liquid ectoplasm to expand their power over inanimate objects. There was no guarantee a piece of tape she put over the ghost’s mouth wouldn’t end up rammed down her throat.

Maddie picked up a pair of scissors instead. A heightened note of panic—the illusion of such, anyway—punctuated the ghost’s voice as it begged her to wait, to stop, to listen.

She sliced through the familiar DP logo in its suit anyway, nicking its skin as it tried to squirm away and eliciting fresh cries of pain as ectoplasm began to seep out of the cuts.

“You don’t understand,” whimpered the phantom. “I’m human, too.”

It was human, in a way, but its humanity only went skin deep. Maddie prodded its skin; it reminded her of raw meat. Cool, but not cold; flexible and forgiving, but dense. Solid. It cut cleanly where she’d grazed it with the scissors, but until she reached for the scalpel, she wouldn’t know how far the density would carry.

Would it be solid through and through, or would there be an abundance of liquid at its core? How deep would she have to dig before she sufficiently disrupted its electromagnetic field and it began to lose its form? How localized would that lack of cohesion be? If she cut deeply at the navel, would its outer limbs still have form or would they begin to bubble and melt into ectoplasm at the same time, at the same rate?

The ghost had its eyes screwed shut, its hands clenched into fists, and it trembled with the effort of keeping still. It winced as Maddie’s fingers pulled away the cloth of its suit, but the fabric didn’t come apart as she eased it away from the ghost. It was as strong as she had suspected.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” she murmured. She had not expected the ghost’s flesh to be quite so detailed beneath the confines of the suit. Memory, imprints—she had not thought they would be so strong for hidden features. Perhaps this ghost was as new as it appeared, though that hypothesis belied its ghostly strength. No ghost so new should be as strong as it appeared to be.

Maddie’s fingers danced up its ribcage—what would have once been its ribcage—and the ghost flinched. “I’m not an experiment,” it whispered. It repeated itself, over and over, as if it were trying to reassure itself as much as convince Maddie.

She was more interested in the fact that its chest began to heave with increased frequency, as if it not only needed breath but was genuinely panicking and finding that breath hard to catch.

She had expected an expert manipulator but not an expert mimicker, let alone one whose mastery of life-like details could nearly convince someone as learned as she.

This phantom no doubt put its human-like features to good use when not in Amity Park, fooling people into thinking it was human. She wouldn’t be surprised if it had succeeded, despite its shock of white hair and unusually bright green eyes. She was still convinced that a good number of Amity Park’s teenagers wouldn’t be so enamoured with Danny Phantom if it were a less human-looking ghost, but it had even coaxed Jazz and Danny to its side, and they knew the more grotesque truths ghosts preferred to keep hidden until the most opportune moment.

“You are very good at what you do, aren’t you?” Maddie mused as the ghost shook with each shuddering breath. She rested her hands on the table, confirming its vibration; the effort this ghost was putting forth for its façade was considerable. She might have cut off its access to its usual powers, in great part due to her husband’s genius, but the forcible containment of its current form was strongest at its bonds—necessary so the ghost did not merely slip through them—and weaker farther from the focus point so that they could generate more accurate results for their tests.

If the ghost so desired, it could have kept still and saved its strength.

Instead, it had chosen to waste it on this show of weakness.

How interesting.

It couldn’t hope to convince her. It should know that. She knew better than to be fooled by a ghost, and despite its pleas, she didn’t have a bleeding heart for a creature that made a nightmarish mockery of the natural order of the world.

Some ghosts might once have been human, but they never would be again, and once a ghost, they lost everything truly admirable about those they had once been.

“Please,” whispered the ghost between shivering breaths. “Please.”

This phantom was certainly no exception.

“Please let me go.”

Exceptions weren’t possible.

“Please. I’m human.”

As someone who had studied so much of what many purported to be impossible, she knew that better than anyone—except perhaps her husband.

“You’re a ghost,” she corrected, though she didn’t know why she wasted her breath. The ghost was looking at her now, wide green eyes brimming with a facsimile of tears, its chest still heaving. Those eyes tracked her movement as she reached for a scalpel. A small cut at first, deeper than the first grazes she’d made which were already in the process of repairing themselves. That was how she would begin. She’d take a piece out, set it aside while she did a series of swabs and observed the regeneration process, and then do a test or two on her subsample to determine its integrity.

Once she knew its limits, she could be more thorough.

“If…if I show you,” the ghost breathed as she lit the Bunsen burner, “will you stop?”

She didn’t wish to let her guard down, and entertaining such ideas from a ghost would surely do that. Maddie flicked the scalpel blade in the flame, turning to catch both sides. Their tools should all be sterile, but despite their best efforts, there was a ridiculous risk of cross-contamination, and she wanted a pure sample. Ethanol still worked on ectoplasm, but fire—fire was faster. It burned away ectoplasmic residue more quickly than any alcohol could, including Alicia’s moonshine.

The ghost screamed as she made the first incision—midriff, what would be soft flesh on a human—and began howling all sorts of nonsense, empty promises mixed in with pleas and threats and lies. She paid it no mind, instead using her forceps to deposit her sample in the centrifuge tube. Were it to completely liquefy, she would be able to see if it had the same density as ectoplasm collected from other ghosts.

Moreover, she’d be able to easily see if it had the same density as the innermost ectoplasm she collected. It made no difference on lesser ghosts, the shapeless sort who were little more than blobs with eyes, but she suspected that might be different with a complex ghost who typically held one form above all others.

The ghost’s movements were limited, but it thrashed and strained against its bonds. She didn’t want to risk injecting it with any sort of paralysis agent, but neither did she worry if her cuts were ragged rather than clean. For now, she merely needed a sample. The more difficult the ghost tried to make it for her, the more it tried to convince her of its words, the more damage it received.

Her first sample was roughly one cubic inch, the densely-packed ectoplasm beneath its outer layer reminding her of muscle and fat. Once she opened the ghost up, she intended to take larger samples.

Better to take more now than to regret not having enough for tests later.

She heated her scalpel again before pressing it into the ghost’s breastbone, using her left arm to bear down on its core in an effort to keep it still as she sliced a line towards its navel. When she felt more give in the ectoplasm, she let the scalpel cut deeper, heedless of the green welling up from the wound. Once she got her hands in there and could really examine—

Something sparked. She jumped back, the scalpel clattering to the floor. The sound rang loud in her ears despite the dull roar of the Bunsen burner and the breathy cries of the phantom.

“What was that?” she asked quietly. She tried to sound serious. Dangerous, for she was the one who was in control.

Instead, even she could hear the edge of fear in her voice.

Because she wasn’t in control.

She hadn’t expected that, whatever that truly was.

She hadn’t ever come across such a thing, not even any mechanism that would lead to that.

If she was certain of one thing, it was that she had only glimpsed a spark of something larger. Exactly how much larger, she didn’t know. Nor could she guess how powerful it would be, nor how dangerous.

She waited for an answer, but the phantom didn’t pay her any mind. It looked barely conscious, slumped on the table with its eyes closed and hardly breathing, but she couldn’t trust a visual assessment like that. Not with ghosts.

She glanced at the rack holding her first sample, assured herself that it was still intact, and then blinked and looked again.

The sample itself still appeared to be solid ectoplasm, a duller green than usual but easily recognisable.

But the liquid gathering in the bottom of the tube was no longer the bright, pulsing green of fresh liquid ectoplasm.

It was dark red.

Maddie stared.

The phantom whimpered wordlessly.

She glanced at her gloves, half expecting their stains to mirror the shift in colour, but green still glistened under the harsh fluorescent lights of the lab.

There was a thump upstairs, then the familiar thuds of footsteps rushing down the stairs and sweeping into the kitchen. “Mads? You home?”

Jack. What would he make of this? They’d never seen the like.

Please. I’m human.

Ghosts lie, but….

If I show you, will you stop?

“Mom?” She heard the basement door open; she’d made sure to close it behind her, as the house beyond wasn’t quite as ghost-proof as the lab. “Are you down here?”

Footsteps on the stairs, slowly at first—the lights usually were on, so that was no indication of her presence—and then in a rush. The sharp inhalation told her the concern wasn’t for her, but she turned to meet terrified blue eyes anyway.

They stared past her, fixed on what could be seen of the figure behind her. “Mom,” Danny whispered, “what have you done?”

And then he flew past, feet hardly touching the ground as he pushed her aside and leaned over the ghost, whispering things she couldn’t quite comprehend.

Maddie, who found that her eyes had been drawn back to the bloodied ectoplasm sample, turned to her son. He was covered in the phantom’s ectoplasm, beyond caring about the dangers of extended exposure to bare skin. “Danny,” she said quietly as he tried to pull together the jagged gash across the ghost’s chest, no doubt hoping to trigger its regeneration process, “it’s just a ghost.”

“She’s a girl,” he shot back with a fierceness she hadn’t heard in his voice before. “Her name is Danielle. She goes by Dani.”

Maddie circled the table to look at him, turning off the Bunsen burner on her way. “It’s a ghost, and you know ghosts don’t feel pain.”

She saw his fingers dig into the ghost’s flesh. “They feel pain,” he hissed. “She feels pain.” He bent closer to the ghost again. “Dani,” she heard him say, “I’m sorry, but you have to stay this way until you start to heal. You can’t change. It’ll carry through if you do, and—”

Maddie reached out one hand to pull Danny’s hands away, but he cut off and flinched back. “If you’ve killed her,” he growled, raising his head to look her in the eye, “I’ll never forgive you.”

Maddie wanted to reprimand her son, to remind him that one can’t kill something that is already dead, but the words died on her tongue.

I’m not just a ghost.

Narrowed green eyes burned into her, stealing away her breath as easily as her sense.

I’m human, too.

Optional sequel

[palladiummind-blog]

NATURAL ANTI ANXIETY: THE PARADOX OF CURING ANXIETY

The conversation I have more than any other in my practice is about the anxious feelings people experience:  the causes of it, the reasons it has, and remedies for it, or what I would call natural anti anxiety.  In a world where information is more prevalent than ever before, we look outside for answers that are often within.  In an age where we have begun to release attachments to shame around human sexuality and claim the intrinsic worth of individuals over institutions, we find ourselves swimming in the sea of new, exciting but uncertain territories and navigating freedoms not yet supported by strengths.  For these reasons, and - as I’ll share a little further down - because of anxious emotions’ unique and important purpose for us as healthy thriving people, we are experiencing and talking about anxiety more than ever before.  

The thing is, anxious feelings are a natural part of being a human – just as natural as the feelings of happiness, hurt, or anger.  And all feelings are feedback loops in the body – reinforcing positive choices as interpreted by the nervous system and the awareness, or giving us the negative feedback needed to move automatically away from what could be harmful to us.  Fear helps us shrink away from danger.  Anger causes us to rise up to protect, attack, or defend.  Pain and sadness cause us to retreat within, pull back, conserve, repair, and restore.  And anxious feelings draw attention to dissonance – external and internal.  

Anxious feelings - just like pain - are completely natural under certain conditions, and they share a lot of the characteristics of pain.  On the spectrum of emotion, anxiousness is:

-  an internal, partly subjective, unpleasant feeling which can sometimes produce visible or objective (measurable) effects in the person,

-  caused by sometimes unconscious causes,

-  striving to effect a positive response within the system, or to spur adjustments to the environment or behaviors

-  by communicating a message through the body.

Yes there is diagnosed Anxiety; I call it anxiety with a big “A” to distinguish it from the mere feeling of anxiousness (kind of like being manic is different from being happy).  Anxious experiences which can – and should – be diagnosed by a medical doctor (such as generalized anxiety disorder, panic attacks, and phobias) are severe manifestations of a natural physical phenomenon in the body.  But for a lot of people, the daily experience of anxiety can be mild, variable, affectable, and contextual, albeit challenging.  Many people I’ve met and worked with experience anxious feelings not in digital, but in analog…  By this I mean these feelings can seem more like a fader control that’s adjustable and fluctuates than it is like a switch, on and off.  In these cases, natural anti anxiety remedies are all a person is looking for.

The context and severity of anxious feelings can actually tell us a lot about the specific purpose or intention of the negative feelings being both created by and sensed by the body, but again, I’ll get to this later.

Besides the subjective negative experience someone has “feeling” anxiety, there are a lot of other reasons we want to curb recurring or persistent anxiousness.  Dr. Bruce Lipton, a world renowned developmental biologist and author, and early observer of the science of epigenetics, illuminates the effects that negative emotions have at the cellular level which ripple through the entire organism.  In my words:  Our cells and our bodies can’t be in growth functions and protection functions at the same time; when under stress, the body pays a price in growth.  In his words:  

“By necessity, a system in growth is “open” to the environment in order to assimilate those elements that support its vitality and development.  In contrast, systems in protection are “closed” to wall-off a toxic or threatening environment.  Since an organism cannot be open and closed at the same time, it means it cannot be in growth and protection at the same time.”  See his blog, “Think Beyond Your Genes”.

In his book The Biology of Belief, Dr. Lipton explains that the determinant of a cell’s growth/protection states is the perception mechanism of the cell.  At the organism level, when we as well experience stress or fear (which is in many cases subjective to the individual’s interpretation), we put our entire hormone-producing system into stress!  The long term physiological effects of being in chronic negative emotions such as fear, stress, or anxiety are illness, disease, and decay.  As he shares in the same blog, according to the American Psychological Association, between 75 to 90% of all doctor office visits are directly due to stress.  The effect of stress on physical health is prolifically documented in current scientific and medical literature.  

Finally, another reason I find that I field questions about anxious feelings and natural anti anxiety so often, and why I am so passionate about the topic, is because of the profound amount of misinformation that exists that little “a” anxiety (or anxious feelings) is without purpose, and unresolvable.  People want it gone, and yet don’t believe it can really be healed, but rather is something which will at best, be managed forever.  I call this the Paradox of Misinformation about anxiety, and here’s why:

Not only CAN anxious feelings be resolved, the very reason they exist (their purpose) is to bring resolution to their causes.  We’re just not hearing the frequencies they’re communicating in, or speaking their language.

When we deem something has no value, we discard it.  In the case of anxiety, little “a”, it has intrinsic value as it’s a feedback loop in the body bearing vital information.  As touched on above, that’s why it’s unpleasant:  to bring our attention to unconscious problems or issues.  And it’s why anxious feelings don’t let up until the unconscious causes are resolved – they’re trying to protect us from threat of danger.  Anxious feelings are bearing information about something that needs to change within the self or the environment in order for perceived threats to be neutralized, in order for us to slip back into healthy “growth” states of being.  When we ignore these messenger feelings, problems get worse, not better.  

Everything happening “automatically” in the body (which is really to say, whatever our body has automated for us) has an intended benefit to the organism.  In some way that task or function has been associated with survival.  Everything your body has automated for you has been relegated to the control of your subconscious mind and/or autonomic nervous system.  Things like heart rate, blood flow, hormone excretion – they don’t get signed off on by your conscious mind before happening, and we don’t automate functions of destruction unless they’ve been interpreted as useful, important, or vital to the body.  

So here’s the thing, anxiety might be the only clue you have about “what the problem is” that’s causing the anxiousness.  You can decide it doesn’t matter, but the body won’t let us forget if we’ve ignored something important.  

The anxiousness is the little green sapling emerging from the frozen ground, letting you know there was a seed down there.  Follow the sapling down and you’ll find the roots, because they’re connected to each other!  One causes the other.  In this analogy, the seed is usually an opportunity for growth, change, expansion, or greater happiness, but because we start out being unaware of the what the cause is, and it feels unpleasant, most people fear it, fight it, and want to make it stop.  

You might say, “Mandy, I don’t care if there’s a seed in the ground or not.”  Or you might be thinking, “My life is just fine, I don’t need change, growth, or greater happiness, so I’d really just like ignore this, numb it, or shut it up so I can go back to what I was doing.”  And you may be right, but another part of you disagrees!  And whether you need a change, or whether you just need to bring a confused part of yourself back into accord with the rest of the machine of you that’s all working perfectly well, the resolution approach when it comes to natural anti anxiety is still the same:    Hear, understand, and acknowledge the message that the feeling is trying to communicate to you.  

With subconscious information, we listen by using the language of your subconscious itself:  in a word, imagery.  

By this point, you might be starting to notice that our seeking for a natural anti anxiety remedy is more a misnomer than anything.  Understanding the nature and purpose of feelings can allow us to make peace with the emotions that are created by us, for us, to hear, heed and take action.  A response that’s tremendously more helpful than ignoring unpleasant feelings, and that we can do right away with this understanding, would be to receive the information of the feeling and explore it with curiosity briefly, recognizing that a feeling will arise and subside, but that it’s inherently fluid and transient.  The longer we resist emotions such as sadness, frustration, and anxiousness, they can and usually will snowball into more extreme negative experiences, because unattended problems grow.

No one out there is going to come in and rescue you from the feeling of anxiousness, and for me personally, it’s the best news I ever received.  We can mask it, fight it, analyze it, plea with it, ignore it, cope with it, the list goes on, but these efforts only kick the can of your comfort down the road.  This is because it isn’t unnatural, or a disorder to feel anxiety – it’s completely natural and important.  Knowing this empowers us to respond to anxiousness with equanimity, dignity, and respect skillfully by listening within, and enables us to return to a natural resting state of peace, happiness, and harmony within our own bodies.  

Let’s talk some specifics now.  Anxious feelings’ purpose is to bring attention to the need for harmony where there is dissonance, and how I think of it, this dissonance can take two forms:  

-  one or multiple conflicts between internal beliefs or needs,

-  or conflict between our inner world and our outer choices or environment.

I’ve found that the inner conflicts causing folks anxiety are mostly unconscious, whereas the dissonance between inner and outer worlds can be known or unknown.  In the case of the latter, the realities of inner and outer might all be known, but the dissonance itself is what is unconscious.  The unconscious nature of its cause is truly one of the greatest problems with anxiety.  I’ll explain.

With other negative emotions (such as sadness, anger, fear), causes can be more obvious, and we can either let the emotion pass through us and simply subside, or do something to change/relieve the situation.  Likewise, with pain, when we know the cause, we can usually create some comfort or relief.  When the cause of pain is unknown however, the pain remains, and its intensity can be amplified by the mind though worry and fixation.  

Similarly with anxiety, the not knowing keeps us seeking to know…  If we knew the causes, we’d be quick to choose a new strategy, make a new decision, release the pressure value.  But when we use conscious processes like logic to try and find and resolve unconscious problems, it simply doesn’t work.  The cause of anxiety is not known to our conscious minds – not available to our conscious minds to choose better, so until we find the way to hear the subtle language and message, the anxiety remains.  

Consequently, for anyone seeking natural anti anxiety relief, one of the most natural methods imaginable is to simply make the unconscious conscious is by listening in the language of the subconscious!  As touched on briefly above, imagery is to the subconscious what verbal language, logic and math are to the conscious mind.  It’s actually one of our first capabilities as humans to perceive imagery; it’s innate to each of us from the earliest stages of mental and cognitive development.  

How may you access imagery?  By simply relaxing your critical mind and letting analysis take a rest, you will already be accessing subtle subconscious information.  Everyone receives it slightly differently, so I want to give you a bit of information, and tell you here’s how you’ll recognize it:

There may be imagery such as internal images or pictures.  These can also be more like movies than pictures, and/or be accompanied by sounds or feelings.  Emotion is subconscious information as well.  Body sensations can present (weight, pressure, warmth, tingling, awareness, energy, etc).  Memories and inner dialogues are all subconscious information, too.  How do you interpret them?  Well, for starters, DON’T!  Just listen.  

Subconscious information presents itself to us easily when we create space for it – filling up the awareness as soon as more conscious, critical faculties are resting, just as spontaneously as dreams come in sleep.  By intentionally accessing waking relaxation of critical thought (altered state of consciousness, non-ordinary states of consciousness (NOSC), trance, hypnosis, alpha brain waves, all names for the same thing), we can listen to, perceive and become aware of subconscious information at any time.  

That’s why doing transformative imagery work in hypnosis for anxiety , working in NOSC, doing breathwork, and other somatic practices are so effective in releasing anxiety – we access the state of awareness where emotion resides.  You have to make contact with something before you can change it.  In this way we can discover it’s positive intention for us, receive the information, process the feelings and release the anxious impulses – for good.  It’s not complex, lengthy, difficult, or esoteric.  Hopefully by now you are starting to get a sense of why this matters when it comes to releasing anxious feelings for good.  

“But what does the information I get mean, Mandy?  What do I do with it?  How do I make the anxiety stop!”  This is where I’m going to invite you to slow down a littl  Take a couple deep breaths, and relax into the fact that trying to fix things and steer with information you might be receiving for the first time in your life is part of the problem!  The first step – the first FEW steps actually – is just going to entail listening, sitting with, and sending acceptance to whatever comes up for you.  Think of it like getting the lay of the land, taking the temperature, or learning the ropes of connecting with your own subconscious.  What’s contained within your subconscious determines and creates your reactions and reflexes, including the anxiousness you’re working with.  So get comfortable with the discovery process because no one can do this listening work but you.

Another natural anti anxiety method to making the unconscious cause conscious is to do some reflection about what the experience of anxiety is keeping you from, and what logic it has.  Doing some open ended journaling around the topic could be another means of discovery (my recommendation, start with 3x high quality 10-min sessions of resting self judgment, saving analysis for later, and putting pen to paper).  My guess is that you’ll learn something.  

These assignments are some of the very ones that I give to my 1:1 clients, and they create beautiful shifts without taking tons of time.  My hope is that by understanding more about the nature of anxiety and its own mechanisms, you can use the same mechanisms to flip an unpleasant experience on its head and claim the fulfillment of the life that’s waiting on you.    

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     In this article you can discover some of the best books and you can find the top of the most popular books at this moment. What’s hot in books these days? Take a look at the below recommendations from the list and find the best books in literature, fiction and nonfiction. 

     Explore best sellers in books for romance, mystery, fantasy and thrillers, science fiction and biography.

Rediscovering Americanism: And the Tyranny of Progressivism

Hardcover – June 27, 2017

by Mark R. Levin

From #1 New York Times bestselling author and radio host Mark R. Levin comes a searing plea for a return to America’s most sacred values. In Rediscovering Americanism, Mark R. Levin revisits the founders’ warnings about the perils of overreach by the federal government and concludes that the men who created our country would be outraged and disappointed to see where we've ended up. Levin returns to the impassioned question he's explored in each of his bestselling books: How do we save our exceptional country? Because our values are in such a precarious state, he argues that a restoration to the essential truths on which our country was founded has never been more urgent. Understanding these principles, in Levin’s words, can “serve as the antidote to tyrannical regimes and governments.” Rediscovering Americanism is not an exercise in nostalgia, but an appeal to his fellow citizens to reverse course. This essential book brings Levin’s celebrated, sophisticated analysis to the troubling question of America's future, and reminds us what we must restore for the sake of our children and our children's children.

Turtles All the Way Down (Signed Edition)

by John Green

This is a signed edition. Limited quantities available. The wait is over! John Green, the #1 bestselling author of The Fault in Our Stars, is back. It all begins with a fugitive billionaire and the promise of a cash reward. Turtles All the Way Down is about lifelong friendship, the intimacy of an unexpected reunion, Star Wars fan fiction, and tuatara. But at its heart is Aza Holmes, a young woman navigating daily existence within the ever-tightening spiral of her own thoughts. In his long-awaited return, John Green shares Aza’s story with shattering, unflinching clarity.

Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis

by J. D. Vance 

#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER, NAMED BY THE TIMES AS ONE OF "6 BOOKS TO HELP UNDERSTAND TRUMP'S WIN" AND SOON TO BE A MAJOR-MOTION PICTURE DIRECTED BY RON HOWARD

"You will not read a more important book about America this year."—The Economist

"A riveting book."—The Wall Street Journal

"Essential reading."—David Brooks, New York Times

From a former marine and Yale Law School graduate, a powerful account of growing up in a poor Rust Belt town that offers a broader, probing look at the struggles of America’s white working class

Hillbilly Elegy is a passionate and personal analysis of a culture in crisis—that of white working-class Americans. The decline of this group, a demographic of our country that has been slowly disintegrating over forty years, has been reported on with growing frequency and alarm, but has never before been written about as searingly from the inside. J. D. Vance tells the true story of what a social, regional, and class decline feels like when you were born with it hung around your neck.

The Vance family story begins hopefully in postwar America. J. D.’s grandparents were “dirt poor and in love,” and moved north from Kentucky’s Appalachia region to Ohio in the hopes of escaping the dreadful poverty around them. They raised a middle-class family, and eventually their grandchild (the author) would graduate from Yale Law School, a conventional marker of their success in achieving generational upward mobility.

But as the family saga of Hillbilly Elegy plays out, we learn that this is only the short, superficial version. Vance’s grandparents, aunt, uncle, sister, and, most of all, his mother, struggled profoundly with the demands of their new middle-class life, and were never able to fully escape the legacy of abuse, alcoholism, poverty, and trauma so characteristic of their part of America. Vance piercingly shows how he himself still carries around the demons of their chaotic family history.

A deeply moving memoir with its share of humor and vividly colorful figures, Hillbilly Elegy is the story of how upward mobility really feels. And it is an urgent and troubling meditation on the loss of the American dream for a large segment of this country.

The Pioneer Woman Cooks: Come and Get It!: Simple, Scrumptious Recipes for Crazy Busy Lives

by Ree Drummond 

Delicious recipes for busy lives from the #1 New York Times bestselling author and Food Network host.

For home cooks, nothing beats spending a long, leisurely day preparing dinner for your family while savoring every flavorful step. But let's face it: Few of us really have the time to do that anymore, with school, sports, work, and activities pulling us in all directions. What busy home cooks really need are scrumptious, doable recipes to solve the challenge of feeding their families wholesome food that tastes great, day after day, week after week—without falling into a rut and relying on the same old rotation of meals.

Ree Drummond provides readers with her very best make-it-happen dishes, pulled from her own non-stop life as a devoted wife, mother of four, food lover, and businesswoman. The Pioneer Woman Cooks: Come and Get It! includes more than 125 of Ree’s best solutions for tasty, nutritious meals (with minimal fuss!) for breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

With a mix of flavors that will please everyone, Ree makes it easy to whip up delicious, simple, down-home recipes that go from stove without a lot of stress. Cooking should be a happy occasion!

Wonder Hardcover – February 14, 2012

by R. J. Palacio 

SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE STARRING JULIA ROBERTS, OWEN WILSON, AND JACOB TREMBLAY! Over 5 million people have read the #1 New York Times bestseller WONDER and have fallen in love with Auggie Pullman, an ordinary boy with an extraordinary face. The book that inspired the Choose Kind movement. I won't describe what I look like. Whatever you're thinking, it's probably worse. August Pullman was born with a facial difference that, up until now, has prevented him from going to a mainstream school. Starting 5th grade at Beecher Prep, he wants nothing more than to be treated as an ordinary kid—but his new classmates can’t get past Auggie’s extraordinary face. WONDER, now a #1 New York Times bestseller and included on the Texas Bluebonnet Award master list, begins from Auggie’s point of view, but soon switches to include his classmates, his sister, her boyfriend, and others. These perspectives converge in a portrait of one community’s struggle with empathy, compassion, and acceptance. "Wonder is the best kids' book of the year," said Emily Bazelon, senior editor at Slate.com and author of Sticks and Stones: Defeating the Culture of Bullying and Rediscovering the Power of Character and Empathy. In a world where bullying among young people is an epidemic, this is a refreshing new narrative full of heart and hope. R.J. Palacio has called her debut novel “a meditation on kindness” —indeed, every reader will come away with a greater appreciation for the simple courage of friendship. Auggie is a hero to root for, a diamond in the rough who proves that you can’t blend in when you were born to stand out. 

Astrophysics for People in a Hurry 

Hardcover – May 2, 2017

by Neil deGrasse Tyson 

The #1 New York Times Bestseller: The essential universe, from our most celebrated and beloved astrophysicist.

What is the nature of space and time? How do we fit within the universe? How does the universe fit within us? There’s no better guide through these mind-expanding questions than acclaimed astrophysicist and best-selling author Neil deGrasse Tyson.

But today, few of us have time to contemplate the cosmos. So Tyson brings the universe down to Earth succinctly and clearly, with sparkling wit, in tasty chapters consumable anytime and anywhere in your busy day.

While you wait for your morning coffee to brew, for the bus, the train, or a plane to arrive,Astrophysics for People in a Hurry will reveal just what you need to be fluent and ready for the next cosmic headlines: from the Big Bang to black holes, from quarks to quantum mechanics, and from the search for planets to the search for life in the universe.

The Handmaid's Tale

 Paperback – March 16, 1998

by Margaret Atwood

From the bestselling author of the MaddAddam trilogy, here is the #1 New York Timesbestseller and seminal work of speculative fiction from the Booker Prize-winning author. Now a Hulu series starring Elizabeth Moss, Samira Wiley, and Joseph Fiennes. Includes a new introduction by Margaret Atwood. Offred is a Handmaid in the Republic of Gilead. She may leave the home of the Commander and his wife once a day to walk to food markets whose signs are now pictures instead of words because women are no longer allowed to read. She must lie on her back once a month and pray that the Commander makes her pregnant, because in an age of declining births, Offred and the other Handmaids are valued only if their ovaries are viable. Offred can remember the days before, when she lived and made love with her husband Luke; when she played with and protected her daughter; when she had a job, money of her own, and access to knowledge. But all of that is gone now…. Funny, unexpected, horrifying, and altogether convincing, The Handmaid's Tale is at once scathing satire, dire warning, and literary tour de force.

The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck: A Counterintuitive Approach to Living a Good Life 

Hardcover – September 13, 2016

by Mark Manson 

New York Times Bestseller

In this generation-defining self-help guide, a superstar blogger cuts through the crap to show us how to stop trying to be "positive" all the time so that we can truly become better, happier people.

For decades, we’ve been told that positive thinking is the key to a happy, rich life. "F**k positivity," Mark Manson says. "Let’s be honest, shit is f**ked and we have to live with it." In his wildly popular Internet blog, Manson doesn’t sugarcoat or equivocate. He tells it like it is—a dose of raw, refreshing, honest truth that is sorely lacking today. The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F**k is his antidote to the coddling, let’s-all-feel-good mindset that has infected modern society and spoiled a generation, rewarding them with gold medals just for showing up.

Manson makes the argument, backed both by academic research and well-timed poop jokes, that improving our lives hinges not on our ability to turn lemons into lemonade, but on learning to stomach lemons better. Human beings are flawed and limited—"not everybody can be extraordinary, there are winners and losers in society, and some of it is not fair or your fault." Manson advises us to get to know our limitations and accept them. Once we embrace our fears, faults, and uncertainties, once we stop running and avoiding and start confronting painful truths, we can begin to find the courage, perseverance, honesty, responsibility, curiosity, and forgiveness we seek.

There are only so many things we can give a f**k about so we need to figure out which ones really matter, Manson makes clear. While money is nice, caring about what you do with your life is better, because true wealth is about experience. A much-needed grab-you-by-the-shoulders-and-look-you-in-the-eye moment of real-talk, filled with entertaining stories and profane, ruthless humor, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F**k is a refreshing slap for a generation to help them lead contented, grounded lives.

Camino Island: A Novel 

   Hardcover – June 6, 2017

by John Grisham 

A gang of thieves stage a daring heist from a secure vault deep below Princeton University’s Firestone Library. Their loot is priceless, but Princeton has insured it for twenty-five million dollars.      Bruce Cable owns a popular bookstore in the sleepy resort town of Santa Rosa on Camino Island in Florida. He makes his real money, though, as a prominent dealer in rare books. Very few people know that he occasionally dabbles in the black market of stolen books and manuscripts.      Mercer Mann is a young novelist with a severe case of writer’s block who has recently been laid off from her teaching position. She is approached by an elegant, mysterious woman working for an even more mysterious company. A generous offer of money convinces Mercer to go undercover and infiltrate Bruce Cable’s circle of literary friends, ideally getting close enough to him to learn his secrets.      But eventually Mercer learns far too much, and there’s trouble in paradise as only John Grisham can deliver it.

Milk and Honey 

 Paperback – October 6, 2015

by Rupi Kaur

#1 New York Times bestseller Milk and Honey is a collection of poetry and prose about survival. About the experience of violence, abuse, love, loss, and femininity. The book is divided into four chapters, and each chapter serves a different purpose. Deals with a different pain. Heals a different heartache. Milk and Honey takes readers through a journey of the most bitter moments in life and finds sweetness in them because there is sweetness everywhere if you are just willing to look.

The Silent Wife: A gripping emotional page turner with a twist that will take your breath away 

   Paperback – February 24, 2017

by Kerry Fisher

Would you risk everything for the man you loved? Even if you knew he'd done something terrible?

'A heart-wrenching and gripping tale. I was hooked from the very first page.' Write Escape

Lara’s life looks perfect on the surface. Gorgeous doting husband Massimo, sweet little sonSandro and the perfect home. Lara knows something about Massimo. Something she can’t tell anyone else or everything he has worked so hard for will be destroyed: his job, their reputation, their son. This secret is keeping Lara a prisoner in her marriage.

Maggie is married to Massimo’s brother Nico and lives with him and her troubled stepdaughter. She knows all of Nico’s darkest secrets – or so she thinks. Then one day she discovers a letter in the attic which reveals a shocking secret about Nico’s first wife. Will Maggie set the record straight or keep silent to protect those she loves?

For a family held together by lies, the truth will come at a devastating price.

A heart-wrenching, emotionally gripping read for fans of Amanda Prowse, Liane Moriarty and Diane Chamberlain.

What everyone's saying about The Silent Wife:

'A compulsive read about secrets, lies, and the complexities of families' Bloomin' Brilliant Books

'What a great novel this is! A very moving story filled with deception, betrayal and, contrastingly, loyalty, love, caring and forgiveness... and it has a brilliant ending!' Splashes Into Books

'Well, this book is a firecracker!...you will experience a rollercoaster of emotions, with laughter, sadness and a satisfying ending that will bring a lump to your throat.' Many Books Many Lives

'A fantastic, thought-provoking story, told with pace and style' Laura Bambrey Books

The Letter: The #1 Bestseller that everyone is talking about 

   Kindle Edition

by Kathryn Hughes 

The #1 EBook Bestseller. Every so often a love story comes along to remind us that sometimes, in our darkest hour, hope shines a candle to light our way. Discover THE LETTER by Kathryn Hughes, the Number One bestseller that has captured thousands of hearts worldwide. Perfect for fans of The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks. 'A wonderful, uplifting story' Lesley Pearse And if you love THE LETTER, you will adore Kathryn's second novel THE SECRET... Tina Craig longs to escape her violent husband. She works all the hours God sends to save up enough money to leave him, also volunteering in a charity shop to avoid her unhappy home. Whilst going through the pockets of a second-hand suit, she comes across an old letter, the envelope firmly sealed and unfranked. Tina opens the letter and reads it - a decision that will alter the course of her life for ever...

Billy Stirling knows he has been a fool, but hopes he can put things right. On 4th September 1939 he sits down to write the letter he hopes will change his future. It does - in more ways than he can ever imagine...

The Letter tells the story of two women, born decades apart, whose paths are destined to cross and how one woman's devastation leads to the other's salvation.

The Life We Bury 

Paperback – October 14, 2014

by Allen Eskens 

College student Joe Talbert has the modest goal of completing a writing assignment for an English class. His task is to interview a stranger and write a brief biography of the person. With deadlines looming, Joe heads to a nearby nursing home to find a willing subject. There he meets Carl Iverson, and soon nothing in Joe's life is ever the same. Carl is a dying Vietnam veteran--and a convicted murderer. With only a few months to live, he has been medically paroled to a nursing home, after spending thirty years in prison for the crimes of rape and murder. As Joe writes about Carl's life, especially Carl's valor in Vietnam, he cannot reconcile the heroism of the soldier with the despicable acts of the convict. Joe, along with his skeptical female neighbor, throws himself into uncovering the truth, but he is hamstrung in his efforts by having to deal with his dangerously dysfunctional mother, the guilt of leaving his autistic brother vulnerable, and a haunting childhood memory. Thread by thread, Joe unravels the tapestry of Carl’s conviction. But as he and Lila dig deeper into the circumstances of the crime, the stakes grow higher. Will Joe discover the truth before it’s too late to escape the fallout?

The Boy on the Wooden Box: How the Impossible Became Possible . . . on Schindler's List 

Paperback – August 18, 2015

by Leon Leyson  (Author), Marilyn J. Harran  (Contributor), Elisabeth B. Leyson  (Contributor)

“Much like The Boy In the Striped Pajamas or The Book Thief,” this remarkable memoir from Leon Leyson, one of the youngest children to survive the Holocaust on Oskar Schindler’s list, “brings to readers a story of bravery and the fight for a chance to live” (VOYA). This, the only memoir published by a former Schindler’s list child, perfectly captures the innocence of a small boy who goes through the unthinkable. Leon Leyson (born Leib Lezjon) was only ten years old when the Nazis invaded Poland and his family was forced to relocate to the Krakow ghetto. With incredible luck, perseverance, and grit, Leyson was able to survive the sadism of the Nazis, including that of the demonic Amon Goeth, commandant of Plaszow, the concentration camp outside Krakow. Ultimately, it was the generosity and cunning of one man, Oskar Schindler, who saved Leon Leyson’s life, and the lives of his mother, his father, and two of his four siblings, by adding their names to his list of workers in his factory—a list that became world renowned: Schindler’s list. Told with an abundance of dignity and a remarkable lack of rancor and venom, The Boy on the Wooden Box is a legacy of hope, a memoir unlike anything you’ve ever read.

The Best Seller 

Paperback – May 27, 2016

by Dina Rae 

When Maya Smock writes her first novel, everything seems to go her way. Her book practically writes itself. She marries her gorgeous agent. Her name is on all of the best seller lists. Billionaire author Jay McCallister takes an interest in her meteoric rise to fame and invites her into his world of alien-believing celebrities. Her life changes forever when he tells her that they were both created inside of a laboratory. These authors are embedding an alien genetic code within the pages of their novels that originated from Nazi Germany because... The time has come. They are here.

When God Whispers Your Name (The Bestseller Collection)

   Hardcover – June 7, 2009

by Max Lucado 

Are you ready to hope again? Are you ready to let go of doubt and sorrow? Just listen carefully. God is whispering your name.

Somewhere, between the pages of this book and the pages of your heart, God is speaking. And He is calling you by name.

Maybe that's hard to believe. Maybe you just can't imagine that the One who made it all thinks of you that personally -- that He keeps your name on His heart and lips.

But it's true. In the Bible and in the circumstances of your life, He whispers your name lovingly. Tenderly. Patiently but persistently. Let these stories remind you of the God who knows your name.

Some of the stories are from the Bible. Some are drawn from everyday life. Most are about people who are lost ... or weary ... or discouraged -- just like you may be. If you let them, they will tell the story of your life. And the story of a God who speaks into your situation.

So listen closely as you turn these pages. Listen for the Father's gentle whisper that can erase your doubt, your sorrow, your weariness, your despair.

It really is your name that you hear, and the Voice that calls is more loving that your ever dared dream. Listen. And learn to hope again.

Ashes to Ashes: The Sunday Times bestseller returns with the most gripping book of 2017! (Detective Mark Heckenburg, Book 6) 

Kindle Edition

by Paul Finch 

The Sunday Times bestseller returns with his next unforgettable crime thriller. Fans of MJ Arlidge and Stuart MacBride won’t be able to put this down.

John Sagan is a forgettable man. You could pass him in the street and not realise he’s there. But then, that’s why he’s so dangerous.

A torturer for hire, Sagan has terrorised – and mutilated – countless victims. And now he’s on the move. DS Mark ‘Heck’ Heckenburg must chase the trail, even when it leads him to his hometown of Bradburn – a place he never thought he’d set foot in again.

But Sagan isn’t the only problem. Bradburn is being terrorised by a lone killer who burns his victims to death. And with the victims chosen at random, no-one knows who will be next. Least of all Heck…

A Man Called Ove: A Novel 

Paperback – May 5, 2015

by Fredrik Backman

Read the New York Times bestseller that has taken the world by storm! Meet Ove. He’s a curmudgeon—the kind of man who points at people he dislikes as if they were burglars caught outside his bedroom window. He has staunch principles, strict routines, and a short fuse. People call him “the bitter neighbor from hell.” But must Ove be bitter just because he doesn’t walk around with a smile plastered to his face all the time? Behind the cranky exterior there is a story and a sadness. So when one November morning a chatty young couple with two chatty young daughters move in next door and accidentally flatten Ove’s mailbox, it is the lead-in to a comical and heartwarming tale of unkempt cats, unexpected friendship, and the ancient art of backing up a U-Haul. All of which will change one cranky old man and a local residents’ association to their very foundations. A feel-good story in the spirit of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry and Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand, Fredrik Backman’s novel about the angry old man next door is a thoughtful exploration of the profound impact one life has on countless others. “If there was an award for ‘Most Charming Book of the Year,’ this first novel by a Swedish blogger-turned-overnight-sensation would win hands down” (Booklist, starred review).

Firefly Lane 

Paperback – January 6, 2009

by Kristin Hannah 

From the New York Times bestselling author Kristin Hannah comes a powerful novel of love, loss, and the magic of friendship. . . .

In the turbulent summer of 1974, Kate Mularkey has accepted her place at the bottom of the eighth-grade social food chain. Then, to her amazement, the "coolest girl in the world" moves in across the street and wants to be her friend. Tully Hart seems to have it all---beauty, brains, ambition. On the surface they are as opposite as two people can be: Kate, doomed to be forever uncool, with a loving family who mortifies her at every turn. Tully, steeped in glamour and mystery, but with a secret that is destroying her. They make a pact to be best friends forever; by summer's end they've become TullyandKate. Inseparable.

So begins Kristin Hannah's magnificent new novel. Spanning more than three decades and playing out across the ever-changing face of the Pacific Northwest, Firefly Lane is the poignant, powerful story of two women and the friendship that becomes the bulkhead of their lives.

From the beginning, Tully is desperate to prove her worth to the world. Abandoned by her mother at an early age, she longs to be loved unconditionally. In the glittering, big-hair era of the eighties, she looks to men to fill the void in her soul. But in the buttoned-down nineties, it is television news that captivates her. She will follow her own blind ambition to New York and around the globe, finding fame and success . . . and loneliness.

Kate knows early on that her life will be nothing special. Throughout college, she pretends to be driven by a need for success, but all she really wants is to fall in love and have children and live an ordinary life. In her own quiet way, Kate is as driven as Tully. What she doesn't know is how being a wife and mother will change her . . . how she'll lose sight of who she once was, and what she once wanted. And how much she'll envy her famous best friend. . . .

For thirty years, Tully and Kate buoy each other through life, weathering the storms of friendship---jealousy, anger, hurt, resentment. They think they've survived it all until a single act of betrayal tears them apart . . . and puts their courage and friendship to the ultimate test.

Firefly Lane is for anyone who ever drank Boone's Farm apple wine while listening to Abba or Fleetwood Mac. More than a coming-of-age novel, it's the story of a generation of women who were both blessed and cursed by choices. It's about promises and secrets and betrayals. And ultimately, about the one person who really, truly knows you---and knows what has the power to hurt you . . . and heal you. Firefly Lane is a story you'll never forget . . . one you'll want to pass on to your best friend.

Sister Sister: A gripping psychological thriller 

Paperback – May 23, 2017

by Sue Fortin 

USA Today bestselling author of The Girl Who Lied

‘Gobsmacked…a thrilling finale’ Rachel’s Random Reads

Alice: Beautiful, kind, manipulative, liar.

Clare: Intelligent, loyal, paranoid, jealous.

Clare thinks Alice is a manipulative liar who is trying to steal her life. Alice thinks Clare is jealous of her long-lost return and place in their family.

One of them is telling the truth. The other is a maniac. Two sisters. One truth.

What people are saying about SISTER SISTER:

‘I would definitely recommend this if you love psychological thrillers’ – Stardust Book Reviews

‘Sister Sister has everything – conflict, family secrets and betrayal, all of which go to make it thoroughly deserving of the five stars I’ve given it’ – Brook Cottage Books

‘A truly absorbing psychological thriller’ – Joan Hill, Reviewing Recommended Reads

The Secret Wife 

Paperback – November 8, 2016

by Gill Paul 

The USA Today bestseller

‘A cleverly crafted novel and an enthralling story… A triumph.’ DINAH JEFFERIES

A Russian grand duchess and an English journalist. Linked by one of the world’s greatest mysteries…

Love. Guilt. Heartbreak.

1914

Russia is on the brink of collapse, and the Romanov family faces a terrifyingly uncertain future. Grand Duchess Tatiana has fallen in love with cavalry officer Dmitri, but events take a catastrophic turn, placing their romance – and their lives – in danger . . .

2016

Kitty Fisher escapes to her great-grandfather’s remote cabin in America, after a devastating revelation makes her flee London. There, on the shores of Lake Akanabee, she discovers the spectacular jewelled pendant that will lead her to a long-buried family secret . . .

Haunting, moving and beautifully written, The Secret Wife effortlessly crosses centuries, as past merges with present in an unforgettable story of love, loss and resilience.

Perfect for fans of Kate Morton and Dinah Jefferies.

Ordinary Grace 

Paperback – March 4, 2014

by William Kent Krueger 

NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER WINNER OF THE 2014 EDGAR AWARD FOR BEST NOVEL WINNER OF THE 2014 DILYS AWARD A SCHOOL LIBRARY JOURNAL BEST BOOK OF 2013 “That was it. That was all of it. A grace so ordinary there was no reason at all to remember it. Yet I have never across the forty years since it was spoken forgotten a single word.” New Bremen, Minnesota, 1961. The Twins were playing their debut season, ice-cold root beers were selling out at the soda counter of Halderson’s Drugstore, and Hot Stuff comic books were a mainstay on every barbershop magazine rack. It was a time of innocence and hope for a country with a new, young president. But for thirteen-year-old Frank Drum it was a grim summer in which death visited frequently and assumed many forms. Accident. Nature. Suicide. Murder. Frank begins the season preoccupied with the concerns of any teenage boy, but when tragedy unexpectedly strikes his family—which includes his Methodist minister father; his passionate, artistic mother; Juilliard-bound older sister; and wise-beyond-his-years kid brother—he finds himself thrust into an adult world full of secrets, lies, adultery, and betrayal, suddenly called upon to demonstrate a maturity and gumption beyond his years. Told from Frank’s perspective forty years after that fateful summer, Ordinary Grace is a brilliantly moving account of a boy standing at the door of his young manhood, trying to understand a world that seems to be falling apart around him. It is an unforgettable novel about discovering the terrible price of wisdom and the enduring grace of God.

The Missing Ones: An absolutely gripping thriller with a jaw-dropping twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 1) 

Kindle Edition

by Patricia Gibney 

The hole they dug was not deep. A white flour bag encased the little body. Three small faces watched from the window, eyes black with terror. The child in the middle spoke without turning his head. ‘I wonder which one of us will be next?’ When a woman’s body is discovered in a cathedral and hours later a young man is found hanging from a tree outside his home, Detective Lottie Parker is called in to lead the investigation. Both bodies have the same distinctive tattoo clumsily inscribed on their legs. It’s clear the pair are connected, but how? The trail leads Lottie to St Angela’s, a former children’s home, with a dark connection to her own family history. Suddenly the case just got personal. As Lottie begins to link the current victims to unsolved murders decades old, two teenage boys go missing. She must close in on the killer before they strike again, but in doing so is she putting her own children in terrifying danger? Lottie is about to come face to face with a twisted soul who has a very warped idea of justice. 

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