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[amgracy]

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[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

A Fine Line

I've really enjoyed Sami Zayn's paranoid, obsessive belief that there is some sort of WWE conspiracy against him. I'm also kind of persuaded that the company has exhibited a prejudice against him for no reason. So that's where this story comes from.

Pairing: Sami Zayn x OFC

Word count: 2,972

Content advisory: smut and a major dereliction of duty by a professional in a position of power

You’ve come to dread visiting this place. It’s not that the neighborhood is so bad, although you always make sure to park your car in the monitored lot rather than on the street, even though it means you have to walk a couple of blocks. You’ve been in worse places.

But it’s started getting to you, these regular appointments that seem to be getting more and more alarming. He’s not well. It’s not your fault and it’s not really your business. You’re just the Health and Safety officer who’s been assigned to meet with him while he’s experiencing what the company calls a “stressful episode”. You’re just there to determine if he’s healthy enough, mentally and physically, to fight every week and to recommend a medical course of action if you think he’s slipping. Lately, though, you get the feeling that everything that you report is getting distilled down to one word: yes. Yes, he’s fit to work, because he understands who he is, what the job entails, and how to do all the moves he needs to so that no one gets hurt. The fact that for the last three weeks you’ve been saying that he needs a break to stave off any problems in the future seems not to have registered with anyone. So every time you come back here and talk about his health, you feel like you’re failing him. Worse, it feels like you’re being dishonest with him.

You step onto the landing at the back of the house where he rents his tiny apartment. He could afford better but, as he’s told you, he likes it here. He needs his money for other things. What things? He doesn’t like to specify. But he’s certain that there’s a time coming when he won’t be earning what he is now, when he doesn’t think he’ll be able to do this kind of work anywhere.

As usual, you knock twice in quick succession and then twice slowly. Yes, you have a secret knock to gain admittance to the home of the man who is officially fine to risk his life and the lives of others in a wrestling ring.

“Come in,” comes the answer from inside.

You squint as you enter the darkened apartment. All the blinds are pulled down and he’s even pushed towels along the window sills so that no light leaks through the bottom. You can make out his figure sitting cross-legged on the floor but that’s about it.

“Lock it behind you, please,” he says, his tone as polite as ever but firm.

You do as he wishes, engaging both locks before turning back to look at him. He reaches over and turns on a lamp that’s sitting near him. It’s not a lot of light but it allows you to see that he looks more or less the same, no visible signs of self-harm or weight loss. His eyes shift rapidly over you, around the room, towards the door, all over the place. They’re feverishly bright, which is never a good sign. Despite his yoga-like pose, he shows little signs of agitation: his fingers tap ceaselessly on his knee, he chews a little on his lip, and he blinks a lot.

There’s a thick, musky aroma to the place, not exactly unpleasant but animalistic, not something that belongs in an urban apartment.

“Hi Sami,” you say, sitting down on the small, uncomfortable sofa in front of him. You place your handbag on the floor and keep your hands flat on your knees where he can see them. You’re not hiding anything.

“Hello.”

“How are you feeling today?”

“I feel wonderful.”

“That’s good.”

He nods vigorously. “I feel like I’m finally putting everything together.”

“How do you mean?” You hate it when he’s like this. On a selfish level, it means that he’s probably going to talk at you for three hours about the conspiracies against him and the enemies he’s made, and you’ll end up stuck in your office until eight or later parsing through your notes, trying to figure out what’s germane to an evaluation of his health.

“Did you see my match?”

“I saw some of it,” you answer guiltily. Wrestling is not your thing and you shouldn’t need to watch the product, which is fictional, in order to understand the very real health of your clients. But with Sami, it’s different. The divide between real and imaginary is fuzzy in his head and that makes it as real as the furniture in this room as far as his mental health is concerned.

“It looked really good.” You try to sound enthusiastic.

“I lost,” he grumbles.

“I know. Has that been hard on you?”

“It’s what I expected. That’s what the people want.”

“What people?”

“The people! The fans. The ‘WWE Universe.’” He waves his hands and smirks as he says those last two words and you do have to admit that it sounds pretty dumb. He sees your lips twitch in amusement and smiles. “All those weird little faces on screens.”

“They weren’t faces on screens last week, though.”

“No, they were real. Or what passes for real.”

“You don’t think those were real people watching you?”

“They were the chosen ones. The ones that the people in charge wanted to be there. It’s not like it used to be. It’s all controlled. Only people they’re certain about get to see what’s going on. You see what they want you to see.”

He’s getting irritable, you can tell, something which always makes you nervous. He’s never gotten violent or threatening with you, not even close. He’s raised his voice and paced around and that’s been stressful enough. He’s not huge like some of the guys he works with but he’s strong and when he gets upset you can see the muscles beneath his skin. If he turned on you, you wouldn’t be able to defend yourself.

What’s truly horrible is that whenever he does start to get riled up, there’s a part of you that feels a little excited by it. It’s the worst thing that you could be thinking about a client, the most hideous betrayal of your ethics. But there’s something about him, all that energy and intelligence, misdirected though it may be.

“That’s what entertainment is, though,” you counter. “The people producing it always control what the audience sees.”

“Entertainment,” he hisses.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that in an insulting way. I know you’re an athlete.”

“No, I am an entertainer. I’m both. But when they say it they mean I’m there for their entertainment. They mean that I’m to do what they tell me. I did this for years and I could come up with my own stories and use my own ideas. I can’t do that anymore. They won’t let me. They’re scared of what I’d do.”

“Has anyone said that to you?”

He laughs mirthlessly. “No one says that to you. No one says anything real, ever. It’s all ‘we think you should do it this way’ or ‘we think this is a good plan for you’. No one tells you what they’re actually thinking. You have to dig it out, you have to look for it behind what they say and then you discover what it is they’re really up to.”

“And what is it that they’re up to as far as you’re concerned?”

He glares at you and leans back a little.

“Why don’t you tell me? You’re the one they’re paying to interrogate me every week.”

“You think this is an interrogation?”

“Isn’t it?”

It’s obvious that this is devolving into childishness. Every time you’re here, it happens at least once but it usually takes you longer to trip up and give him a reason to shut you out.

“I’m sorry, Sami. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was… I want you to be able to trust me, to feel like you can talk to me. Yes, I work for the company but my job, what I trained to do, is keeping people healthy. That’s all I ever wanted to do. Do you believe me?”

“It’s a nice thought. You seem nice.”

You smile, projecting all the warmth and kindness you can muster.

His expression grows suspicious again. “But it’s still them sending you here. Maybe they don’t tell you what to say or what information you’re supposed to be getting from me. Maybe they just figure that they can send this sexy woman over to act like my friend and I’ll forget about everything they’re trying to do to me.”

“I’m not here to be your friend, Sami. I’m here to see if I can help you, professionally. I don’t want you to feel like I’m pretending to be something I’m not.” After a moment’s reflection, you add, “Thank you for the compliment, though.”

He chuckles a little. “Are you allowed to think that?”

“You mean, am I allowed to be complimented that I like hearing you say I’m sexy? I don’t know. But you know I’m flattered by it.”

He can’t deny that. He knows full well that you’ve developed a crush on him. He can see it in the way that you blush when he says nice things about you, and how happy you look when he opens up to you a little. It’s uncomfortable that he knows the power he has over you but it’s also helpful because he talks to you more easily than he would to others. He likes knowing that you’re a bit soft on him.

He leans back, propping himself on his elbows so that his shirt falls away from his chest. You’re used to him appearing with his shirt undone so that you can see a bit of his torso, but this is more of a display than you’re used to. You demurely cross your legs at the ankles and focus on meeting his restless eyes.

“What do they tell you to get from me when you come here?”

“They don’t tell me anything,” you insist. “I’m supposed to come here and determine if you’re able to fight or if you need to have some sort of therapy.”

“You mean like electroshock therapy,” he grunts.

“No, there are lots of different things I’d recommend before that. For instance, like I keep telling you, I wish you’d consider medication to help cope with this paranoia you feel about the company and what they have in mind for you.”

“Paranoia?” he snorts. “What does that mean again?”

“It means you have an unreasonable fear or anxiety regarding something.”

“So what’s the opposite of paranoia?”

“I don’t really know what you’re asking,” you stammer. “I guess it would be not living in fear. Or recognizing a real threat and reacting to it appropriately.”

“But there isn’t a word for that, is there?” he sighs. “Paranoia is an unreasonable fear. But there isn’t a nice, concise word for a reasonable fear.”

“No,” you concede, “I suppose there isn’t.”

“So if I feel like I’m being victimized by WWE, if I feel like they’ve prevented me from rising to the top of the company, you tell me that I’m being paranoid. But there’s no word for what I think if I’m right.”

It gets to you that he’s right. Everything that you’re supposed to be talking to him about is predicated on the idea that he’s imagining things, that he’s wrong about how the company has been treating him.

“I want to help you, Sami. That’s all I want, I swear. That’s what I’m trained for.”

“You’re a very nice person,” he says with an ironic grin. “I mean, you’re the sort of person they don’t give a lot of information to.”

You want to feel insulted by that but it’s also true: you know that your bosses tell you the least they can before they send you out to meet with talent. The real decisions are made well away from you. Making him believe that you can accomplish something for him involves having to convince him that you have some power, but you’re not sure you’re in any position to do that.

Sami leans forward, amber eyes fixed on yours, and places his hands on your knees.

“What do they tell you to do with me?”

“They don’t tell me anything. They just tell me to talk to you. And you shouldn’t be doing that.”

As you’ve spoken, Sami has pushed your legs apart and has started planting kisses along your thighs. He looks up at you with a petulant expression before pushing his face deeper, breathing hot and quick against your panties, licking at them until they’re as wet on the outside as they are on the inside.

Sami, we can’t be doing this,” you pant, crying out as he sucks against the fabric hard, making your clit quiver.

“Why not?” he hums. “You want it. I want it.”

He presses two fingers roughly inside you, stroking that spot inside you that makes you scream and thrash against him, seeking release. Even with your panties still on, just feeling him lick and suck at you through the cotton barrier, you come with a force you can’t remember experiencing ever. He keeps pumping his fingers in and out of your pussy as you continue to spasm around him, trembling for long minutes until you’re too overwhelmed and have to shove his hand away because you’re so sensitive that any contact hurts.

“Think about it,” he whispers, pulling himself on top of you, “They send you here to look at me and make sure that I’m good enough to fight, to make money for them. They send you in here with the idea in your head that I’m being irrational, that I’m imagining things.”

He grips your face in his hands, staring into your eyes as he pulls your panties away and thrusts his cock into you. It’s true what he says, you think as he starts to move, although all thought is quickly supplanted by pleasure, by the feeling of him stroking at your g-spot and grunting softly as he fucks you. You simply lock eyes with him and let yourself be overwhelmed by their earnestness and honesty. No one at your job as ever looked as convinced of anything as he does staring into you as you both come together, yelping and gasping, then shaking and clinging to each other as you come down from your highs.

“Do they listen to anything you tell them about me?” he murmurs, gathering you close to him and caressing your face.

You tilt your head back, moaning a little and exposing your throat to him, an invitation he accepts, sucking hard at the flesh. It’s true that no one pays attention to what you say, least of all about him. And it’s true that there does seem to be some sort of weird block they have against pushing Sami and some others to the heights they deserve. You aren’t ready to tell him that but the look in his eyes when he meets your gaze tells you that he doesn’t have any doubt what you’re thinking.

“What else do you have on your schedule this afternoon?” he whispers.

“You’re my only plan.”

“So spend some time with me.” He pushes his head against yours, thrusting his tongue into your mouth so quickly it takes you a second to adjust and respond, passionately kissing him back, whimpering and moaning to let him know how much you’re enjoying it.

“I’m really not supposed to do this,” you gasp.

“I know there’s a part of you that believes me,” he pants, letting his detumescent prick slide out of your body. “I can tell you don’t think I’m crazy because I think they’re trying to keep me down. Whatever they sent you here to do, I know that all you want is to end up with what’s right. So I say, this is right. Let’s do what we really want and figure other stuff out later.”

“I don’t know. This is a pretty huge breach of conduct for me. Even if I do think you might be onto something.”

He draws a finger lightly along the edge of your bottom lip.

“If you think I’m onto something, maybe you should stay and figure out if you think I’m worth believing.”

Hours later, you’re in his bed, gripping the sheets with all your might. He’s kneeling, hands dug into your hips so hard that you know there will be bruises before he even lets go. He’s pounding into you with the force of a jackhammer, lifting you so that every movement strokes your g-spot until you convulse around him, screaming his name, your orgasm triggering his own.

You can’t remember how many rounds you’ve had. Your body is like one giant pulsing nerve, quivering uncontrollably as he pulls out of you while pressing his thumb firmly against your clit.

“So do you still think I’m crazy?”

You no longer know what you should think of him. Whatever he’s done, you’ve done far worse. So are you even in a position to judge him? Thinking about what your superiors take from your reports, is there any reason to believe that they have a better grip on the situation than he does?

“I think you’re pretty stressed,” you murmur, pulling him close so that you can nuzzle your face against his. “I think that both of us could do with a break from this company.”

The two of you kiss again, passionately, excitedly, gripping each other as if you were the only stable things in the universe.

Professionally, you’ve done something unforgivable. But perhaps it’s something that will be understandable in the long term. Perhaps you’ve chosen to be on the right side.

[my-insatiable-appetites]

Intrigued

A/N: First fic im posting on tumblr and I’m really new to this, so please! Bear with me whist I try to figure to this out! 

Outpost!Michael x reader

My Masterlist

Warnings: Smut, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, daddy kink, sorta mean Michael, think that’s it?

The days down in Outpost Three were dreadful. You had lost count of the amount of days that had passed a long time ago, and every single room was always uncomfortably cold. The long hallways in the Outpost always made you dizzy, all the twists and turns, some hallways even leading to dead ends.  

Right now, you were walking down one of those very hallways, mopping the floors. It was established right when you arrived here together with Timothy and Emily that you were a gray, a worker ant as Venable had said, why they got to purple’s and why you had to be a gray, you had no idea. But, as Ms. Venable had said herself, “The grays serve, and are grateful for the opportunity”  

And boy, were you grateful.

You always followed your commands, sometime even doing more than you were asked to. After doing this for every excruciatingly long month down in this hell hole, you eventually became Venable's favorite gray. Or, the gray she hated the least.  

Walking down the hallway during dinner time, everything was peaceful, at least as peaceful as it could be down here, you were humming a quiet tune you remember loving from before the bombs dropped.  

You didn’t have the chance to finish singing your little song, since you were rudely interrupted by the blaring sound of a harsh alarm being projected from the speakers back in the dining room and the lounging area.  

Your body picked up the pace as you continued to mop the floors, desperately trying to finish the damn chore. Once the floors looked pristine enough, you propped your mop up against the wall and bolted down the hallway, aiming to head back to your room.  

You didn’t have the chance to make it all the way to your room, since the sound if two different voices cut you off.

“You don't sound like you believe me” you could distinctly hear Venable say. Her tone was light for a change, she even let out a light chuckle.  

“Why wouldn't I? To me Seems like you've done a wonderful job. The walls are still standing. Your people are alive and healthy. Which is quite a feat, considering” the second voice said, the voice of a man, but not a man you recognized.  

By now, you had propped yourself up against one of the walls, leaning against in with your back to the wall.

“Considering?”  

“That three more Outposts have been overrun, and the remaining three won't last through the year”

“Why are you here?” Venable asked him, her voice reeking of confusion, but still holding a certain level of authority.

“Because it's only a matter of time before the same thing happens to you. The good news is, there's another facility, a sanctuary. This one's completely impregnable and stocked with enough supplies to last a decade” the male voice explained, his voice being deep, but at the same time holding some sort of boyish quality to it.  

“You're here to take us there” Venable said, thinking she had finished his sentence for him.  

“Hmm, I've been assigned to evaluate the people here and select the ones most worthy of survival. I could take all of you or none of you” he retorted, knocking down Venable’s previous confidence boost.

“Those who make it, live and will continue on” he continued; his tone of voice however, soon turned dark, almost eerie sounding.  

“Those who don't end up like my horses” he finished; his voice having dropped a few octaves.  

Only when you heard the sound of footsteps coming towards you, did you hurry down the hallway in the opposite direction you came in. Hoping you weren’t seen.

---

---

You were on your knees, poking at the fireplace in the lounging area. The rest of the occupants were sitting around, seemingly waiting for something, but what, you weren’t quite sure.  

Even though your attention was mostly directed at the fireplace, you didn’t fail to hear the insistent clicking of expensive-sounding leather boots coming towards you from behind. From what you had gathered by now, you knew that Ms. Venable was standing behind you, so it couldn’t have been her boots clicking.

The sound stopped right behind you, Venable stepped down from her spot in front of the Outpost's residents. Venable’s hand found its way to your shoulder, grasping tightly, urging you to stand, and face the Outpost’s new found guest.  

You did as you were silently instructed, standing up and standing beside Venable. You let you eyes wander to the man you had eavesdropped on last night, and boy was he a sight to see.  

He was tall, with long strawberry-blonde hair the reached just below his collarbone. His beautiful crystal-clear blue eyes were scanning the room, looking at every single person inside the room. When his eyes met yours, you could feel you heart flutter and your moth fall slightly open.  

Upon catching sight of his entire face, you felt your breath catch in your throat. You let your eyes wander his face, from his hair, to his eyes, to his beautifully sculpted cheekbones, to his jawline and last, but certainly not least, his beautifully plump looking lips.

He quickly averted his gaze, and faced the elites once again, his large hands clasped tightly behind his back.

“My name is Langdon, and I represent The Cooperative. I won't sugarcoat the situation. Humanity is on the brink of failure. My arrival here was crucial to the survival of civilized life on Earth. The three other compounds In Syracuse, New York, Beckley, West Virginia, and San Angelo, Texas have been overrun and destroyed. We've had no contact from the six international outposts, but we are assuming that they, too, have been eliminated” Langdon said, your mind drifting back to last night, the conversation he had with Venable.

“What happened to the people inside?” Andre asked as he looked up at Mr. Langdon.  

“Massacred. The same fate that will befall almost all of you” he explained.

“Almost all?” you said from beside Mr. Langdon, your breath once again catching in your throat once your eyes met.

“In the knowledge that this very moment might occur, we built a failsafe The Sanctuary” he said, not breaking eye contact with you.

“The Sanctuary is unique. It has certain security measures that will prevent overruns" he continued to explain, almost sounding annoyed.

“Excuse me, sir. What measures? Why weren't we given them?” Ms. Mead asked, her tone being firm and assertive.  

“That's classified. All that matters is that The Sanctuary will survive, so the people populating it will survive, so humanity will survive” he said while raising his hand to her in a dismissive manner.

“Who are the people who are populating it?” Andre asked again.

“Also classified. However, I have been sent to determine if any of you are worthy and fit to join us” Mr. Langdon said, dismissing Andre’s question.

“The Cooperative has developed a particular and rigorous questioning technique we like to call "Cooperating." I will then use the information gained to determine if you belong” Langdon said jokingly, almost laughing at his own pun.

“What is this, The Hunger Games? This is bullshit. I paid my way in here, and that is the only cooperating I plan on doing” Coco whined out to him, sounding pissed.

“You don't have to sit for questioning” He said with a sigh, clearly annoyed.

“What happens if we choose not to?” Andre prodded.

“Then you stay here and die” He said harshly. The tone in his voice was clear and demining, and you weren’t gonna lie to yourself, he was doing a very good job of turning you on.

“I volunteer to go first” Gallant said while raising his hand high into the air.

“I’m afraid that wont be possible, as I’ve already chosen the order of my interviews. The process should only take me a couple of days, so you won't be kept in suspense forever. For those of you who don't make the cut, all is not lost. If the worst should happen and feral cannibals come knocking, down one of these. One minute later, you fall asleep and never wake up. I look forward to meeting each and every one of you” Langdon said, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a small vial of tiny white pills.

---

---

“Come, Mr. Langdon has requested to see you in his office” Ms. Mead said to you as you were finishing up your chores for the night.  

“Now? But, I’m not finished with my chores yet” you replied to her’ knowing how mad Venable would be if she found out you didn’t finish your chores.

“Now, Ms. (L/N), he said he didn’t want to be kept waiting” she said. You propped your broom up against the nearest wall and hastily followed her down the corridor.  

She led you tov the wide, dark sliding doors at the end of one of the corridors, you had been down there a few times, sweeping the floors and whatnot, but you had never been inside before.

Ms. Mead knocked on the door, but then the door slid open on it’s own, neither Mead or Mr. Langdon had laid a finger on it.  

“Ah, come in, I’ve been waiting for you. Ms. Mead, you may leave now” said, ushering you inside and shooing Mead away. She nodded politely and left down the corridor, leaving you and Langdon alone.  

“Sit” was all he said as he too, sat down behind the desk by the fireplace. You did as you were told, sitting down in front of him, keeping you eyes on the ground.  

“Do I scare you?” He asked. You shook your head in response, eyes still on the ground. You heard him getting up from his chair and stalking around the desk to stand in front of you.

His fingers curled themselves around your chin, lifting your face to look at him. You could see his eyes wandering you face, then down the entirety of your body. At this point, you could feel just how much this man was turning you on, and all he had done was talk.

“You’re not quite like the others here, are you?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” you whimpered, thoroughly confused, but at the same time, insanely turned on. He hummed, brushing his thumb against your bottom lip, parting you lips slightly.  

“You’re so willing” ha said as he let go of your chin and leaned back into the desk, almost sitting on it.

“Willing?” you asked him, now looking at his handsome face willingly.

“Yes, willing. Willing to serve, eager to please” he said, and you couldn’t really dent it either.  

“I guess” you mumbled, not knowing what else to say.

Langdon pushed himself off the desk with his hips, casually stepping to the side, facing you.

“Sit on the desk for me, can you that?” he said with mock sweetness in his tone, but you knew he wasn’t joking. You nodded your head and did as you were told, gently climbing onto the dark wooden desk and squeezing your thighs together once you had gotten situated on the desk.  

“Good girl” he said, but as soon as those words left his lips, you could feel a new flood of arousal was over you, positively soaking your plain cotton underwear. He walked over to you placing his hands on your knees and prying your legs apart, coming to stand between them.

His hands trailed up your thighs, coming to rest on you hips. Your breathing was heavy, and you were positive that Langdon could hear you heart thump in your chest.  

“Nervous?” he chuckled while sliding his hands along you waistline. This time, you nodded while slightly squirming under his warm hands. He chuckled a little at your response and reached behind you to undo the tie on your apron, tugging it off you and letting it fall to the floor.

He continued, once again reaching behind you, unzipping your gray dress, pulling the top part of it off of you, exposing your plain cotton bra to him. His hand soon found it’s way to your throat, pushing you back to lay down on the desk.

“Now, you do know that it’s very rude to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations, right?” he laughed, somehow, he knew about how you had accidently listened in to his and Venable’s previous conversation.  

“I-I’m s-sorry” you whimpered, finding talking a bit difficult due to his hand being coiled around your throat. He harshly let go of you throat as he started to rid himself of his own clothing, first his lavish jacket, then his undershirt, then his belt.  

His bare chest was now on full display, and you were definitely enjoying the view.

“Sadly, ‘I-I’m s-sorry’ isn’t going to cut it, pet” he said, mocking your previous whimpers. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your gray uniform, pulling it off your body, dragging your panties down along with the rest of you uniform.

He stepped in between your thighs again, your glistening cunt now on full display for him. “I’ve barely touched you, and you already so fucking wet for me, dirty girl” you whimpered at his words, becoming even more turned on than you already were.  

He reached behind your back and undid your bra, with some difficulty. Now you laid on his desk, completely nude in front of this gorgeous man who was currently unzipping his expensive-looking dress pants.  

He let his pants drop to the floor, along wit his boxers, exposing him fully to you.  

“Tell me what you want, pet. Naughty girls have to beg to get what they want” he teased as he slid two of his fingers along your slick folds, urging you to call out and beg for him.  

“Please…” you whimpered out quietly, color flooding your face out of embarrassment. He grabbed ahold of you thighs, pulling half of your ass off the desk, giving him better access to you.  

He raised his hand and brought it down onto your bare ass, hard, making you yelp.

“You can do better than that, pet. Now beg. Beg for me to fuck you” he said, it was more of a demand than an instruction.

“Please! Please, f-fuck me, please Mr. Langdon, please” you said, heightening your voice so he could hear you more clearly. He lowered his head down to your stomach, leaving wet sloppy kisses down your abdomen, teasing you further.

“Good girl, I think you deserve a reward, don’t you?” he asked, once again faking that sugary-sweet tone. You nodded your head as fast as you could just wanting him inside you. He came up from your stomach, grabbing ahold of his cock jerking himself a few times, spreading some of his precum onto himself, though you doubted is was necessary.  

He lined the head of his cock up with your drenched entrance and slowly pushing into you. One painfully thick inch out of time. His hands wandered from your waist to one hand tightly gripping your throat to the other holding a bruising grip on your hip.

One he was finally fully sheathed inside you, he let out low growling-kind of noise, making you clench around him. He gave you very little time to adjust to his size, since he soon began pounding into you at a ruthless pace. Your moaning was loud, and you were sure that if you didn’t shut up soon, the entirety of the Outpost would hear just how good this man was making you feel.

“You’ve gotta stay quiet for me, okay pet?” all you could do was nod you head in response, but you didn’t seem to be keeping your promise, since you didn’t quiet down. Langdon put both his hands on your waist, leaning down and planting his lips over yours, effectively shutting you up.

His lips were soft, just as soft as they looked. They moved against your lips in perfect sync. The feeling of his lips on yours was almost orgasmic on its own.

You could feel a certain pressure building up in your lower abdomen, and you knew you orgasm was creeping up on you. Langdon must have felt it too, since he soon detached his lips from yours and slowed his pace significantly.

“Don't you dare cum before I say you can. Now, show Daddy just how much you want to cum” he instructed, making you pulse slightly around his cock.

“Please! Please Daddy, I want to cum on your cock, I wanna cum so bad, please!” you begged him for your release, and apparently, that was enough for him, because he came back to his previous pace with a passionate fury.

Thrusting his cock into you as hard as he possibly could, he seemingly stopped caring about just how loud you were being. You could feel his cock twitch inside you, and that was quite enough for you to start clenching around him as your orgasm washed over you.

Because of how much you had tightened around him, Langdon couldn’t hold back his own orgasm either. With a few more hard thrusts, his cock twitched inside you once again as he released his cum deep inside you, filling you to the brim, some of it leaking out and dripping down and onto the floor.

Both of your breaths were heavy, you were borderline panting at this point, but he was also breathing heavily, his face buried in your neck, leaving gentle little kisses along your throat.  

“Is this part of my test?” you whimpered out weakly, his cock still hard inside you, twitching and pulsing.

“Isn’t everything?” he asked breathlessly, coming up from your neck to look into your eyes once again, still breathing heavily.

“Well, then do I pass?” you ask, feeling a single tear run down the side of your face.

“Yes, you’ll be coming back with me, pet”

[bravonovel]

The Billionaire Alpha's Secret Baby novel read online - Grace Jones and Connor Shelby - Bravonovel

The Billionaire Alpha's Secret Baby

https://www.bravonovel.com/the-billionaire-alphas-secret-baby-8246

The Billionaire Alpha's Secret Baby novel is a romance story about Grace Jones and Connor Shelby.

Blurb : Still reeling from the heartbreak of being abandoned by someone she called her mate after a one night stand, Grace Jones gets a more shocking discovery. She was pregnant. To her horror, she was carrying the child of someone whose name she didn’t even know. Seven years later, Grace saves a young billionaire from the brink of death who also turned out to be someone from her past. After what happened to her seven years ago she loathed men. For someone she felt was her mate to abandon her like that what else could they not do? Alpha Connor Shelby! The CEO of SHELBY REALTOR (UK) LTD, and the Alpha of Lumia pack had his fate intertwined with a rankless wolf and a single mother. Will he accept her? Ride along as we journey through the story of a rankless wolf with a child falling in love an Alpha of a reputable pack and the CEO of the company that took everything from her.

You can read this novel online on Bravonovel and keep track of the latest chapters

The Billionaire Alpha's Secret Baby novel Chapter 1

ARIZONA COLLEGE

SEVEN YEARS AGO

GRACE

In silence we studied each other on a bed, evaluating, doubting, and considering by turns, because it was so sudden, so unexpected.

We were merely strangers turned drink buddies few hours ago. We didn' t even know our names yet. He only jokingly called me Ms. Budweiser because I said I loved beer more, while I laughed hard and loud, calling him Mr. Chardonnay because he said he only drank wine.

But I and my friends made him take beer . It was a way to apologize for bumping into him and ruining his white T-shirt.

I was going to get another round of drink while he was heading to the rest room as I could remember it. However due to my crazy hurrying, and the excitement of our finals, I had bumped into him and caused him to spill his drink on himself and at the same time holding me from tripping over.

He snaked his firm hand around my waist to keep me steady and our eyes locked.

At that instant, the world suddenly went silent, the deafening music from blaring speakers around us became a distant sound to me

His steel-grey heart-stopping eyes drew me in and drowned me. My head swooned, my heart beat took an unnatural speed, jamming itself against my ribcage. Thousands of angry butterflies sprang up in my stomach, fluttering like they were being chased by a predator.

All that happened at once.

If I was reading my experience in a romance novel, I'd sneer and scowl at the writer for being unnecessarily corny and cheeky. I'd call the book a cliché but still go ahead to read it.

However, this particular cliché wasn' t happening to some lucky female protagonist.

It was happening to me, Grace, the nerdy, boring twenty three year old virgin who was about graduating college without a boyfriend or a mate.

Not that I had one before and broke up with them for some reasons. At all. I never had any.

I would have called what just happened'a love at first sight' and I was sure he would have too, owing to the way he kept his eyes on mine for the thousands of seconds our eyes locked.

Or have I finally found my mate? I wondered vaguely. Finding one's mate was one of the most difficult thing now in the twenty-first century werewolf kingdom. People just get themselves partners and call them boyfriends or girlfriend or wives or husbands and humans did since we were sharing almost the same fate.

After our bump, we had muttered repeated sorrys to each other with effusive awkward gestures. I couldn't let him go like that after all that chemistry between us, so I had come out from my shell of shyness and awkwardness and asked him to join me and my friends on our drinking table.

Now here we are, in my dimly lit tiny college room, inhaling each other's breathe, with our eyes locked and our breathing accelerated, standing so close our noses could meet. We were both drunk but knew this feeling wasn't instigated from alcohol.

I wanted him and wasn't ashamed for the first time in my life to admit it. I had vowed never to do it till I found the one that made my heart flutter in my chest. Or if I found my mate.

I wasn' t sure about the latter, but my heart was a living testimony of the effect of this young beautiful man standing in front of me.

I took two steps backward, to get a fuller and more concise view of the first man I was going to share my bed with.

He was many inches taller than I was, literally towering over me with his firmly squared broad shoulders. Strands of his dark brown hair which fell across his temples accentuated his sexiness. His oblong angular face was never the type I could forget in a hurry.

Should I go on about his full lips and how it interrupts my breathing whenever I stare at them?

As we stood few inches apart, I yearned to press my lips against that bare skin that ran from his throat to his chest and my breast against that white stained shirt.

With a sigh that was really surrender, I ignored my racing heart and took a step further.

We looked at each other and then our lips met and lingered. I felt myself sinking into the bliss of the sweetest sensations and my hands came up on their own to touch his face. I knew I was desired but, just for the moment, I felt loved and it was what I needed.

We both knew it would have been okay to wait, get to know each other and talk more, however, we both also knew we couldn't wait. This felt too right. I didn't feel a single pang of guilt or the need to be cautious.

He didn't give me a chance to change my mind.

He crushed my body to his, one hand on my back, the other on my hips, pressing me against his hard body. I gasped with sheer pleasure and then to my horror, I began to tremble. This was the first time and I wasn 't familiar with the moves and I felt awkward, unable to respond as I wanted to.

“Hey…” he murmured against my hair and his arms loosened, as though he understood, as though he was well aware of the fact that he was my very first. He began to stroke my hair gently, persuasively, so that my eyes closed and I began to relax.

His hands moved to my back, beginning an unhurried exploration that made me shiver again, but this time in the most delicious manner .

I began to respond, my hands sliding up his back and across his shoulders in a thrilling exploration of my own. I opened my eyes, saw his throat where the collar was open and pressed my lips against it. I felt a deep shudder run through him that might have been my own, so deeply did it thrill him. I reached up to thread my fingers through his hair and used it to pull his face down to mine.

Our lips met and fused with an ecstasy that seared me to the depth of my being. We broke apart and gazed at each other, and then he was pressing kisses all over my face and I held my head back to expose my throat for more. I was awash with sensation, but it only built up the urgency for our lips to meet again... and again.

His hands were on the zip at the back of my dress and I began to unbutton his shirt. He shrugged out of it as I stepped out of my dress and kicked it away in a frenzy, and he pressed me against his chest again with only the fragile silk of my slip between us.

He kissed his way down my neck, to my shoulders and slid the straps from them. The slip caught at my hips, but none of us noticed because now, my bare breasts were pressed against his naked chest and we both gasped.

He turned me slightly from him, lifting his face to kiss and then his hands moved down to my breast, grasping, massaging it and then playing with my nipple. My groan of pleasure was lost against his lips and, as I felt my legs go weak, he picked me up and carried me unto my bed.

He kicked back his shoes, threw back the quilt, put me on the bed and stood looking down at me while he took off the rest of his clothes.

The curtains hadn't been closed and a surprisingly bright moon bathed us both in a silvery glow.

"Do you know how lovely you are?" he asked as he lay beside me.

He didn't expect an answer, and I was quite incapable of giving one because his mouth had fastened on to my breast and his tongue was flicking my nipples into a frenzy of desire. He moved to the other breast and the delicious torment began anew.

“Chardonnay…” I breathed, but he took no notice, sliding the petticoat from my hips, and then my stockings and suspenders, and kissing his way over the warm flesh he exposed.

"Chardonnay…" I breathed again, writhing with the most exquisitely unendurable ecstasy I had ever known, but now his own passion overwhelmed him as he entered me, going in real slow and when my core gave passage to his huge member, he began thrusting hard and desperately in the need to quench his own fires.

I held fiercely, pressing his hips against mine as we sought and found the final explosion of passion.

Mr. Chardonnay kissed me with hot, spent and grateful lips and then he collapsed against me , moving down to rest his face between my breasts. I pulled the quilt over us and cuddled him to myself while out breathing turned to normal.

It was a long time before he stirred, then he rolled off my body and propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at me.

"I'm crazy about you, Ms. Budweiser," he said huskily. "How do you feel about me?"

I couldn't answer. The whole thing was feeling so surreal to me. "I'm here, and I 'm not a one-night stander." was my response.

"We don't even know each other's real names yet. I'm-"

"Tomorrow," I cut him short with a sleepy tone. "Let's tell each other our names tomorrow and other things we should know about us." I said with finality in my voice.

He sighed.

But he wouldn't understand. Seeing him on my bed by morning when I wake up was going to convince me that this wonderful moments weren't a dream. And that I had found the love of my life.

I had gone through college as a nerdy boring girl without a mate or a boyfriend and a werewolf with zero rank. If not for my two best friends, my life would have been more than the hell it had been here in Stratford College.

But here I was on the last day of my final year making love with the most beautiful man I had ever met, who could possibly be my mate or boyfriend after today.

I felt giddy with happiness and relief. It was all too fast and going too well , I was dreading disappointments.

“Let's know each other wolf's name at least.” he murmured, dragging me from my train of thoughts.

I pushed him over on his back, then propped myself over him, my breast brushing against his chest. "I don't want to talk tonight. Tomorrow will do. Go to sleep." I kissed his eyes shut and then studied, and it almost hurt me how handsome he looked with his face relaxed and the moon turning the sun-bleached ends of his brown hair to silver.

I kissed his forehead, clasped my eyes shut and let myself drown into dream land.

…...

Continue to read the chapter 2 of the novel The Billionaire Alpha's Secret Baby https://www.bravonovel.com/the-billionaire-alphas-secret-baby-8246/chapter-2-194222

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[puttingfingerstokeys]

junkenstein’s revenge prologue

Nanowrimo day 14 Featuring McCree, Hanzo, 76 and Zenyatta Ye olde Sci-Fi/horror  Overwatch, violence, gore, ZOMBLES, death Unfinished and unedited

“Hail!” The gunslinger’s voice echoed off the stone walls of Adlersbrunn’s gatehouse. His horse shifted nervously, her hooves adding to the mild cacophony. The gates were closed and the quietude which reigned over it all unsettled the man, if only a little. A storm was brewing and the pregnant silence before it always charged him in a way nothing else could. He adjusted his hat, tipping it back, to peer upward, wanting to be inside before the maelstrom broke upon him.

He knew darn well no one would be opening those gates before sunrise, but the least they could offer was a place in the guard house. He was an honest hunter, plying his trade. His quarry was not stag or boar, however, but something much more sinister. Whispers of such prey had summoned him to this part of the world, in fact. 

“Who goes there?” A voice shouted down with sharp, menacing volume, almost like a bark. 

“A gunslinger, lookin’ for lodging for the night… an’ maybe some work.” 

The face which peered over the wall spared him only a glance before retreating. “We’re full! Come back when the sun is up!”

As if on cue, thunder rumbled in the distance and the low-hanging clouds which had been threatening all day seemed to move. “Have mercy on a traveler,” he pled calmly with the now-disembodied voice. “Ain’t it the custom in these parts to give aid and succor to weary pilgrims?”

“So you’re on a spiritual journey now, eh?” The voice sounded skeptical, but a little guilty for leaving the man outside. 

“In a manner, I s’pose I am,” he tossed back, a toothy grin on his handsome face. He could almost hear the conflict which raged within the gate guard. How many had come seeking shelter this evening? Was the place really full, or did the guard simply not want to admit anyone? He had not long to wait, however. A golden sliver of light made itself known where the door creaked open a little ways, just enough for the occupant to see who was outside. 

The gunslinger dismounted, holding his beast’s reins in one hand and touching the brim of his hat with the other. “Hail,” he repeated. The door opened slowly and the guard stepped out, armored and tired-looking. 

“You’re the fourth one tonight,” he groaned. “Forgive my impoliteness, won’t you?”

“Long as ya let me an’ my mare in, I’ll let ya drink straight outta my flask, stranger,” promised the gunslinger. The guard seemed to brighten at the sound of the word and he eagerly reached out for the mare’s reins. The beast stood calmly as the hunter of dark things passed them over to the guard, who gestured that the traveler should head right inside. 

“It won’t be but a moment. Your bunk mates are inside.”

The gunslinger doffed his hat and moved into that warm, golden light just as the first droplets of rain began to hit the ground. From within, the sound was a cleansing, gentle sort of thing; outside, he was sure it would have been droning and monotonous. 

A merry fire crackled further in the gatehouse and three individuals sat dispersed about the room, conversing in low tones. These conversations pulled up short as the man entered, spurs jingling, buckles clinking and leather creaking as he moved. “Hail,” he repeated for the third time that evening. “Well met, I hope?”

“Well met, indeed,” came the serene, almost jovial intonation of a strange-looking man whom the gunslinger now realized was hovering a few feet off the ground. His proportions were difficult to gauge, given his posture, but he gave the impression of being quite tall, should he have decided to stand. “Welcome to Adlersbrunn, Mr….”

“McCree,” said McCree, “an’ you?”

“Zenyatta,” replied the doll-like man. In the light of the fire, his beauty was haunting, his face a gentle mask of calm knowledge. The name was as unique as his appearance. 

“There’s usually a last name attached, though I’m guessing that is your last name, isn’t it?” The surly voice did not surprise McCree, given that it came from a white-haired gentleman who looked to be in his sixties. His build was something altogether else. He stood and offered a hand and the two were about eye-to-eye. “Good to hear those drawling consonants, though,” admitted the man with a similar accent that marked him as a countryman, but which was sharp enough to differentiate the region of his origin. “John Morrison, friends call me Jack.”

“Jesse,” supplied McCree, shaking the man’s hand with firm vigor. Their camaraderie was evident already, which brought a sigh of relief and a draining of tension from the gunslinger. The fourth and final occupant of the room had, however, not volunteered his name or hand. McCree’s eyes settled upon him. 

The man was watching the exchange with sharp, dark eyes. His beard and mustache were manicured to perfection and the scar-like quality of his mouth told McCree that he would be the tough nut to crack. “Howdy,” said the gunslinger disarmingly. He noted the weapon propped nearby, a fearsome recurve bow that did not look like it was from these parts. In fact, the entirety of the man’s presentation, from his carriage to the incredibly elaborate tattoo on his arm suggested to Jesse McCree that this stranger, too, was from far, far away. 

“Hmm,” came the man’s response as he looked McCree up and down. His eyes alone settled on the gunslinger’s left arm. He tucked it back a little, resting it more thoroughly beneath his cloak. “How do you do?” 

The stranger’s voice was accented as well, but as McCree had first assumed, not in the way the gate guard’s had been. They were possibly the most diverse group that poor man had seen in his entire time of service. It was probably jarring, but McCree was intrigued. 

“Glad t’be outta the rain, Mr…” He would allow the stranger to fill his name in as Zenyatta had done to him. The stranger did not. He looked hard at the gunslinger, as if evaluating him. “That’d be the part where ya tell me yer name,” suggested McCree, not without humor. The other two seemed entertained by this, but did not engage, preferring to watch. Morrison returned to his seat at a small table and Zenyatta remained where he was. 

“It would,” admitted the stranger, “if I cared to give it. I do not.”

“Well ain’t that just a kick in the ol’ hindquarters!” McCree was not put off by this. If anything, he was more intrigued than ever before. It was only presently that he realized how long the guardsman was taking with his horse and his suspicion as a hunter which drew him away from the bow-wielding stranger to wonder after the guard. 

“Johann is taking quite a long time with your mount, Mr. McCree,” observed Zenyatta, doing exactly what McCree thought he might and hovering over, his feet never touching the ground. Fortunately for Zenyatta and all assembled, Jesse McCree had seen many strange things in his lifetime. Pretty, hovering monks were not the strangest. 

“I’m gunna check it out,” said McCree. “You fellas stay put; that rain sounds bad.”

Morrison shifted, not liking to be told what to do, but liking the pain in his joints from the change in pressure even less, and liking to admit it least of all. He stayed where he was. The stranger in the corner, too, did not move. Only Zenyatta refused.

“Rain is an act of cleansing sent by the heavens,” he said, gesturing upward with one long, uncomfortably perfect finger. “It will do me no harm.”

McCree noticed the rosary about his neck and wondered of what those beads were made. They were large and appeared heavy. He thought that if he wore something like that, he would bruise. The monk did not seem bothered in the least by their presence, or McCree’s glance. His hands remained folded before him. 

“‘Preciate the comp’ny,” admitted the gunslinger, ducking out into the downpour. 

Lightning arced overhead and split the night, followed by a violent peal of thunder. McCree heard his horse squeal over the din and caught the sound of clattering hooves at the last moment before she nearly ran him down in her effort to escape. He tossed himself aside, rolling through the mud to avoid her mad dash. As she passed, McCree caught the whites of the poor beast’s eyes and sent up a prayer that she would get far enough away from whatever was scaring her like that. 

It was only after seeing her flee this way that McCree remembered he was not alone. “Zenyatta!” He called out to the monk over the roaring storm, turning to see if the monk was behind him or if he had been trampled by the mad beast. He was quite unharmed, but seemed to have frozen to the spot, gentle eyes wide, serene expression all but gone. 

McCree turned to see what had caught the monk’s attention and was horrified to witness a shambling, twitching thing coming at him. It was not quick, but it also was not alone. The baleful light in its eyes was joined by others and, despite the downpour, gore was still stuck to faces, chests, and hands. Johann, he thought, dear god.

Energy arced from them, mimicking the lightning overhead, but holding an ugly, supernatural quality that made a shiver run down McCree’s stout spine. He felt on his belt for a flash powder ampoule, determined to drive these things back. His fingers shook, however, and he could not grasp what he sought. One of the creatures raised an arm to strike him. 

Something whizzed past the gunslinger’s head, narrowly missing his ear but taking the shambling thing full in the face and near knocking its head off. The blow did enough damage that the monster fell back, twitched once, and lay still. This shocked McCree back into action and he found and tossed the ampoule he’d sought and fanned the hammer of his six-shooter, bringing down two more of the inexorably marching things before retreating back to Zenyatta. 

“What are they?” McCree heard himself shouting this over the storm, which seemed determined not to allow conversation. Zenyatta shook his head, a strange expression passing over his features before the passive mask returned. He lifted a hand and, to McCree’s wonder and astonishment, one of the gigantic beads of the monk’s rosary lifted with it. A subtle gesture, barely more than a twitch sent the ball hurtling toward its next target, hitting it dead center in the head and snapping it back. 

It fell, but was replaced by another and another. Zenyatta sent two, three more balls into the throng. These projectiles returned somehow, though McCree could not ascertain the method. He was fascinated but understood what little time they had should be spent in retreat, rather than conversation about weaponry and the practical use of psychokinetic magic, for that was surely what this was. McCree was not well schooled in that branch, but he had heard of it and had even witnessed it a time or two. Never, in all his days, however, had he seen it weaponized to such deadly effect.

He was suddenly grateful for the previously observed size and weight of them now. “Thanks,” he grunted, “now let’s git ourselves inside an’ barricade the door.” 

They would not be safe until they were within the town proper, but the risk of allowing those things in was too great. The citizens of Adlersbrunn would not be ready for the onslaught which McCree had begun to realize was much, much larger than first anticipated. Well, he thought, ya came here t’hunt dark things; git huntin’.

[anotherdramadrama-blog]

Betting Predictions To Be Part Of Fox Sports activities Evaluation

Most of the time, if you ask somebody how they choose their bets, they usually come up with one in all three answers. Afterward, he hired a group of programmers and developed his own automated sports betting system. The highlighted odds are the winning odds which will probably be multiplied with the money that the player guess to compute how a lot they take home. Whereas this works, the professional sports bettors take issues one step additional. V.P. Communications and Public Affairs, National Football League), -paspa-examination-sports activities-betting-america (last visited on July 24, 2019).

Then in 2019, the legislature expanded on-line playing in West Virginia to include online casino playing. New Jersey on Tuesday filed an preliminary transient asking the U.S. Supreme Court to overturn the federal ban on sports betting, arguing that the law exceeds Congress' authority by compelling states to prohibit wagering on sports activities. If you are new to your entire concept of sports betting methods, one tip is to always begin small. As a proof, his system can make you a winner 97% of the time and you can have a protracted streak of selecting the correct crew.

On-line sports betting developed right into a rewarding gamble for most bettors and sports activities fans. Today, betting has turn into a bit sophisticated, and that is as a result of individuals now have entry to some special applications that help them predict the outcome of games, particularly in well-liked staff sports activities akin to soccer, baseball and basketball. Leagues ought to establish motion-prepared, crisis communications teams that proactively keep gamers and the public informed of integrity issues by way of digital and social media.

While there's generally casual betting between pals, most wagers are made via what is known as a sports e-book” which is an entity that accepts sports activities betting, In the US, there are solely 4 states the place sports betting is legally allowed. My final piece of cash management advice because it pertains to sports betting is it is best to by no means drastically enhance your guess amounts. A U.S. Supreme Courtroom ruling in May allowed states to legalize, regulate and tax sports betting.

Unlike skilled and novice sports that can have bets positioned on them but don't instantly profit financially from those wagers, the horse racing industry counts on betting as the lifeblood that keeps every little thing up and working. If bettors had been allowed to wager on who was simply going to win the sport, smart ones would clearly guess on the better group (doubtless winning greater than 50% of the time in the process). In terms of editorial coverage, the sports activities betting market is already getting crowded.

Beginning with the present 2019-20 NBA season, DraftKings can have entry to official NBA betting information and league marks across its mobile platform and in its sportsbooks all through the United States. The sports books offer a number of completely different sorts of bets, all of that are designed in order that the e-book itself makes a revenue irrespective of the end result of the occasion. I actually lose extra bets than I win - but the costs or odds at which I bet compensate for the losing plays.

Any single-game wager is available in WV, as well as parlays, teasers, prop bets, totals, and even more exotic wagers that you simply might discover in a traditional sportsbook. Sports betting has exploded in the 13 months for the reason that U.S. Supreme Courtroom allowed states to legalize it. Greater than a dozen, together with New Jersey, Mississippi and West Virginia, have carried out so. Usually, on line casino and racetrack house owners have turn into the gatekeepers, with politicians requiring anyone who desires to be in the enterprise to companion with a land-primarily based operator.

SUBSCRIBE AND MAKE A REQUEST FOR DIGITAL FOOTBALL LEAGUE STRATEGIES TO ALWAYS BE ON THE SUCCESSFUL% ASSURED. THE BIG APPLE (Reuters) - U.S. bookmaker FanDuel has signed a cope with Switzerland's Sportradar AG to allow sports followers to place wagers on a sport while they are watching it on a cell app, firm executives said on Monday, a first for the nascent U.S. sports betting market. The group detests sports betting even though faculty football and March Insanity college betting are two of the largest drivers of deal with.

Even as the conference was underway, quite a few sports betting transactions and partnerships were being announced around the nation. The fourth sport betting tips is to know the various kinds of bets you can also make. There may be numerous sports activities betting terminology that you need to study before you'll be able to understand what it's all about. All these elements are leading to the rise within the penetration fee of sports betting. Being lucky is not sufficient to provide a streak of appropriate guess so that you win more bets.

[the-years-between-us]

Lamplighter

Summary: Stella gets a call from Reed directly following the final episode of The Fall S3. (Stella Gibson/Reed Smith) 

Chapter Index 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

Warning: This story contains references and descriptions of self-harm.

AN: Big thanks as always to @mobygirl21,  @misshadley, and @Nsgnicole. Thank you to those of you who have stuck with this story even though it takes me forever to write. Just knowing it has readers makes it all worth it x

Chapter 8

There’s a distant click of a lock as Reed closes the door to her sister’s flat. She makes sure to notice it somewhere in the back of her mind since the rest of her is blissfully occupied with more important things. Important things like Stella’s mouth and her perfectly shaped tongue. Reed considers herself very lucky to have such an expertly gifted mouth attached to the underside of her ear, dotting constellations down the slope of her neck. It makes everything inside her twist and go weak, small breathy sounds escaping the back of her throat.

Thank god they’re alone - Reed considers herself very lucky for that too. The girls are gone, Lydia’s gone, and she can finally touch Stella without fear of a wandering student or a small set of peeping eyes. And god, she wants to touch her, she never wants to stop touching her.

One of Reed’s hands tangles in the loose waves of Stella’s hair, pulling her in for a messy kiss that’s wet and undiscerning. She just wants her close, as close as she can get and then even closer still. She never knows how to get enough of her at once. And then Stella leans back against the door, dragging Reed with her, pulling lazily at the fabric of her clothes, a cool hand slipping across the taught skin of her stomach.

Knees shuffling, Stella angles her hips and presses her thigh into the juncture of Reed’s legs. Pushing against her, it creates a breathless friction that has Reed’s jaw falling open against the sculpted curve of Stella’s cheekbone, a hot burst of air there. How is she so good at that? She makes their bodies fit together so effortlessly and it always makes Reed want to come in three seconds flat - like some sort of sixth sense.

Suddenly the memory of their last encounter in this hallway slams into Reed’s memory with a jolt between her legs. She remembers how hard Stella made her come against the wall and it’s enough to send her head spinning, enough to make her forget her own name.

But this time has to be different, she can’t forget, not even as Stella moves against her, tongue diving into the shell of her ear. She’d forgotten herself last time and felt like shit for days, guilt consuming her in the knowledge that she’d been reckless and hurt her. She can’t let that happen again, she needs to come to her senses and be careful, tune into Stella’s breathing, watch for signs of discomfort or pain, even if they’re small.

And as if on cue, Reed moves a hand to Stella’s breast that has her jerking almost violently in response.

“Fuck-“

“Stella,” Reed says pulling away as quickly as she can, trying to catch her breath while registering the expression of pain washing over her features. And Stella’s head falls back against the door, a defeated wince at her brow, eyes shut tight.

Reed watches as Stella’s chest rises in a halted sort of way, flinching halfway through each breath. And suddenly Reed feels so incredibly angry. Angry with Spector for ever touching her, for ever existing, and angry with Stella for not letting herself heal. Because this is ridiculous, she’s tired of Stella brushing it off like it’s nothing, tired of excuses. Sometimes a little pain isn’t the worst thing. But sometimes it is.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, Reed tries to contain the emotion rearing up inside her.

“What the hell was that?” she asks, and it comes out harsher than she’d meant it to but if Stella says she’s ‘fine,’ Reed might just implode.

Not opening her eyes, Stella must hear the threat in her voice because eventually she admits, “I went swimming this afternoon. Probably for too long.”

Reed’s anger takes hold of Stella’s admission and darts off, stealing into the dark corners of her chest, building a toxic pressure. It fuels her more emotional instincts: to scold her, to shake her (if she could) and tell her to stop running herself into the ground. Because it’s hard to watch something you love destroy itself. There’s a litany of disapproving words tearing through her mind, words she would surely regret if she said them so she bites her tongue to keep them from spilling out.

Then Stella warily lifts her lids, just a crack, like maybe she can sense the provoked flare blazing in front of her. And in her strained lower register, propped up against the door, she concedes, “Definitely for too long.”

And Stella’s words wash over Reed like water, steam simmering through her lungs, dousing the fiery tinder with her small confession. A simple acknowledged truth. Reed hears the vague hiss of hot coals as she looks into Stella’s evaluating stare - a bit guarded after setting her truth free, and it’s then that Reed realizes what she feared all along. The devastating fact that Stella knows exactly what she’s doing and still does it anyway. That Reed’s unleashed lecture won’t do either of them any good. Her efforts are useless in the face Stella’s, and she feels so entirely helpless in that moment she could cry.

“Stella…”

“I know,” Stella says on an exhausted whisper, followed by a more firm, “I know.” Then her hand swings forward like a wandering vine, fingers snaking around Reed’s - a plea to let it go. Holding Stella’s eyes, Reed notices how glassy they’ve gone in the surrounding darkness, tired from a day of emotional battery. Let it go, she hears them say through the buzzing electric current that runs between them. For her own sake, Reed wishes she could, she wishes she didn’t care so much because then letting go might be easier, or even possible.

Stella’s fingers gently tug at her, willing her forward and Reed’s surprised by how susceptible her body is to this soft seduction. Especially when her mind is still charred and fuming, puffs of smoke curling futilely around the base of her skull. But Stella’s eyes slip down to the bruised skin of her lips and Reed feels her heart bottom out. In these complicated moments, this faultless attraction to her feels like a curse, like hypnosis. One look and she’s in a trance, logic and free will be damned.

And when Stella sways forward, kissing her carefully with an open mouth, Reed wonders how much she’s willing to sacrifice to please her. Because she fervidly wants to please her. She wants to heal her and fuck her, make love to her and breathe her in - she just can’t decide which she wants to do first or if that’s the perfect order.

As their lips brush in a mesmerizing suggestion, her brain floods with an overwhelming and intrusive notion that tells her to keep going. But she can’t keep going. She can’t rationalize with her and tuck her quietly into bed, and she certainly can’t push her into the door and fuck sense into her. What’s worse is that she can’t turn her away, her body wouldn’t even know how.

Her options are limited and her mind races to calculate an appropriate solution. 

“What’d they give you for it?” she mumbles into her lips and when Stella doesn’t answer, Reed pulls back and clarifies, “Painkillers?”

“Liquor’s fine,” Stella says and it’s not an answer even though it’s disguised as one.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she says, eyes falling back to Reed’s lips, leaning in to meet them. Not finished with the singular ounce of care that she’s determined to impose upon her, Reed lowers her chin, evading the advance.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

Stella’s lips twist. That’s a no.

Reed sighs.

“Liquor cabinet’s in there. I’ll order something - do you have a preference?”

Stella stares at her for a long moment, all of her energy contained in the pilot light wavering behind her pupils, a small blue, appraising flame.

“Whatever’s fast,” she says evenly, the implication burning steadily in her gaze. And then she disappears, lithe steps leading her in the direction of Lydia’s glass bottles, the ones with nice labels and a thin layer of dust from lack of attention. It has Reed biting her lip, questioning herself, unsure if she’s done the right thing.  

Doing what she can, she’s going to attempt to nourish her - put food in her body and peace in her mind. She rolls her shoulders trying to erase the guilty feeling forming between the bones and walks toward the kitchen to check one thing off the list. Flicking a switch above the stove, artificial light quickly illuminates a small patch of kitchen, offsetting the moonlight ribboned across the floor. She digs through the cluttered miscellaneous drawer until she unearths a chinese menu (Lydia’s go-to suggestion for mediocre takeaway), and holds the crumpled paper to the lampyrid light. Quickly dialing the number, she places a generic order with a promise of 15-20 minutes until it arrives and it has her feeling unnecessarily accomplished.

When she makes her way into the dining room, Stella’s at the small bar with two healthy glasses of scotch. Sidling up next to her, Reed sees that she’s already had a sip or two - or four, and it makes her smile as much as it makes her worry because she knows how Stella drinks. But on an empty stomach… Reed bites back a cautionary warning to be careful, swallowing it with a silencing gulp.

“You know, fasting is a sacred pillar of various religious communities around the world,” she says as if reading Reed’s mind, as if she’d managed to blurt out her concern into the silence. “Apparently studies have supported finding major physiological and mental health benefits.”

“In most communities, fasting also requires abstinence from alcohol and sex. Not just food.”

Stella gives a non committal hum into her glass and drains it poignantly, a small smirk flirting at her lips as she reaches for the bottle to refill it. There’s the gentle clink of glass against glass and the tinkering sound of pouring liquid. Then her eyes land dangerously on Reed’s, “Well, that won’t do.”

Reed turns, not wanting to look at her too long lest she be tempted to do something stupid, so she takes a seat at the dining room table. A little space might be good, and since they’ve neglected to turn on any further light source, Stella remains half cloaked in shadow. Yes, that’s good. Reed might be able to exercise a bit of restraint if she can’t properly see her.

But then the whites of Stella’s eyes bounce in her direction, and unfortunately the dark surroundings do nothing to lessen their effect on her. Chill bumps call to attention across her arms and Reed’s body goes impossibly still, hyper aware that she’s being sized up as Stella gauges the fortitude of her decision making. How negotiable is dinner? She feels caught, like wandering through the wilderness, immediately arrested by the reflective stare of an assumed predator. And no, Reed doesn’t usually treat Stella like an assumed predator but maybe she should. Maybe she should take caution, move carefully around her.

View her from a distance.

She could be eaten alive.

The thought only gains traction as Stella moves towards her, painfully slow and Reed can’t tell if the pace is a byproduct of her injury or the unpredictable energy between them. Filtered through a thick canopy of embroidered drapes, light shifts over her features as she draws nearer. And faced with the the cat-like slink of her hips and the powerful prowess of her stare, Reed knows the rush of encountering a wild animal, majestic and frightening in equal measure.

But when Stella’s knees bump into hers as she sets her glass down ever so carefully on the hardwood table, she seems inexplicably human. A flesh and blood woman, slender and small, the same one gasping against the front door with a determined look in her eye. And Stella remains silent as she places one leg and then the other on either side of Reed’s chair, a hand dragging blissfully through the strands of Reed’s hair while she looks down at her.

Closing her eyes with an upturned chin, Reed wills herself to find strength or even anger. Anger had worked earlier. Anger just might stall whatever’s happening to her resolve under Stella’s ministrations. But the most Reed can work up is huffy frustration, another pointless sigh. She wants to scoff with the eroding patience of a tired mother. She wants to ask her why, why she insists on doing this.

Then there’s the soft pad of Stella’s thumb brushing her bottom lip and Reed holds her breath. She counts to 3 and tries to will herself into immunity, bracing herself to look at her. Nothing could prepare her for sight of it though: Stella lowering herself into the cradle of her lap, a hitch to her body as she settles there, the definitive straightening of her spine and snag in her lungs.

Wide-eyed, Reed forces herself to breathe and suddenly she doesn’t know what she wants.

Stella looks at her thoughtfully, tracing Reed’s lips with the delicate weight of her thumb, wandering curiously up to her Cupid’s bow and then pausing at her teeth, the small digit poised at the entrance of her mouth. Under the intensity of her stare, Reed’s lips fall open, just barely. And Stella checks in with her, meeting her eyes as she presses her well-manicured nail forward, slipping it easily into the wet heat of her mouth, teeth grazing a knuckle. Instinctually, Reed’s tongue wraps around it, sucking as she watches Stella’s jaw open to reveal a sliver of teeth, her eyes dilating in real time. It’s a look of desire so distilled that Reed doesn’t want to let her go. Resisting the urge to keep her there, Reed lets the thumb escape and Stella swipes its wet tip over the curved plane of Reed’s bottom lip with profound concentration.

Leaning forward, Stella replaces the print of her finger with the sear of her tongue, branding her with the same hovering caress of her mouth. And she focuses on the perimeter of Reed’s lips, outlining their shape with agonizing attention. It’s too much and not enough, and Reed can’t help but grip Stella’s thighs with every ounce of suspense clawing through her body, knowing that she won’t hurt her there but wondering if it will bruise all the same. Reed feels Stella let out an involuntary breath of relief, warm wet air expelled against her parted lips. Then there’s the almost immediate roll of Stella’s hips, the smallest turn followed by an aching snare. And Reed bites down, sinking her teeth into a warning. Nails digging into the strong muscles of Stella’s thighs, it provokes a sound, irresistibly crystalline and so unlike the sounds Reed typically hears from her.

Then Stella’s hand is on Reed’s, moving it from her thigh to her core in a silent but earth-shattering directive. Because there are few things more arousing than concise direction from Stella Gibson, and ‘conflicted’ doesn’t even begin to describe the extremes battling for Reed’s ethical integrity right now. With Stella painfully purring in the crux of her lap, the alignment of her moral compass swivels all over the fucking place; due north almost entirely lost to the perfect weight of her body. And as Stella’s hand slides down across Reed’s throat, stopping possessively over her collarbone, Stella looks down at her with heavy eyes and Reed knows without a doubt that she is positively fucked.   

But while Reed’s mind spins and stutters, her thumb presses against the seam of Stella’s trousers eliciting the reward of that sound again. Cursing quietly into Stella’s mouth, she wonders if there will ever be a moment in her future where she’s not dreaming of this sound, thinking of ways to make it happen, obsessing over it. And she can’t resist her, can’t resist taking another pass at her through the material of her pants. Then Reed watches Stella’s eyes drift shut - first in ecstacy and then in spasm.

Reluctantly, Reed’s hand drifts away, roughly dragging down the side of her ass.

And Stella’s eyes drill into her.

The door bells rings.

“Saved by the bell,” Stella says quietly.

She removes herself from Reed’s lap with careful precision and Reed takes a moment to catch her breath before standing to answer the door. And when she returns, she finds Stella sitting innocently at the table looking into the depths of her glass like she might find something more than liquor at the bottom.

“Sustenance,” Reed says placing the bag on the table and Stella doesn’t budge. “If we can even call it that…” and at least Stella grants her the gift of a small smile.

Reed doesn’t bother with plates or silverware like she might if this were a proper meal, a dinner by definition rather than disguise. Because they both know the food is little more than an excuse, a means to an end. And Stella obediently eats it as such.

They make their way through sticky sauce and noodles in silence, and there’s easily enough food to feed four people. When Reed’s satisfied that they’ve done the best their best, she makes minimal effort to tidy the scattered lids and plastic wrappers. Bright eyed, Stella pushes her remaining food towards Reed, who stacks unused napkins and packets into vague piles of ‘keep’ and ‘toss.’ Then she makes it all disappear.

When she returns, Stella’s finished her drink, tipping the glass recklessly at her lips, making a show of catching the last remaining drop along its crystal rim.

“Need another?”

“No,” Stella says with a heavily rounded ‘o’ that’s very indicative of what she does need, and Reed finds it alluring and irritating in equal measure.

“Upstairs.”

Stella’s teeth catch her lip like she’s gotten away with something and Reed thinks that she could absolutely kill her. She’s tempted to make a follow up comment, something petty about sleeping and bed rest but then Stella’s hand slips into hers with a little squeeze. It feels like a thank you and an apology all rolled into one. Once again, Reed can’t bring herself to be upset, not when Stella’s leading her through the darkened house and up the stairs, all soft movements and careful steps.

And when they reach Reed’s bedroom, Stella waits patiently as Reed closes the door. Behind her facade of submission, this absolute calm that she projects standing there, hands folded behind her back, Reed still senses an anxious energy pulsing at their fingertips. Stella’s restlessness and her own hesitation, all masked beneath the convenient veil of a dark room.

The sound of the floorboards creak as Reed approaches her and Stella doesn’t move, not even as Reed’s head tilts curiously to the side, looking her over. Nor does she move when Reed leans in, kissing her chastely on the lips, whispering against them, “Help me take off your shirt.”

Gingerly, Reed rolls up the hem of Stella’s top, curling the fabric under her fingers and carefully ghosting it over the ladder of her ribs, stretching it treacherously over the swell of her breasts. Obediently raising her arms, Stella allows Reed to slide it over the obstacle of her shoulders, and when her hair falls messily around her face, Reed distractedly drops the garment in an unceremonial mess on the floor. But Stella doesn’t blink, not even as Reed steps closer, fingers at the clasp of her trousers, open mouth glistening a few millimeters from her own. And Reed holds her eyes as she tugs Stella’s pants down, thumbs hooked into the waistband, rounding the curve of her ass. She follows them to the floor, freeing them from Stella’s ankles and pushing the perfectly tailored cloth towards her shirt.

Then Stella’s fingers twitch. Unable to stay still for so long, she reaches for Reed’s shirt, fists bunching the fabric at her sides until Reed stops her with the halt of a hand. Stella holds in a breath, biting her tongue as Reed removes her grip with a small tsk of admonishment. And Reed can see the fire in her gaze, the internal debate as her fingers flex and contract. But then Reed’s fulfilling her unspoken request, tearing her sweater up over her head, and she kicks off her jeans with far less care than she’d managed with Stella’s clothes. Shoving them aside, she steps back into Stella’s space, arms circling her torso with a kiss to her shoulder. And she’s careful not to touch her bruised ribs as she unhooks the back of her bra, sliding it cautiously from her shoulders.

Other kisses follow, gifts of tender pressure sprinkled over Stella’s neck, the underside of her jaw, and then her collarbone. Stella hums a small sound as Reed’s mouth travels south, a wet kiss at her belly button dotted by the snap of underwear, teeth and elastic and lace. Stella’s hand pushes through Reed’s hair on a sigh, brushing it back from her face as she looks down at her. Occupied with her task of peeling Stella’s underwear down her legs, Reed concentrates on appreciating the sharp jut of her hips and the impossibly flat plane of her stomach. Looking up at her then, Reed makes sure to catch her eyes as she licks her already wet clit, just once, delivering a chaste kiss to the smooth skin of her apex afterwards.

“Lay down on the bed,” she says and it’s barely a whisper.

Stella’s eyes go as dark as the night sky, swirling nebulas shining in the far off distance as stray comets of rebellious emotion trail across her deep blue irises, the weight of Reed’s command churning there. It vibrates in the astute set of her jaw and the tilt of her chin, this desire to retaliate as strong as the desire to comply. And Reed waits her out, knowing that if she wants this, they’ll both arrive at the same conclusion.

It almost takes a full minute before Stella moves. But when she does, she does it with care, settling herself onto the mattress with diligent attention. Slightly this way and slightly that, her body molds into the comforter and Reed thinks that the picture she makes could be showcased in any exhibit, any museum. The explicit definition of fine art.

In a brief and terrifying moment, Reed realizes how much she truly cares for her. How much she worries about her and how much she craves her happiness. The things she might do to make her smile.

But no, now’s not the time for that, she reasons. Crawling up to meet Stella on the cushy duvet, she suspends herself weightlessly over Stella’s patiently waiting body. “Relax,” Reed whispers against her lips and then seriously, “don’t move.”

“Ridiculous,” Stella huffs when Reed’s mouth glides down her body. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Reed mumbles into her skin, biting harder than she meant to but then smiling when she hears Stella gasp in pleasure. “And it won’t be ridiculous when you come. So, shut up.”

Before Stella can argue any further, Reed takes a nipple into her mouth and sucks it against the flats of her teeth until the only thing Stella has to say is her name. It makes Reed grin, a gloating flash of expression against the soft skin of her breast as she releases her sensitized nipple and moves onto the other one. Then Stella’s squirming below her but she’s trying - trying to obey Reed’s parameters as best she can. And Reed knows that the sooner she can make her come, the better, the less damage she might inflict on herself.

So she plants a kiss to her sternum and moves on, tongue trailing down Stella’s body until she’s at the juncture of her legs. And she parts them gently, settling herself between the strong columns of her thighs.

“Be still.”

“Or what?”

“You really want to find out?” Reed asks, holding Stella’s eyes. And her jaw jumps as Reed wets her lips, the glistening outline of her mouth dropping closer to her cunt. But when there’s no response, Reed hovers there with a lift of her eyebrow and waits.  

“No,” Stella breathes and it’s barely audible.

“Good,” Reed says, immediately dragging her tongue from Stella’s entrance to her clit, circling there and getting straight to the point. And she looks up at her, watching the way Stella’s eyes fall closed and the way her breasts rise on inhale, the arresting tension of her muscles as they strain beneath her fingers. Instantaneously Reed feels herself get wet. Humming into the slippery folds of Stella’s sex, she feels her own hips roll uselessly into the mattress and it’s always so surprising, so strangely surprising. She never expects the throbbing pang of arousal that comes with getting Stella off - she’d always thought it was the sort of thing reserved for exaggerated anecdotes, the inflated tales of other people’s sex lives, the sort of thing people say but don’t mean. But with Stella it always happens, every single time, in the best, most frustrating way imaginable.  

And before this all started, she hadn’t imagined a lot of things. She hadn’t imagined enjoying the way a woman might taste, she’d never really given it much thought... But then she’d managed to think about the way Stella might taste to varying levels of insanity. Not too long ago, she’s convinced that there was a point in which the thought never fully left her mind. And of course she’s since discovered that she loves the way Stella tastes, looks forward to it even. They’ve only had sex a handful of times but it’s still shocking to enjoy the sensation of going down on her, to welcome the silky feel of her against her tongue.

“Fuck.”

These noises she makes, the muffled curses and punctuated gasps of encouragement, they almost feel like a bonus in comparison. And Reed feels her core clench as she laps at Stella, rhythmically sucking her clit, feeling herself wind up as she watches Stella do the same.

Perhaps this is the best part, watching her unfold from this vantage point. The concentrated crease at her brow paired with the soft bite of her lip, or the way her fingers pinch and play with her nipples. Reed thinks she’s never seen anything more beautifully erotic as the way her hair splays across the pillow, her head sinking deeper into its feathered support while her mouth soundlessly dips open in rapture. But then there are her eyes, those two acute extraordinary eyes suddenly zeroing in on Reed’s for a moment of uninterrupted connection. It fills Reed up, flooding her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, and she feels sexy. She feels alive and more powerful than she can ever remember feeling because she’s making this happen. This charged thing between them, it’s her’s. And she wants it to be her’s for as long as humanly possible, she wants this feeling to last forever.

But she knows that forever isn’t in the cards tonight. She’s got to make quick work of this. Even these small movements, the microrotation of her hips and the pace of her breathing - it’s more than Stella should be doing - and it might feel good now but she’ll undoubtedly pay the price later. So Reed shifts her weight and uses her free hand to insert a finger into the wet heat of Stella’s entrance. And she doesn’t move her hand, just barely pushes up against Stella’s wall, and the sensation has Stella’s eyes falling shut and her hips jutting forward messily against Reed’s mouth.

Her own thighs press together as she tries to remain focused, knowing that she’s on the right track. And it’s an awkward angle for her arm but she keeps it there, inserting a second finger and reaping the reward of a neatly pronounced “Fuck. Yes.” God, she wants to touch herself, she wants Stella to recover and she wants to be able to fuck her without hurting her.

Then there’s a hand in her hair and that’s a good sign too because that always seems to happen right before Stella comes. And sure enough, she’s keening that she’s close and moving against her in earnest, a breathy plea sounding from her parted lips. Before Reed knows it, Stella’s legs involuntarily close in on the sides of her head, and she loses whatever sense she had of what she was doing. She just keeps going, knowing that she’s done it because Stella’s coming and she’s tempted to mumble her own “fuck yes” into the wetness of her pussy.

And then Stella’s still, appropriately limp and practically collapsed in on herself.

Reed extricates her limbs as gently as possible, sitting back on her knees and wiping her mouth. She can smell Stella on her skin and she loves this part, the part where she smells her everywhere. In the air, on the sheets, on her hands. And she’s so turned on, so high on this feeling that she thinks she might have to go to the bathroom and finish herself off.

“Thank you,” Stella whispers blissfully and Reed smiles, bending down to kiss the softness at her hip. She breathes her in and feels confident, like there’s nothing she can’t do. As long as she can do that…

God, she wants to come.

It’ll just take a minute.

She pulls away to get up, thinking up some excuse so that she can disappear and come back. But as she does so, something holds her gaze. No, not something. Stella. Stella’s body catches her eye. And it lingers, eyes focusing and refocusing, wandering over the mauled terrain laid out inconspicuously below the place she’d just been. And Reed tells herself not to stare, she tries not to in moment likes these - moments of ‘before’ and ‘after.’ But it’s just so jarring that she can’t help it. Something doesn’t compute. Her brain rejects what it sees. Because the rest of Stella is so visually flawless, so effortlessly perfect, that everything about this feels starkly out of place.

There’s the urge to touch her, to run her fingers over it like braille, uncover the stories Stella’s written there. Maybe they hold the answers she’s been seeking. Or maybe she just wants to prove to herself that they’re real, tactile evidence that they exist beyond the ghost she’s made them in her mind. More than anything, Reed just wants to know her, all of her, including these secret parts that only become visible in the dark.

And she thinks back to their day together, wind in their hair and sun in the eyes, taking in the beauty of the world around them. The sudden insight into Stella’s past, years revealed in just a moment. An unexpectedly small and simple moment sitting on an overlook. Reed cherishes those moments, the brief and weighty opportunities to discover unbridled closeness with her.

Maybe one day they’ll find that closeness here. Laying in a bed, unexpectedly revealed in a moment of ‘after.’

Maybe.

Then she realizes that she’s doing exactly what she didn’t want to be doing.

She’s staring.

Shit.

Her eyes fly back up to Stella’s face, hoping to find her mildly euphoric or possibly even close to sleep. But instead, she’s met with an unreadable look, pointed and vaguely terrifying in its intensity.

Caught.

Fuck.

The last time Reed unwittingly gaped at Stella’s scars, she’d gone cold to the touch, shut down completely and run off to the bathroom. And adrenaline spikes through her veins as she tries to calculate what might happen next. If there’s any way to save this or if Stella will achingly stand to leave, pitifully attempting to gather her belongings. But the silence just drags on, pealing in her ears as she tries to think of something to say.

And Stella just stares. Quietly. Calmly.

And eventually she speaks.

“Come here.”

“What?” Reed asks, not knowing what she means.

“Come here,” Stella repeats.

Unsure, Reed wonders if she’ll get off the hook that easily, if she’ll climb up there and drift off to sleep next to Stella, leaving her stolen moment in the bathroom long behind. But as she slinks up to the head of the bed, an arm tugs her forward.

“Keep going.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Keep going.”

“Stella,” Reed says warily.

“Yes?”

“Come on…”

“I won’t move. That’s the big problem isn’t it. I’ll be still.”

“We should sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep, I want you to come here.”

“I just-”

“Tanya,” she says dangerously, “Move.”

But Reed still hesitates, her mind stalled out, torn between the niggling concerns in her head and the weight of Stella’s command. She opens her mouth to speak, no idea what to say, when Stella cuts her off with a look, incinerating on impact.

“Don’t make me beg.”

Low and gravelly, her voice is authoritative in a way that makes Reed’s core pulse, the need to come resurfacing as quickly as it vanished. And even as she tells herself not to do this, she feels herself ache and she wants to scream. Or slap herself. Something. Backbone - where’s her backbone? She needs to get ahold of herself, tell Stella to go the fuck to sleep and start taking her recovery seriously. She needs to tell her…

She doesn’t know what she needs to tell her.

Because there’s that look in her eyes and that tone in her voice. It leaves no room for argument and Reed’s not proud to discover the visceral, almost primitive attraction she feels toward it.

And when she moves, she feels drunk and dissociative, not like herself.

“Relax.”

She blinks and looks down. Strands of blonde hair curling demurely around her knees as she straddles Stella’s shoulders. Stella’s eyes have softened and look a little shiny as she peers up at her. And Reed sees lust churning there amidst stubborn notes of fatigue, and she doesn’t know what to do with that...

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me, scoot up.”

“But-“

“Don’t suffocate me and I’ll be fine,” she huffs, coaxing Reed’s hips forward with her hands. And Reed almost finds it funny until she hears Stella’s voice go soft like velvet when she requests, “Come here.”

And Reed does.

She moves up so that she’s just inches above Stella’s face, her hands moving to the bed frame for support. Sliding up her body, Stella’s hands beckon her down. “Drop your hips,” she says in that husky tone, less commanding and more of a suggestion than anything else.

And Reed knows that if she got up right now, if she really let her concerns take over, she knows that Stella might be pissy but that she wouldn’t push her. Stella craves control, needs it even, in certain areas of her life to function day to day - Reed knows this, and she’s witnessed it enough times to understand it. Just as she knows that this is one of those times, an exercise in resurgence because she’s relinquished so much.

So much for her, anyway.

Besides, Reed won’t deny that her body’s practically demanding this. She can feel her pelvic floor tighten around nothing, releasing in frustration. And it’s as petulant as Stella, pleading with her, begging.

Not knowing when it actually happens, she makes the decision to commit, lowering herself in reach of Stella’s impatient mouth. And it’s only with the first lick of her tongue that Reed realizes how soaked she actually is. Stella breathes and the air feels cool against her folds, completely drenched in her own desire.

“Mm,” she hears Stella hum and then she feels it against her clit, slick and glorious, her head lolling forward. “Knew you’d be happy to see me.”

“I swear to God,” she mutters down at her, trying to think of something to say, anything to erase the smugness from her voice. But nothing follows because everything goes wondrously hazy, melting all around her. Even her annoyance evaporates in seconds because nothing can compete with this feeling, not even that.

God, she feels divine.

She thinks she says it, she doesn’t know what she says, but she feels Stella’s hands on her, pulling her closer. And somewhere in the amalgamous daze of her mind, she knows that she’s not supposed to be making this hard for her. Fast. She’s supposed to make this quick.

So she tries her very best to relax, to fully relax and sink down into this position, giving herself over to Stella completely. And it works at first because she feels so good, so fucking good that it’s almost too good. Reed clutches at the bedframe and then the wall, feeling like she might shatter up here, afraid that pieces of her will scatter everywhere, bouncing carelessly into space with no hopes of ever retrieving them. If only she could anchor herself to something, anything. Because her only anchor is Stella’s jaw working magic against her pussy and it’s not enough, not enough to keep her steady as she soars higher and higher away from her body.

But her hips still roll, unable to fully control them as they make the tiniest movements against the welcoming warmth of Stella’s mouth. And she tells herself to let go, to let this happen, even as her thighs tremble and her knuckles lock.

Then Stella shifts a bit beneath her and Reed thinks she’ll have a break, a moment to collect herself as Stella adjusts her shoulder. But Stella’s not just adjusting her weight, she’s bringing her hand up to insert a finger deep inside her and Reed almost feels herself split in two. And she moves it slowly, adding another as her apt tongue circles Reed’s clit with that same orgasm inducing brilliance.

It’s not long before Reed’s body is calling her to ride those fingers, purling pants wafting toward the ceiling as she grinds into Stella’s face. And Stella’s other arm wraps around Reed’s leg, holding her there, pressed against her mouth as she begins to come.

Radiant spots of color erupt behind her eyelids as her fingertips press into the wall with the force of her weight and her climax bearing down on them. And she tries not to press into Stella, she tries to lift away from her, to keep herself from completely smothering her. But Stella’s arm is like a vice and it keeps her there as she comes and comes, absorbing the aftershocks of her ogasm on her tongue until Reed can’t take it anymore.

“Okay, okay,” she says, flimsily falling to the side and crumbling into a messy jumble of limbs on the sheets. She tries to focus on breathing but soon she hears the telltale tinker of Stella’s laughter and feels the comforter covering her body, placed securely around her shoulders.

“You’re not supposed to move,” she mumbles.

She tries to open her eyes but everything feels heavy.

“I know,” she whispers, “I’m not.”

Reed feels Stella’s fingers tangle with hers, and sleeps.

*

Coffee drips lumberingly from the pot in Reed’s kitchen, its earthy aroma blanketing Stella in the warm haven of early morning as the sun begins to rise. The room reflects the new dawn, every wall alight with the prismatic beauty of daybreak.

Reed cracks eggs into a clear bowl, piling empty shells off to the side and running her hands under hot water. She’s making omelettes and even though Stella’s not hungry, she likes this ritual - the one where Reed cooks for her. It���s a strange thing to become attached to but Stella finds an unfamiliar and indescribable peace in the gesture, something calming about the simplicity of their lives when it happens. And it’s been a long time since she’s let this happen with someone, breakfast and crying and comfort, this level of access to her own monotony.

Mundane things always become the most important.

She wraps her fingers around a healthy looking grapefruit and slices, sectioning the fruit into pieces. It smells citric and sweet as she cuts, rosy pink juice spilling onto her fingers. And Reed says something but she’s not sure what it is so she laughs anyway. It doesn’t really matter, nothing feels like it matters because she’s just so happy. So unbelievably happy.

But then she realizes, hearing it echo, that she knows what Reed had said.

She wants a piece of grapefruit.

Picking up a ripe ruby hunk, she passes it to Reed who’s busy whisking together a thick yellowy concoction with the concentration her profession demands. She looks up from it and smiles, a brilliant sort of smile that makes Stella feel warm all over, protected in this cocoon of their togetherness. And she takes the fruit and puts it to Reed’s mouth, watching as her eyes flit from the offering back to Stella’s eyes.

Dauntlessly, she bites it, a sugary stream of juice sliding over her lip and down her chin. Stella captures it with her thumb. And then with her tongue. She feels her entire body flush and then vaguely wonders if they’ll have time for this. They have to work today don’t they? It’s a relatively far off thought when Reed is all softness and warmth against her, wet mouths greeting each other, clinging to each other in a promise of eternity.

And she wants her so bad, she thinks she’ll never escape it.

Then they’re at the table, clean plates and lazy smiles. Even the air feels good as she sit there, looking at the radiant way sunlight shines across Reed’s hair. She thinks that she could look at it for hours, studying every nuance that exists within her, every nuance that exists around her. She never wants to move.

But she moves anyway, collecting their plates and placing them in the sink. She rinses everything with hot water. It’s the least she can do after Reed’s gone through the trouble of cooking. She doesn’t mind at all because there’s -

Movement.

Something catches her eye over by the table where Reed’s sitting. And when she looks, everything goes cold, instantly cold. Because it’s impossible.

Impossible.

Her father.

He looks at Reed as he pulls a chair out, sitting next to her, saying nothing. He says nothing. He sits there staring, still and staring. And Reed’s eyes go wide as she looks at him. Wider as she looks at Stella because she knows something is wrong. She knows that her father is dead. Has been dead for 27 years. But he doesn’t look any older than the day Stella last saw him, smiling handsomely as he walked out the door.

Now there’s no smile, that small smile she’d been so accustomed to as a child is nowhere to be found. His expressionless face turns towards her, empty eyes boring into her own, almost black in their vacancy. And it’s unnatural, wrong somehow. So incredibly disturbing.

Because he’s dead.

Still dead.

And maybe he doesn’t know it.

Stella’s paralyzed, unable to think or breathe. Her heart pounds in her ears, blood beating loudly against her eardrums.

She’s so afraid, she can’t remember being more afraid in her entire life because she can’t watch him die.

He blinks. Lifelessly. An animated corpse.

She can’t watch him.

She’s running.

Breathing heavily.

Sweating.

She’s tired but she has to keep going. She doesn’t know why. All she knows is that there’s danger, a threat of some kind, and it’s coming for her. Coming for them.

But Gwen’s falling behind.

And she’s loud, twigs snapping and leaves crunching beneath her feet as they run. She needs to be fucking quiet or they’re going to hear her. They’re going to hear both of them. And that can’t happen - they have to keep going. They need to go faster, pick up the pace, because it’s getting closer. Stella can feel it closing in on them, dread filling her entire body as it nears.

“Stella!” Gwen cries softly, terror coloring the whimper in her voice.

“Shh!”

Stella grabs her hand, trying to pull her along so that they can run together but it doesn’t help. Gwen just stumbles, her legs fumblingly clumsily until she trips completely, falling hard to the ground.

Goddammit. No, no, no.

Stopping her momentum, Stella skids across the dirt, running back for her. And she’s pulling at her, pulling at her arms and her clothes, trying to get her on her feet, trying to make her stand. But she just won’t, she crumbles into a ball and sobs.

“Stella, I’m so scared.”

“Me too. But you have to get up.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes-”

“No-”

“Yes, you can!”

And Stella uses every bit of strength and adrenaline coursing through her body to pull Gwen a few feet away, underbrush clawing at them as she drags her behind a tree. Her body is leaden with fear, caving in on itself, and Stella has to practically carry her. Pressing her back into the bark, she settles Gwen heavily into her lap as she prays for a miracle.

“Be quiet.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop.”

Gwen trembles and Stella holds her, she holds her tight, probably too tight as she pushes against the tree, hoping that it will envelop them in some kind of protection.

It’s odd holding her. As terrified as she is, she can’t help but notice how odd it feels to hold her, to have her this close, breathing into her hair. Because it’s been so long, hasn’t it? Years and years. Decades even?

And she doesn’t hold Gwen anymore. And she’s dreamt of it too many times. So this must be a dream. It has to be.

She feels herself shaking.

Wake up. Wake up.

She begs herself to open her fucking eyes.

White.

She sees white everywhere, it’s so damn bright.

Blinking it out of her eyes, she looks around and she’s in her office.

Thank god.

Thank. God.

She’s in her office, just her tiny mess of an office. She’s alone and Gwen’s not here. She’s just somebody that Stella used to know, and she’s not holding her, there’s no one here. She can breathe. She takes advantage it with a quivering breath, an attempt to leave the panic behind.

It was nothing but a dream. Nothing but a nightmare. Hallucination. A panic attack.

She’s fine. She’s safe.

Fucking hell.

Standing on wobbly legs, she finds herself in the bathroom, splashing water over her face. God, she’s still so hot, sweating. She takes a paper towel and wets it under the sink, putting it against her neck, and it doesn’t do much.

And then there’s fear, stronger than ever. Because someone’s in this fucking bathroom and she knows it. She sees them in the mirror behind her, a set of feet peeking out under one of the stalls.

Maybe she’s being paranoid, anxious. Maybe she’s being crazy.

She wants to leave, she should get out of here, but her body won’t move.

The door swings open and someone emerges from the stall. She spins around.

Greg.

Of course it’s Greg. He’s probably found her card, the small number scratched into it, she shouldn’t have left her initial. Or maybe he’s found out that she had coffee with Gwen, however short-lived and unproductive it was. And now he’s come to confront her in her own fucking office because he’s that kind of cocky. He thinks he can get away with it. But she’s faced him before and she’s stronger now. She’s been through training and learned to fight, and he’s a idiot piece of shit if he thinks that no one will hear her in this building.

But as he draws nearer, she can’t scream.

She can’t scream and she’s on the ground and it’s not Greg at all.

No, it’s Spector, his black eyes looming over her, hateful and mere inches from hers. His putrid breath against her face, his hand covering her mouth, gripping her throat, squeezing.

And again, she can’t breathe, abject terror reclaiming her body as everything goes black.

She struggles and struggles, but she just can’t move. She can’t scream. She can’t breathe.

Without a doubt, she realizes her fate so planely. The most nauseating feeling.

This is how she dies.

*

Shit-

Reed startles awake in pain, something sharp digging into her side.

Turning over, she realizes that it’s Stella’s elbow lodged there, pushing harder even as Reed attempts to move it. And her movements are tight and jerky. Almost instantly, Reed recognizes that she must be having a nightmare, eyes fluttering madly below her eyelids, moisture collecting at her brow. Reed puts a hand to her cheek, trying to wake her gently, but then she realizes how hot her skins feels and sits up worriedly.

“Stella,” she says, hoping she’ll hear her name and come out of it.

A short gasp of air rattles into the night as Stella twitches but doesn’t wake. So Reed moves her hand, feeling how warm Stella is everywhere, and she must be caught in a fever dream. With a firm hold, Reed grabs her shoulder and shakes her a bit, “Stella, wake up.”

But Stella mumbles wordlessly, deeply lost to some subconscious battle while her breathing goes shallow and erratic. For a fleeting moment, Reed feels illogically frightened, worried even though she understands that there’s probably nothing seriously wrong. Stella’s dreaming, just dreaming, but she needs to wake up. Tossing aside her guilt, she shakes her harder and relief finally surges through her chest when Stella jolts awake.

Cloudy eyes look up at her, confused and blinking wildly.

“Stella, you’re burning up,” she says, bringing the gentle caress of her hand back to her face, trying to ground her back in reality.

“Fuck,” she murmurs, eyelids falling closed as short breaths continue to burst from her lungs. And then she lurches forward so suddenly that Reed barely has time to register the alarmed look breaking across her face. But it’s instantaneous and she’d recognize it anywhere.

Quickly rolling over, Reed moves to grab the waste bin at her bedside and puts it directly under Stella’s mouth before she vomits into the plastic lining. It happens once, and then a few seconds pass and it happens again. Reed tries to brush the hair from her face, tucking it behind her ears.

“Sorry,” Stella says in a dejected whisper, face hovering over the bin.

“You’re fine,” Reed says nervously. “Sit back with this. I’ll get you some water.”

And she leaves Stella clutching the bin to go downstairs and fill up a tall glass at the tap. On her way back, she hurriedly grabs a cold washcloth and some ibuprofen, returning to find Stella slumped against her pillow, the sick bin sitting sadly on the ground next to her.

“Hey,” she says moving it over to sit on the edge of the bed next to her. “Try to sit up and take these.”

Stella’s eyes shut tighter as she breathes out of a pitiful noise that ambiguously tells Reed, ‘no.’

“Please,” Reed tries again. “It’ll bring down your fever.” Reaching around Stella, she adjusts the pillows behind her to make it easier. But when Stella still doesn’t move, Reed doesn’t wait. She puts her hands behind Stella’s back and lifts her into a sitting position while Stella semi-cooperates. “Come on, sit up.”

Weakly, her fingers collect the pills from Reed’s offering palm and she swallows them with a small sip of water. Then she’s sinking back into the comforter, the grimace intensifying at her brow.

“Talk to me,” Reed says, wiping the cool washcloth at her hairline. “What’s wrong? What hurts?”

“Nothing,” Stella mumbles, blinking blearily as her eyes fight to stay open. “S’just my stomach.”

“Does it feel any better now?”

“Yes.”

“Stop lying.”

“Tired,” she says weakly, her eyes drifting closed. “I’m just…” And she looks seconds from sleep. So Reed lets her slip away into unconsciousness as she evaluates the seriousness of the situation. She replaces the washcloth with her hand, assessing her fever and decides that it’s relatively low. Next she grabs her wrist and feels for a pulse. Stella groans a little and Reed has to keep herself from laughing - she’s almost completely positive that Stella would never let her do this under any other set of circumstances. And then that worries her. But the pulse she finds is strong, a bit fast but steady, not erratic.

Images of her from earlier in the day flicker through her mind, the exhaustion written across her face, the weight at her shoulders. She’s probably run down, dehydrated and in need of rest.

Fixing the blankets around her, Reed resigns to letting her sleep, knowing that she’s probably fine. Then she collects the lining of the sick bin, replacing it with a clean one, and tries to fall back asleep.

A few hours later, she’s had little luck. Reed wakes in and out of dozing to keep an eye on her fever, and around 5AM, she decides that it’s useless. Fetching her laptop from downstairs, she crawls into bed and begins checking her email. Every so often, Stella’s breathing escalates and she talks nonsense words into the early morning.

Sunlight peeking through Reed’s window, Stella barely stirs, but it’s time for her to take more medication. She’s also sweat through the pillowcase; Reed should really swap it for a clean one.

“It’s time for you to take something,” Reed says trying to wake her gently. She watches as Stella’s eyes blink open, still red and glassy, registering the world around her. “You should take some more of this.”

Without noise or complaint this time, Stella props herself on an elbow so that she can adhere to Reed’s request. Her skin looks clammy and the circles under eyes carve her typically regal face into a gaunt imitation.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Great,” Stella says sarcastically, swallowing the pills that Reed gives her.

“Stella-”

“Like I got run over,” she grumbles, setting the glass of water down on the nightstand.

“Drink,” Reed insists, handing it back to her. “You need to hydrate. And I need to change this,” she says, indicating to Stella’s pillowcase.

Stella takes a deep breath, one that looks like it hurts, and fortifies herself to comply with Reed’s caregiving. And she manages to sit up as Reed swaps out the pillows and drink half the glass of water before retreating back into the covers, bundling herself in bedding.

“Who can I call?”

Giving her a strange look, even as her eyes close on their own volition, Stella huffs out a vague “What?”

“At your office,” Reed clarifies. “I’ll call - tell them you’ll be out today.”

“I have to…”

“No you don’t.”

“I can’t…”

“Well, you can’t go in either,” Reed tries to say without sounding too authoritarian. Self-consciously, she softens. “Tell me who to call.”

Several seconds pass as Stella breathes, probably deciding how horrible she feels and Reed wonders how hard she’ll have to push the subject. She doesn’t relish in the idea of having to play doctor in these situations, but she’s prepared to. There’s only so much she can let go, only so much she’s willing to witness as Stella runs herself into the ground.

So she holds strong while a lecture (for another time) writes itself in her mind. And she can feel herself becoming frustrated and concerned in equal turns because Stella can barely sit up; the fact that she thinks she’s even capable of going to work is laughable at best. Yet she’s still silent, protesting Reed’s request for a contact. And this stubbornness even now, even now while she can barely sit, stokes Reed’s anger from the night before. She doesn’t know how to get through to her, she doesn’t know how to say the things that she needs to say, and she’s been silent for so long. For years she’s been silent and she refuses to sit back in her self-censored prison for much longer.

But then, right as Reed is about to repeat her question, Stella finally speaks.

“James,” Stella says almost inaudibly. “James Colgan.”

“Thank you,” Reed sighs, feeling herself unwind. “What’s the password on your mobile?”

“1934.”

Grabbing her mobile from the nightstand, Reed takes it downstairs and scrolls through her contacts looking for ‘James Colgan.’ It feels invasive to have Stella’s phone at her fingertips and for someone who’s so private, having even momentary access to it feels wrong, like she’s doing it without her permission. So she tries not to infer anything, she tries not to read names - not that she would know any of them - but she tries to do what she came to do and get it over with. And she finds his information with relative ease and dials…

“Colgan,” he answers.

“Hello, this is Professor Reed Smith,” she says, suddenly nervous. “I’m uh, calling on behalf of Stella Gibson. She won’t be coming in today and I wanted to let someone know.”

“Who is this exactly?” He sounds alarmed Reed understands why. She doubts that Stella ever calls out of work, let alone has someone call for her.

“I’m a friend of Stella’s,” Reed explains with a patient finality to her voice. Because while she understands his concern, she would never provide a more extensive explanation of their relationship to one of Stella’s colleagues, especially not without her consent. “She’s sick.”

James does not respond, not for a few moments anyway. And then he clears his throat.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t think it’s anything to worry about,” Reed says, inexplicably glad to hear someone else in Stella’s life express interest in her wellbeing. “But she could use some rest.”

“Okay.” And then, “You’re with her?”

“Yes, I’ll be with her all day.”

“Alright, well thank you.”

Reed’s not sure if he’s thanking her for staying with Stella or thanking her for the call. But either way, she’s glad to know that he exists and that Stella has at least one person in her life that worries about her.

“Of course. She’ll call as soon as she’s able.”

Reed ends the call and locks Stella’s phone.

“Who’s that?” A voice comes from behind her.

“Jesus. Don’t do that.”

“What? Walk around my own home?” Lydia says rounding a corner into view.

“No, I just mean - when did you get here?” Reed asks swiping at her hair because she has no idea what she looks like. She’s been up all night and her guard’s down, she didn’t hear Lydia come home - she thought she was alone. “I thought you were at Ian’s for the night.”

“Well, I was,” Lydia explains. “But then we had a row so...”

“So you came home?”

“Yeah, around 1.”

“In the middle of the night? It was that bad?”

“He’s a prick,” she says offhandedly like anyone would know, but Reed sees hints of hurt lining her frown and knows that it must be more than that.

“I’m sorry, Lyd.”

“It’s fine,” she says, less able to hide the bitterness in her tone this time. Then she returns to her original question. “Who was that?”

“On the phone?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, um, Stella’s here,” she explains looking at the phone and then pocketing it. “And she’s ill so I was calling out of work for her.”

“She’s here?”

“Yeah, sleeping upstairs.”

Lydia’s eyebrows pop up as she smiles a mischievous sort of grin. “Does this mean I finally get to meet her?”

“She’s really unwell,” Reed says with an edge to her voice and Lydia’s smile retreats. “Please don’t get any ideas.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know…” she says crossing her arms. “‘Stress, exhaustion probably. From what I can tell, she’s definitely dehydrated.”

“You’re going to stay with her?”

“I think so.”

“If you need me to grab the girls from school today-“

“No, no. I can get them. Thank you but… I think she just needs sleep.”

*

Stella’s tired.

It’s hot in her office and she’s unreasonably tired. The kind of tired that wraps itself around your heart and seeps into your muscles. But she can’t lay down. There’s so much to do.

She thinks she needs to clean. Yes, she definitely needs to clean because there’s still paperwork stacked on every fucking surface of her office - she hasn’t gotten the chance to tackle it since her return. And it’s everywhere, her office is absolutely littered with it. How did it get so out of hand while she was away? Had she really left all of it just lying around?

She doesn’t like to leave a mess, not like this one.

Must be Westfield.

They’re sharing an office now and it’s fairly close to hell on earth. Spencer knew what she was doing when she forced them into this cramped room together, it’s a message, a clear sign, a punishment. Stella’s got no space and looking around, his shit is just everywhere. He’s everywhere. Always asking her questions, making comments and conversation. She can’t breathe.

It hurts to breathe, she realizes, it hurts to exist.

God, she feels like shit, she should‘ve stayed home today. She should’ve listened to Reed, why hadn’t she listened to her? Why had she left?

She can’t remember leaving…

She pries an eye open and everything’s so fucking bright that she immediately closes it. And then she drags her arm out from under the comforter because she’s so hot. Christ, she needs some air.

Then she feels something soothing at her scalp and it sends jolts of relaxing energy down neck and into her shoulders. It’s repetitive like a revisiting tide and it must be Reed, running her fingers absentmindedly through Stella’s hair. For a brief moment, it’s the only good thing she can register, warm and tranquil.

Even still, Stella thinks she should move. She doesn’t really let people touch her like this, hasn’t in a long time anyway… But it feels good. She forgot how nice something this could feel. Maybe it’s just that she feels so heinous in comparison.

She needs to move.

Then the feeling at her crown is gone and Reed shifts next to her, realizing she’s awake.

“How’re you feeling?” she asks, her voice full of softness and Stella can’t decide if she loves it or hates it. She doesn’t have much time to think it over before Reed’s asking more questions. “Same, better, or worse?”

Stella takes a moment to breathe slowly and find her patience before she mutters, “Same.” After all, she’s not used to being sick and therefore not used to being cared for. And there’s something deep inside of her, buried beneath all of this illness, that yearns for and simultaneously rejects Reed’s caregiving. There’s distant feelings of gratitude down there surrounded by more obvious feelings of absolute annoyance.

She wishes she were in her own bed.

She wishes she didn’t have to think about this.

“You should drink some water while you’re awake,” she says and it pokes at Stella’s nerves even though she’s right. Because of course she’s right, Stella has no doubt, but it’s so unfortunately not the point.

Regardless, she anchors her hands and pushes herself into a sitting position until pain erupts down the center of her skull over the shifting balance of her weight. And if her eyes could shut tighter, they would because everything feels like it’s spinning, and she’s so so dizzy from the pain.

Then there’s something at her lips and it takes her a few seconds to register that it’s a straw, a straw added to her water cup, which is now being held instructively up to her lips. And the instinctive part of her body that knows she’s dehydrated floods with relief while the ornery part of her wants to refuse it on principle. Pride eventually wins out as her hand wraps around the glass because if she’s going to drink any fucking water, she’ll do it herself because she’s certainly not a child. And however she might feel, she’s not technically on her deathbed.

“You can take more ibuprofen in an hour, it’s on the nightstand.”

Stella sips from the straw and says nothing, feeling infantile for drinking this way but it’s so much easier and everything hurts. So she concedes to feeling infantile because it’s better than the alternative, whatever it may be. Pain radiates along her muscles, this dull aching pain that feels like it will never leave and she feels disgusting. Her skin is hot and there’s beads of sweat sliding down her back and between her breasts. She needs to pee.

“How’s your stomach?” Reed asks watching her intently and Stella can’t see much but she senses it just the same. “Do you think you can eat anything?”

“No,” she croaks, setting the glass down beside her on the nightstand with a shake of her wrist. And she’s thinks she made it look relatively easy, like she didn’t have to concentrate to do it, but she’s not sure. Sinking down into the sheets, she burrows beneath them as best she can because suddenly she’s freezing, and there’s no way she could possibly ever find enough warmth.

She wants to die.

Truly, no questions asked, she discovers the absolute clarity that she can’t bear to live like this, shrouded in the oscillating pain of existence for a moment longer. It’s too much, it’s been too much for such a long long time. If only this bed would swallow her whole...

“I’ll fix something incase you change your mind,” comes Reed’s voice softly and there’s something in it that makes Stella hurt worse than the illness coursing through her body. But she doesn’t have enough energy to unravel it. So she sits with it and lets it have her. “Give you some space, stop hovering.”

Stella’s so overwhelmed by this throbbing ailment that she barely notices the hot tear slip from the crease of her eye, forming a small wet spot where her face meets the pillow. Then she feels the cool dampness of it against her fevered skin and the realization is so startling that a few more searing drops immediately follow.

She would do anything to get away from here.

“I’ll check on you in a bit.”

There’s a soft thud of the door closing and Stella turns her whole face into the pillow, letting it absorb the wetness from her face. And the air in her mouth is acrid as she tries to breathe. Part of her wishes that Reed could come back. But Stella knows that she would never be able to make her understand. She would never be able to make her see. And even if she could, even if she could somehow find a way, nothing good would ever come from it. So few things in life are as certain as this. Whatever deep mystery Reed thinks lies within Stella, she’s wrong. It simply doesn’t exist. Because there’s no mystery to what’s hidden away inside her.

And someone as good as Reed wouldn’t be able comprehend it. She shouldn’t have to.  

Stella wishes that she’d never met her.

As darkness slips compassionately around her, she hates everything about herself.

*

Leaves shuffle across the ground and the air feels brisk as Reed pulls her coat a tighter to ward off the chill. Even though it’s a bit cooler than she anticipated, she’s grateful for the time outside and she’s even grateful for relentless breeze. After hours of nesting at home, she’d needed a break from the stuffy staleness of that bedroom. The walls were closing in on her, even from the kitchen downstairs.

It’s not that she minds looking after Stella. Because she doesn’t.

No, it’s just that taking care of people who don’t want to be taken care of is a particular kind of draining, and Stella’s not the best patient. Obviously, that’s not surprising in and of itself - if anything, Reed would have expected her to be worse. But still… Reed shakes her head at her own thoughts and she probably looks crazy, talking to herself on the street.

Shoving her hands into her pockets as she approaches the school, she tries to let it go, this pestering feeling of being unwanted. Her mind replays it without her permission, the moment twisting through her psyche and forcing her to look at it. Stella turning away from her. Simple enough. Certainly not dire. But it has the feeling scraping up against her anew, even as she tries to push it aside. Logically she knows that Stella’s reaction probably isn’t about her, it’s more likely that she’s not used to having someone, it probably makes her uncomfortable.

And Reed knows how cranky she, herself, can be when she’s not feeling well.

But she’s finding an excuse to take it personally. Probably for no reason at all.

Probably.

So when the time had come to pick up the girls, she’d welcomed the excuse to take a much needed walk. After all, Stella had been soundly asleep when she last checked on her, and Lydia was still there on the off chance that she needed anything.

Reed sighs and tries to clear her head. She turns her focus outward and tries to take in the leaves and the trees and the spots where sunlight attempts to poke through the clouds. Then she arrives at the school and waits for the girls. A few children trickle out meeting their parents or sitters, and Reed observes as if looking through a far off window.

“Mum!” Charlotte’s voice rings through Reed’s muddled thoughts.

She turns to find her youngest skipping towards her at rapid pace, a large piece of paper flapping in her hand. Bending down to her level, Reed intercepts her with a hug and the small girl feels good to hold. It feels so good to hold her. But then Charlotte’s squirming, so full of energy and very excited about the picture she drew. From what Reed can tell, it’s a forest scene complete with animals and flowers of various kinds and colors. And her daughter’s not a naturally gifted artist but she’s so imaginative that Reed can’t help but feel herself bursting with pride. She laughs indulgently, rolling up the picture to keep it safe just as she sees Jane wandering over with a friend. And then Charlotte’s calling for her to “hurry up!”

“Not so loud,” Reed reminds because she has a tendency to shout.

“She’s taking forever,” Charlotte insists.

“I am not,” Jane says approaching them quickly, parting ways with the other girl her age and glaring at her sister.

“You’re fine, darling,” Reed hugs her, planting an apparently unwanted kiss at the top of her head. “Who was that?”

“Clara.”

“Oh, Clara,” Reed remembers Jane talk about her. “She’s one of your good friends, yeah?”

“I guess.”

“What do you mean, you guess?” “She’s not like Zoe or Hannah but she’s nice,” Jane says going a little quiet and Reed feels herself fill up with guilt. Zoe and Hannah had been Jane’s best friends back in Belfast and Reed remembers how upset she’d been to leave them behind. And although Reed had tried to convince Jane that they would always remain friends, she knows that distance can be devastating for people at any age, let alone children.   

“Nice is a good start,” is all she manages to say before Charlotte begins talking about her day, leaving any and all conversation about Clara in the dust.

Slowly Reed finds herself immersed in it though, wrapped up in the stories of their day, asking questions and letting them ramble. So much so that they’re almost home, rounding the corner to their street, before she realizes that she hasn’t told them about Stella being in the house.

“Girls,” she interrupts through their chatter. “Girls, listen to me,” she says more firmly. “When we get home I need you to be quiet. Stella’s sleeping upstairs and she’s very sick so I don’t want you to wake her.”

“Stella’s home?!” Charlotte gasps while Jane asks a more apprehensive, “Why is Stella at our house?”

“She was at the house last night when she got sick,” Reed explains. “And she couldn’t go home today.”

“How come Stella never comes over when we’re home?” Charlotte whines.

“It was just this once,” Reed counters.

“Nuh-uh, there was that other time,” Jane says and Reed feels her face go red, embarrassment inching up her neck.

“I just need you keep your voices down when we get inside, okay?” she says returning to the matter at hand, hoping to escape further questions about the first time Stella had been at their house.

“Will she stay the night?” Charlotte asks after a beat.

“If she’s not feeling well enough to go home, she might.”

“But where’s she going to sleep?” Jane asks.

“She can stay in our room,” Charlotte offers.

“And sleep where?” Jane rolls her eyes. “She’s in my room right now,” Reed interrupts their arguing. “And she needs rest, which means you aren’t to bother her. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” they mumble.

“When will she come over to play?” Charlotte asks as they walk up the path to the flat.

“Soon.” “How soon?”

“I don’t know, Charlotte. This isn’t our house, we can’t keep crowding Aunt Lydie.”

“Aunt Lydie doesn’t mind,” Charlotte implores and Jane offers a supportive, “Yeah, she wants to meet her too,” which stops Reed in her tracks halfway up the short set of stairs.

“What?”

“Aunt Lydie wants to meet Stella too!” Charlotte continues. “She told us so.”

“When did she tell you so?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why were you talking about Stella?” she presses.

“Aunt Lydie asked about her.”

There’s silence as Reed looks from one child to the other.

“After the museum,” Jane explains. “And when we went to her house.”

“Why are you mad?” Charlotte asks.

“I’m not mad,” Reed says turning towards the door but even to her own ears, it sounds mad.

And the girls are quiet as they trail inside.

“Girls,” Reed says after taking a breath and hanging her coat. “Go into the dining room and sort out your homework. I’ll be there to help you in a bit.”

“Can I have a snack?”

“Sure,” Reed says over her shoulder, but she’s already walking towards the living room, her eyes set on Lydia. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” she asks lowly, not wanting the girls to hear.

“What’s the matter?”

“Can I just talk to you upstairs,” she grates out. “Please?”

“Alright, alright,” Lydia sighs, uneasy with Reed’s tone. But she sets her laptop aside all the same and follows her sister upstairs until they’re closed safely behind the door of Lydia’s bedroom.

“What’s all this about?” Lydia asks, her question caught somewhere between annoyed and concerned.

“Why are you talking to the girls about Stella?”

“What do you mean?”

“They told me that you asked about her,” Reed asserts seriously.

“Of course I did.”

Reed’s fingers spring up, pinching the bridge of her nose to keep from crying.

“But not in a subversive way. In a ‘tell me about your day’ sort of way.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I’m their aunt and it’s my job to ask them about their lives,” Lydia explains defensively trying to get Reed to look at her. But she just nods and it’s a far-off thing, her eyes fixed on the ground as she processes, unable to speak. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Reed says trying to keep the emotion from her voice. “I just - they want to know why she’s here and when she’s coming over,” she explains rapidly. “And then you’re asking about her and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. This whole thing’s been one disaster after another. And they have so many questions and I don’t know how to talk to them about this. I don’t know what to say-”

“Hey,” Lydia says gently, grabbing her shoulder before enveloping her in a hug. “Come here.”

“I’m a terrible mother,” she cries into Lydia’s shoulder.

“No you’re not.”

“I am.”

“Shhh.”

“I’ve completely put myself first.”

“You’re allowed to have a life, you know.”

“Not one that hurts them.”

“Hurts them? How has it hurt them?” Lydia pulls back, wiping a few tears from Reed’s face and tucking her hair into place. “Nothing’s happened.”

“I don’t know how to explain her to them. And it’s so new,” Reed says, her voice going small. “Might not be worth explaining…”

Lydia rubs Reed’s upper arms soothingly. “Let’s calm down, I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves here. Especially since she’s still in the house, yeah?”

Reed takes a deep breath and tries to collect herself.

“I’m sorry,” she responds. “I’m just - I’m being-”

“You’re not being anything. You’re fine,” Lydia says firmly. “But maybe over the next few days, you know, once she’s gone… We should have a good think about it.”

Nodding silently, Reed agrees and wipes her face. “I should go check on her.”

“It’s all going to be fine,” Lydia says quietly.

“Thanks, I’m just going to…” Reed motions towards the door and quickly escapes to the restroom.

She locks the door and grips the counter, Lydia’s words repeating like a mantra through her mind. It’s all going to be fine. It’s fine. It’s all going to be fine.

Overreacting.

She’s completely overreacting.

She needs to stop, she needs to get control of herself. A piece of advice, the passing words of an old college professor, surfaces to meet Lydia’s assurances at the forefront of her thoughts. When you’re overwhelmed with life’s Great Unknowns, the only certain thing is that they will not be solved tonight.

Everything’s snowballing, getting away from her, and she needs to stop it before she’s buried in the deluge of her own panic. Tonight’s not the night. None of this will be solved tonight let alone over the next few minutes. Her mind is spinning uselessly, self-destructively, it needs to stop.

Tonight’s not the night.

Long exhales leave her lips as she reaches forward, turning the tap, her hand limply falling into the stream of water. And she focuses on that. The sound. The feeling. Water rushing forward. Moving consistently and cool over her skin. And she stays like that for a few minutes, maybe more, before splashing it onto her face, drinking a little from the cupped palm of her hand.

She doesn’t know what’s happening with Stella. She doesn’t know what it means for her life and she doesn’t need to know. Not tonight.

There will be time for that.

Not tonight.

*

An hour passes and then Reed’s sitting on the edge of Stella’s bed.

Her bed.

All of the color has drained from Stella’s face and she looks small, so much smaller than Reed’s ever seen her. Sweat has tangled and matted her hair over the course of the day, and it’s hard to imagine that this is the same woman; the same woman who so profoundly walked into her life and changed everything, the same woman who’d had her hyperventilating into a washroom sink.

And she’d been antsy to come in here, afraid to check in on her.

Reed feels silly now, stupid even.

But she bats the thought away, trying not to engage in negative self-talk. It’s not what she’s here for. It won’t help.

Not wanting to wake her too abruptly, Reed places her fingers against the damp hair at Stella’s brow, sweeping upward until Stella hums, her eyelids fluttering open.

“Hi,” Stella sighs upon seeing her between drowsy blinks.

“You look better,” Reed says, moving her hand to rest on Stella’s hip.

“I feel a bit better,” she mumbles and then, “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I shouldn’t be here.”

“Nonsense.”

“Really. I should go,” she says into the pillow, and it’s hard to take Stella’s assertive tone seriously when it’s barely above a whisper.

“You should eat,” Reed says and Stella cringes. “You haven’t eaten all day, you need something. And I made soup.”

“You made it?” Stella asks as if it were some insurmountable feat rather than a few ingredients thrown into a pot and left to simmer.

“Mhm.”

“Impressive.”

“Preemptive praise. You haven’t had it yet.”

“Still impressive,” she insists.

“The girls sat a place for you downstairs. But I can bring it up if you’d prefer.”

Pushing herself up into a sitting position, Reed sees her fight not to roll her eyes. “I’m not completely helpless…” she says even though the it looks like it’s taken a lot out of her. “I look like shit though.”

“You look tired. There’s a difference.”

“Would you mind if I showered first?” she asks looking down at herself, and it’s uncharacteristically self-conscious.

“Of course not. I’ll get you something to put on.”

Reed grabs Stella a comfortable change of clothes, a fresh towel, and leaves her to it. She goes downstairs and starts dinner with Lydia and the girls, not wanting to put pressure on Stella’s arrival. But when she hears footsteps softly trotting down the stairs some 15 minutes later, her insides seize with anxiety.

Emerging from around the corner, Stella pads into the dining room, flannel footed and wet haired, sporting a cottony white t-shirt. She looks almost as hesitant as Reed feels.

“Stella!” Charlotte shouts around a mouth full of soup, some of it running down her chin.

“Charlotte, please don’t talk with your mouth full,” Reed says reaching across the table to wipe her face.

“Hello, little one,” Stella says carefully approaching the table. “Hello, Jane.” Jane smiles at her while Charlotte bounces in her seat.

Standing up to get Stella’s food, Reed attempts to keep Charlotte sitting with a stern, “You can hug Stella when you’ve finished your supper.”

“I’m done!” Charlotte groans.

“You’ve barely touched it,” Lydia says next to her. “Keep still.”

“You must be, Lydia,” Stella says holding her hand out. “I’m so sorry for the intrusion.”

“Oh, please, you’re more than welcome. I hope you’re feeling better.”

“I am,” she says, gingerly taking the open seat next to Reed’s chair. “Thank you.”

“I’ve been dying to meet you, anyway. Heard nothing but good things from these two,” she says scrunching her nose at the girl and Charlotte grins around her spoon.

“Well, I wish it’d been under better circumstances,” Stella admits. “In my own clothes...”

“What’s that?” Reed asks, returning with Stella’s bowl.

“Oh nothing, we’re just talking about you,” Lydia teases.

“Thank you,” Stella says as Reed settles in next to her.

“No they’re not,” Jane says loyally, and Reed smiles at her.

“Are you going to stay the night?” Charlotte asks Stella with a blessedly empty mouth.

“I think I’ve already overstayed my welcome.”

“Hush,” Lydia says. “You can stay as long as you need.”

“Stay!” Charlotte says.

“Charlotte, remember when I told you that Stella isn’t feeling well? Please be quiet and let her eat,” Reed says with as much patience as she can muster.

“You made this?” Stella asks after taking a bite.

“Mhm.”

“Impressive,” she affirms and Reed feels her nerves melt under the easy warmth of Stella’s praise.

“It’s one of the five decent things I can cook,” Reed says humbly, looking away to mask her blush.

“Well, you’re much better than I am,” Lydia tells her. “One of the few benefits of having you around.”

“What about us?” Jane asks defensively.

“You too, duckling,” Lydia says winking at her.

And as the five women sit comfortably around Lydia’s dining room table, Reed notices the strange ease with which they all share their evening meal - or in Stella’s case, her only meal. That is until Charlotte practically springboards out of her seat to shower Stella in affection. If she were smaller, Reed doesn’t doubt that she’d climb right up into her lap. It has Reed observing anxiously, watching Stella for signs of discomfort, and she looks absolutely ashen but not annoyed. She pets Charlotte’s hair and gives the energetic child her undivided attention until Reed tells the girls that they can watch TV before bed.

Then they’re both scampering away, distracted for the rest of the night, and it gives Reed the opportunity to notice how much Stella has wilted since her arrival downstairs. Lydia clears the table and when Stella moves to help her, her sister insists that Stella stay sitting - it’s obvious how much the simple meal has drained her. With her children fully occupied in the other room, Reed chances a brush of Stella’s hand, causing Stella to blink in her direction.

“Back upstairs?” Reed asks with as little force as possible, not wanting to impose upon Stella’s right to choose whether she stays or goes. But Charlotte’s right, she should stay. Reed thinks of what might happen if Stella insists on leaving. She wonders if she’d be comfortable stuffing her in a cab, trusting that she’d make it home to her own bed.

She looks so limp.

Stella hums, the corner of her mouth downturned, her eyes red and wet. “I should go…”

“Can you?” Reed asks realistically. Because she’s willing to concede, if Stella’s set on sleeping in her own bed, if she’d really prefer to be on her own.

But she doesn’t answer.

“You can always leave first thing in the morning,” Reed says gently. “If you’re up to it.”

Stella nods, it’s there but barely, somewhere off in the distance as her eyes narrow piercingly onto some insignificant spot on the table. And then they’re on Reed’s with the same icy intensity.

“Thank you,” she says. “For today.”

Reed looks down.

A small smile fights its way onto her face entirely despite herself. And she’s glad that Stella will stay.

[amgracy]

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[mulder-krycek]

                                                  [ Part One | Two | Three ]

MARCH 6, 1992 FBI HEADQUARTERS; WASHINGTON, D.C.

"Am I to understand that you want me to /debunk/ the X-Files project, sir?"

"Agent Krycek, we trust you'll make the proper analytical analysis.  You'll want to contact Agent Mulder shortly and we look forward to seeing your reports."

There was silence in Blevins's office and Alex Krycek was sure he'd been dismissed until the third man in the room spoke up, crushing out the remaining stub of his cigarette on the filing cabinet he leaned on.

"Blevins, give us the room," Spender ordered.  Without hesitation, the section chief picked up a small stacking of files on his desk and left his own office, closing the door firmly behind him.  Krycek was respectfully quiet as Spender came over to the desk but the smoker declined to sit in Blevins's chair, instead he took a firm footing besides it.  He'd just snubbed out his cigarette but he was already pulling another out of his Morley pack.

"You've come a long way, Alex," he said, bringing it to his lips and lighting it.

Krycek felt a swell of pride start in his chest but he suppressed it and just nodded, "Thank you, sir."

Spender removed the cigarette and pinched it between his thumb and pointer finger, looking at it for a moment as if to examine the burning embers.  He was reflecting, choosing his next words wisely.  Krycek knew him well, he could tell.

"Your mother and father would be very proud of what you've accomplished.  Without them.  Especially your mother, she always believed in self efficiency.  You're very much like her, Alex.  Motivated, smart," Spender puffed again and his tone turned disapproving, "But you're also like your father.  You're impulsive, temperamental.  How many times did I speak with the Headmaster on your account, Alex?  Fighting, mouthing off."

"More than once," Krycek admitted, trying not to finger the tip of his tie.  He must not fidget.

"You've always listened, Alex.  You've always been… dutiful."  Obedient.  Spender took another drag and released it.  His eyes took on something paternal and hard, "I secured your involvement in this assignment, Alex, because I believed that you could do it.  That you would be the best man for the job.  It's very important you do well, Alex.  Was my faith misplaced?"

"No, " Krycek reassured him, squaring his shoulders with an air of confidence.  He'd do everything he could not to screw this up although the truth was Krycek still wasn't entirely sure what Spender wanted but, whatever it was, he counted on Alex.  And Alex owed him too much to fail, "I'm ready for anything.  I can handle Agent Mulder."

"Good," Spender's face was impassive and he only took another puff, adding, "Did you read the file I gave you?"


"Forwards and back, sir," Krycek attempted to hide the surprise in his voice.  Spender had given him a file on one Special Agent Fox Mulder all of two months ago, to look over in preparation for his assignment.  There was no question that his benefactor had clearance to high level information within the state department and FBI so when Krycek had been given the file, he'd expected the real dirt on his soon-to-be partner.  The folder had been more than sparse though, giving Krycek only a broad understanding of Fox Mulder.

The information in the file was entirely professional.  It could have been accessed by any chief or director within the FBI.  It went through Fox Mulder's education at Oxford University, receiving his bachelor's degree in psychology with honors.  His success continued as he went through the academy, completing a monograph which helped catch Monty Props, a thorn in the bureau's side for years.  He eventually graduated into the FBI where his spectacular insight and intelligence earned him the credit as the best criminal profiler in the violent crimes section.  Sometime during his time there, Agent Mulder suffered several personal incidents and he transferred out of violent crimes and into the behavioral science unit.  Like violent crimes, Mulder professionally flourished and he dominated the BSU.  Then he discovered the X-Files and a once promising career plummeted into mediocrity.  Now he chased ghouls and goblins.

The image in the file was of a brown haired man, with a prominent nose, squinting at the camera against a white wall.  The picture struck Krycek when he'd first seen it… after all, this guy didn't seem so brilliant.

"Good.  That will be all, Agent Krycek.  I believe you have a partner to meet."

"Thank you, sir.  For everything."

Spender didn't respond and Krycek didn't expect him to.  He left the room then, leaving the smoking man behind, and made his way to the elevator.  When inside, Agent Krycek stabbed the button for the basement and leaned back against the wall.

Ding.  To the basement.

Krycek's first thought was, jesus, it really /was/ a basement.  He weaved his way around the stacked shelves, navigating the narrow hallway until he got to the door at the end.  The nameplate read: X-Files Division.   Krycek knocked on the partially opened door, beginning to peak his way inside.

"Sorry, nobody down here the but the FBI's most unwanted."

That was his cue and Krycek pushed his way into the room.  The poster on the wall struck him first.  Most people would laugh or roll their eyes.  They'd see that poster with it's alien craft and bold, printed words declaring I WANT TO BELIEVE, and they'd beg to do surveillance work before having to be partnered with the madman who owned it.  That wasn't what Krycek felt… what he felt was familiar.  

Fox Mulder had been pouring over his slides, categorizing them with utmost importance, but when he felt his space invaded, he turned sharply to examine the intruder.  That's what struck Krycek first; the peering way he was looked on.  He was a stranger in a strange land and Fox Mulder wasn't happy.  In a split moment, a second that couldn't be counted, Mulder penetrated Krycek with a glance that was nothing if not accusatory.  

Get out, it said, get out of my domain.  This place is mine.

"Agent Mulder?" Krycek smiled at him.  The smile was not returned, "I'm Agent Krycek.  I've been assigned to work with you."

Krycek reached out his hand and Mulder, never rising from his place, took it.  The shake was surprisingly weak.  Mulder wasn't putting much effort into the motion and he regarded Agent Krycek with critical eye and Krycek did the same.  The face Krycek saw was similar to what he'd seen in the file photo but it held a boyishness, a roundness of his strong jaw that was accented by the same roundness of his wire-frame glasses.  His hair was longer, it seemed thicker and it fell on his forehead in a flop.

"Oh," Mulder smirked, "isn't it nice to be suddenly so highly regarded?" Mulder released his hands and with an air of disinterest, turned back to his slides, "So, who'd you tick off to get this detail, /Krycek/?"

The way he said his name, it was a jeer.   Krycek was determined not to take the bait.  He took a deep breath and on the exhale, allowed himself to smile slightly, "Actually, I'm looking forward to working with you.  I've heard a lot about you."

"Oh, really?" Mulder was back at his slides again, shuffling the little microfilm squares, examining them through the glow of the projector light, "I was under the impression that you were sent to spy on me."

He turned on Krycek, smirking with the arrogance he was told to expect from Fox Mulder.  Krycek returned the gaze, meeting Mulder on his challenge.  Did he think Krycek would spill the beans so easily?

"If you have any doubt of my qualifications or credentials—"

Mulder moved in a flash, standing from his wheeling chair.  He snagged his phone from his desk, his makeshift paperweight, and removed a small stack of papers from beneath it.  He was showing off; he wanted Krycek to know he'd done his homework.  Krycek couldn't help but let his own smirk escape his cool mask—he'd done his homework too.

"You're a math man, aren't you, Krycek?  You got your degree in statistics and actuarial science,"  Mulder took off his glasses and tossed them to his desk.  He gave his eyebrows an impressed wag before reading from the paper, "You wrote your Ph.D. thesis; 'Evaluating the Impact of Heteroscedasticity on the Predictive Ability of Modern Regression Techniques.  Alexander Krycek, Senior Thesis.'  That's a big set of words, Krycek.  Or would you prefer 'Dr. Krycek'?"

Krycek was still smiling, enjoying the show.  It wasn't just that but he was set on letting Mulder know his little act was nothing but amusing, "I prefer 'Agent'.  Big set of words, indeed.  Tell me, Agent /Mulder/, did you have trouble reading it?  I could break it down for you, if it was a struggle."

Mulder didn't react immediately but he seemed pleased with Krycek's response.  Mulder was having fun himself it seemed, "I did read it.  I did.  I liked it.  It's just that, in most of my work, you'll find the answer /often/ lies outside the proven, statistical data.  Hit the lights."

As Krycek turned to flick the switch, Mulder picked up a slide canister and casually slipped it into the projector.  With an odd gleefulness, Mulder stood back and pressed the controller.  The first slide clicked into place.  The image of a young woman, dead, face up appeared before the pair.  Krycek's interest was immediately taken and he took a step closer, wanting to get a clearer look at the picture.

"Karen Swenson. Oregon female, age twenty-one, no explainable cause of death," Mulder began, introducing the victim.

"Autopsy?"

"Nothing.  Zip," Mulder replied and clicked the controller again.  It showed the girl's back with two red bumps on her skin, "There are, however, these two distinct marks on her lower back.  Now, /Agent/ Krycek, wanna' crunch the numbers on what those are?"

Krycek glanced at Mulder, ignoring the snub at his chosen field.  He looked back at the projection and after a moment shrugged his shoulders, reaching for answers, "Uhh, needle punctures, maybe?  An animal bite?  Electrocution of some kind?"

As he spoke, Krycek took a few more steps closer to the viewscreen, eyeing the marks.  As he did, Mulder clicked over the image to a molecular diagram.

"Did you do well in chemistry, Krycek?  This is a substance found in the surrounding tissue," when Krycek didn't have an answer, Mulder went on, "It's organic, we know that much but besides that… well, I've never seen it before, have you?"

Click.  Another slide of a boy, his shirt pulled up to show the same strange marks.

"But here it is again in Strugis, South Dakota," click, another slide of new bumps, "And again in Shamrock, Texas."

Krycek let out a stream of breath through his lips, turning from the viewscreen to give Mulder a raised eyebrow, "Do you have a theory?"

"Oh, I have plenty of theories.  Then again, I'm surrounded by nothing but… possibilities and variables," one side of his mouth pulled up into a smile, "Cases labeled 'unexplained phenomenon' and then ignored by the bureau.  Tell me, Krycek…"

Mulder's voice grew low and playfully eerie, "Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?"

Did he really think he was going to shock Krycek?  The fellow agent simply smiled.  All in all, he was quite enjoying meeting Agent Mulder, all his bravado aside.  It was clear to Krycek that this was a man who'd gotten used to being the outsider, the pariah, and he wore that symbol with a badge of honor.  He flaunted it to all people he came across, and those he felt were ignoring it, he was willing to try to rub it in.

"Extraterrestrials?" Krycek asked.  Mulder nodded again, his grin becoming somewhat victorious, as if he'd finally gotten Krycek's goat.  Krycek just shrugged, "I'd have to say 'yes'.  It seems highly improbable we remain the only planet in the universe capable of producing intelligent life.  Rather arrogant of us to believe, isn't it?"

Mulder's smile dropped, just a bit.  It was hardly noticeable but Krycek was watching every motion in the man's face like a hawk.  He'd always been good at reading people and Mulder wasn't as good at hiding his real feelings as much as he thought he was.  Krycek would think Mulder'd be happy to have someone on his side, obviously he preferred being the one and only "spooky" agent in the building.

"Now, evidence?" Krycek went on, "Now that's a whole different story."

"I can't say I'm in the business of evidence."

Krycek couldn't help but let out a surprised, gruff laugh, "I think the bureau would highly disagree with that statement.  I'm pretty sure that's /exactly/ the business we're in."

"Not down in the basement," Mulder grinned again, after a moment he continued, "You did your entire thesis on finding the constantly implausible answer, didn't you, Krycek?  When conventional wisdom and science offer us no answers, might we not finally turn to the fantastic as a plausibility?"

"Do you get away with putting that on reports?"

Mulder laughed, going on, "Karen Swenson, the Oregon female, obviously died of something.  In fact, she's the fourth person in her graduating class to die under such odd circumstances.  We just have to figure out what it is.  That's why they put the 'I' in 'F.B.I.', Krycek."

"If this girl died of natural causes, it's entirely /plausible/ that it was missed in post-mortem," Krycek quizzed him, challenging Mulder with a look, "If she was murdered, it's also plausible there was just a sloppy investigation.  Human error, Mulder… had you considered that?"

"Oh, everyday."

Krycek felt himself both frustrated and charmed by the other man and he didn't respond, only giving a futile throw of his hands.  Mulder seemed content with that and, with somewhat of a flourish in his step, he returned to his desk and his slides.

"See you tomorrow morning, Krycek, bright and early.  We leave for the very /plausible/ state of Oregon at eight A.M."

MARCH 7, 1992 BELLEFLEUR, OREGON

"I'll drive."

"Oops," Mulder deadpanned, opening the door to their rental Taurus and getting in the driver's seat, "Too late.  Looks like you're shotgun, Krycek."

This was the third time that day that Krycek debated how much trouble he'd get in, exactly, if he punched a fellow agent.  The first time he'd had that thought was when Mulder had greeted him at the airport.  Krycek was not a morning person, he never had been but Mulder seemed more than ready to get started.  He must have noticed the quiet way Krycek moved and the lingering grumpiness of sleep on his face because Mulder made a point to be overly enthusiastic in his delivery.

"Didn't get your morning coffee, huh, Krycek?" he'd teased him, grinning like a fool.

Krycek had just given him a sharp sidelong look and followed Mulder into the terminal.  He had his coffee that morning, two in fact, but he'd managed another one on the plane.  Drowsiness was just starting to leave him as he scanned the case file in his lap, Mulder laying prone across the seats next to him, headphones in his ears.  Krycek glanced over at Mulder dosing and thought, for a moment, that he looked rather good when his mouth was closed.  Then they'd hit turbulence.

If the coffee wasn't enough to wake Krycek, the violent bouncing of the plane certainly was.  Immediate, fiery death had a way of doing that to a person.  Mulder had hardly responded.  When it was over, and Krycek could hear the sighs of relief from the other passengers, Mulder had turned over in his seat to look at his new partner.

"This must be the place," he said before sitting up and preparing to himself for the landing.

That was the second time Krycek wanted to hit him.  Right in his big nose.

"Krycek?  Krycek, you in there?" Mulder's voice pulled him from his thoughts.  Krycek looked up then and saw the sign to welcoming them to Bellefleur, Oregon.  In his lap, he still had the file folder open and had been pouring over the multiple cases since the plane.

"Yeah," he said, shaking his head to clear the thoughts.  As he spoke, his finger touched the information in the file, "Yeah, I was just thinking: you didn't mention yesterday that this case has already been investigated."

"Mmm," Mulder made a sound in the affirmative, as he crunched a sunflower seed from the bag in his cupholder, "Yeah, the FBI got involved after the first three deaths when the local authorities failed to turn up any evidence.  Our boys came out here, spent a week, enjoyed the local salmon—which, 'with a little lemon twist'—is just to die for apparently, if you'll pardon the expression.  Without explanation, they were called back in.  The case was reclassified and buried in the X-Files, until I dug it up last week."

"Uh huh.  And you found something they didn't, I'm assuming?"  Krycek couldn't help but let his mouth turn up.  Mulder was just itching to flex his brilliance and Krycek couldn't help but try to take some of the wind out of his sails, "Let me guess… we've got different medical examiners.  The first three victims had autopsy reports signed by a different medical examiner than the latest one—and those reports mention nothing of the marks or odd tissue samples."

"That's pretty good, Krycek."

"Better than you hoped?"

Mulder didn't respond but just glanced cooly over at Krycek, a smug look on his face.  He turned his face back towards the road.  Krycek couldn't help but laugh.

"So, is the medical examiner a suspect?"

"We won't know that until we do a little grave digging," Mulder replied, turning off onto a side road that veered off into a wooded area, "I've arranged to exhume one of the other victims' bodies to see if we can get a tissue sample to match the girl's.  You're not squeamish about that kind of thing, are ya'?"

"I can't say I've ever had the pleasure.  In the academy—"

Krycek's words were cut off as suddenly the electronics began to go haywire.  Both men watched as the radio began to flip rapidly through stations, emitting both high and low frequencies and static.  Mulder reached over in an attempt to turn off the sound but as he did the clock began to jump indiscriminately, the digital numbers switching to and from gibberish.  Then the high-pitched screeching began and both men instinctively winced at the sound.

"What's going on!?" Krycek asked, noticing the way Mulder eyed the sky with wonder, as if the answer was just hovering above the car.  He pulled over and Mulder removed the key from the ignition.  The sound stopped.

"Mulder, what the hell was that?" Krycek asked again but he was ignored.  Mulder unbuckled his belt and, leaning over, pulled the lever to pop the trunk of the car.  He left the car and Krycek followed, curious as to what the other agent had planned.  He watched as Mulder shifted around the items in the trunk and, from a side pocket, removed a can of spray paint.

Krycek wanted to ask again but opted just to be quiet.  Obviously, whatever Mulder had planned, he wasn't interested in sharing.  Krycek saw him walk a few paces away, back to where the trouble with the car had first started and, bending over, Mulder sprayed a big, pink X along the asphalt.  Then, without another word, he walked back over to the car and returned the spray can to the trunk.

As Mulder reached his door, Krycek gestured confusion, "Mulder, what the hell was that about?"

"Oh, you know," Mulder hummed, opening his door, "probably nothing."

He got back in the car, leaving Krycek standing outside, alone and irritated.  Squaring off his shoulders, he got back into his passenger's seat and fastened his seatbelt.  As he did, he spoke to no one in particular,

"Well, I can tell you this much… I'm getting some goddamned salmon before we leave here."

[solivar]

Dog Daies: Some of My Own

Find below some of my own Dog Daies prompt responses, most of them revolving around my original characters.

July 6th: Terror At Makeout Point “Something smells…fishy.” Merrick’s nose wrinkled, rather involuntarily Natanael thought, though his eyes remained a soothing storm-cloud blue. “That is not fish.” Natanael replied, with a wry smile. “You have not spent much time near the ocean, have you?” “No.” A delicate shudder. “Not since I went to the Old Country to visit my kinsfolk there. I was wretchedly sick the entire way, there and back, and vowed upon my life that I would never get on a boat again, no matter how grandly anyone chose to describe it.” “Ah. Well.” Natanael lifted his birding glasses and scanned the darkening eastern vista; from their place on a slightly elevated spit of rock and sawgrass, the entire point was visible with the aid of magnification. Windswept dunes blent into the flatter length of the beach, still slightly damp from high tide; well above the tideline, late bathers – most of them young, all of them ignoring the local authorities’ injunction against haunting the seaside so close to full dark – gathered around driftwood fires, the wind carrying the sound of their talk and laughter and, very faintly, the scent of the clams they were steaming for dinner. “My people come from an island nation. The sea is in our blood.” “If you insist.” Merrick handed him a mug of tea poured from their thermos in exchange for the glasses. “Frankly, I would rather – “ Screams started, and a screech just at the edge of human hearing. Merrick’s eyes flickered green in the gloaming and he shucked off his coat and drew his knives in two economical motions. Natanael did not, at that point, learn precisely what he would rather.

July 7th: The Fourth Wall Will Not Protect You

 The main building lift, formerly a freight elevator for the upper floors, was once again out of order. Nate didn’t find that a bad thing, necessarily; the elevator was one of those things that reminded him of the assorted weird-ass turns his life had taken in the last year and change, as well as being a prop straight up lifted out of a horror movie. A horror movie about a haunted elevator that took out its rage on innocent bystanders in a profusion of unpleasant ways, potentially involving beheading. He was, generally,  altogether happy to take the stairs, even when it was dark and the hall lights were fritzing and he was carrying an armful of grocery bags, because the bags could at least be theoretically used as a weapon.

 He did, however, find it to be a spectacularly bad thing to open his apartment door and find it already occupied. Occupied, point in fact, by the person he always and forever least liked to have in it, sitting casually on his futon and apparently having a deep and heartfelt conversation with his cat.

 Morpheus looked up at his entrance and greeted him with an insouciant meow, sapphire blue eyes at half-mast, clearly perturbed neither by the nature of the company nor the body bag taking up most of the living room coffee table. Special Agent Felix Delgado, Department of Homeland Security Special Operations Division, greeted him with a smile just slightly too wide for comfort and eyes just slightly too brilliant to be entirely natural. “Hi. Dinner’s in the oven, iced coffee’s in the fridge. Can I pick your brain about something? Not literally of course,” The smile hitched a disturbing fraction wider. “Oh, and for the record? The lift’s not haunted. Or, rather, it’s not haunted any more. You’re welcome.”

 July 8: Never Sleep Again

 “Here.”

 The cup seemed to manifest at his elbow between one instant and the next, much like the man carrying it. Merrick blinked eyes gritty with weariness at the vision before him, tall and lean and still in his physician’s greens, red hair pulled messily back in a long queue. He wore a few days worth of rusty stubble on his jaw and a fiercely worried look in his eyes. Laboriously, Merrick transferred his attention to the earthenware cup, one of Natanael’s unbreakable monstrosities, exuding a plume of gently fragrant steam.

 “What is it?” It took him entirely too long to remember how to pronounce three single-syllable words.

 “A mild sedative.” Spoken with more than a trace element of asperity. “It will help you sleep.”

 “I cannot sleep.” Merrick replied, through clenched teeth. “Not while -- “

 “No -- you cannot maintain your current state of awareness, not without a more immediate degree of threat.” Kieran pushed the cup more solidly before him. “You’re accomplishing nothing but exhausting yourself to no purpose, and you must know that. Natanael is as safe as it’s possible to make him right now.”

 Merrick hissed in irritation. “It isn’t as though I can just turn it off, you know! I -- “

 “Hence the bloody sedative. Drink.”

 It was a tea of some sort -- an herbal tisane, fragrant and vaguely familiar from childhood fevers and aches, sweetened with honey to gentle the bitterness. “There. Happy?”

 Kieran collected the mug and smiled benignly down at him. “Exceedingly.”

 Ten minutes later, the sitting room door opened and Natanael poked his head in; Kieran looked up from the process of dragging Merrick’s senseless body to the sopha closest to the fireplace. “Give me a hand, would you? He’s heavier than he looks.”

 “Certainly.” Between them, they got him levered up, with a pair of pillows under his head and neck and a heavy woolen blanket for his comfort. “What did you put in that tea, anyway? I thought it would take longer to work.”

 “Chamomile and hops, tincture of valerian, and concentrated syrup of skullcap.” Dryly. “He may be a touch hungover in the morning, but at least he’ll rest tonight.”

 July 9: Spiders Are Scary

 “Nate? Honey?”

 Nate looked up from the stack of paperwork he was perusing. Terry stood in the door of his office, still in his workaday clothes, tie mostly undone, gaze fixed pointedly on something a few inches above his head. He was reaching, Nate could not help but notice, with extremely slow care for one of the heavy histology monographs occupying the bookcase just inside the door.

 “Do me a favor and hold very still.” Terry hefted Bancroft’s Theory and Practice of Histology Techniques 7th Edition in a shot-putter’s grip, gaze still fixed.

 Nate held, and tried not cringe as Terry flung the book with substantial force and accuracy; it slammed into something and both the book and the something hit the floor behind him with an audible impact. Only the something, however, skittered away also with a clearly audible noise of too many legs scrabbling for purchase and a screech not entirely unlike something from a Z-grade 80s horror flick.

 “...Please tell me that wasn’t a spider.” Nate stuffed his papers in a manila folder and retreated to the door with what he hoped was a properly grown up degree of non-concern.

 “Probably not.” Terry replied, pulling the door shut behind them and casually sliding an errant portable x-ray rig in front of it. “Just the same, we should probably tell sanitation to stock up on the industrial strength bug killers for a while.”

 July 10: Attack of the Killer Whatever

 “Hurry!” Natanael shouted, and fired.

 The shot’s report, in the relatively close confines of the hallway, was loud enough to make his ears ring but not enough to overwhelm the sound of a dozen spell-bearing flechettes ejecting from their casing and whirring over his shoulder like a swarm of violently annoyed high velocity hornets. It had the desired effect, however -- behind him, he heard at least eight solid impacts, black jade needles piercing through their target with a tearing shriek. Natanael stepped aside to let him into the room, Mercy of Heaven never wavering, until he himself stepped back and slammed the door, even then only laying the shellcaster aside on the nearest shelf instead of returning it to its holster.

 A spell-needle pinned a warding strip so freshly scribed the ink still gleamed in the flickering light of the lamps to the inner surface of the door. Similar confections hung on each interior wall, across the doors and windows, even the floor and ceiling. In the middle of a hastily constructed protective circle, the Takasugi family huddled together, battered and stunned.

 “Everyone accounted for?” Merrick asked in an undertone, trying without success to take a headcount; his eye was far too swollen and blurry.

 “Yes.” Quietly, as something slithered by in the hallway, wafting with it a horrific stench.

 “Well. Good.” Merrick lowered his voice another degree. “Would you care to explain to me, using the smallest words possible, why precisely anyone knowledgeable about the...peculiarities...of your homeland would save a bloody pair of underwear for a full damned century?”

 July 11: Gory Deadly Overkill Title of Fatal Death

 Special Agent Gerhard Stahl knew -- knew to the depths of what was left of his soul -- that something had gone horribly wrong when he found not one but four interns hiding in the Clean Room, wearing virtually identical expressions of resonant mental trauma. Using his gentlest tones, a plate of chocolate-covered cinnamon buns, and the assistance of four burly nurses from the infirmary armed with quick-acting sedatives, he managed to coax them out in relatively good order, saw them strapped onto mobile hospital beds, and sent up for psychological evaluation.

 Then he went and noted on each of their permanent files his recommendation that they be accorded an enhanced hazardous duty allowance.

 He found the source of their distress stretched out with his feet up in the staff lounge, a tiny pot of intensely black coffee at his elbow and a plate of the aforementioned buns next to it, in firm possession of the flatscreen’s remote control, idly surfing video files with an expression of intense boredom on his unreasonably handsome mask of a face.

 Stahl glanced at what he was watching and transferred a look that lay halfway between long-suffering despair and perfect irritation to his defiantly erstwhile partner. “Delgado, I thought we had an understanding about not watching the video record of that thing in Detroit while the children are in the office…?”

 July 12: Not A Mask

 “Nate!” Rin tried her best to dig in her heels and force a stop, but her brother wasn’t having any of it and, unfortunately, his association with his underwear model boyfriend had him in better physical condition than her mostly sedentary academic life hunched over computers eighteen hours a day allowed. Her breath was coming in short, shallow gasps, both of her sides were stitching like somebody’s needle-crazed grandmother, and her knees were both objecting loudly to a longer time spent running than she’d been forced to endure since -- well, honestly, probably since middle school. “Stop. Seriously. Need to breathe. Come on.”

 He came to a halt so abruptly it was all she could do not to run into him. As it was, she caught herself against his shoulder and leaned shakily against him, trying not to whimper too loudly as her intercostal muscles savagely expressed their disapproval of her current lifestyle choices. “Nate. Seriously. The hell? It was. Just a stupid. Really, really stupid. Mask. Honestly.”

 And then he was grabbing her and pulling her into the mouth of an alleyway -- admittedly, a not particularly awful alleyway, full of regularly emptied trash cans and not entirely stanky compost bins, one of which he unceremoniously shoved her down beside, urging her as far back as possible. She complied, if only because it allowed her to put her back against a fence and give her throbbing knees some relief. He hunkered down half in front and half on top of her, shielding her more fully from view she thought a little giddily, like he was the heroic protagonist of the hopelessly wanky and derivative first person zombie shooter some of her classmates were working on in their spare time, watching the well-lit sidewalk a dozen feet away.

 “Because,” He said quietly, as slow, steady footsteps became audible over the pounding of her own heart, “that wasn’t a mask.”

  July 13: The Stars Are Going Out

 The morning after midwinter’s night, Natanael woke at what Merrick considered a perfectly vile and inhumane hour and immediately commenced cleaning. Admittedly, he went about it in a kindly fashion, refraining from making any loud or even loudish noises until the sun was well above the horizon and, if Merrick were going to be perfectly honest about it, until it was closer to luncheon than to breakfast, neither of which his stomach expressed any interest in consuming, possibly in deference to the rich food and abundant tipple from Kieran’s holiday part still working its way through his system. In fact, it was only with the greatest of reluctance that he peeled himself out of bed and the previous evening’s clothing, wrapped himself in a heavy flannel dressing gown, and made his way downstairs at all and only because he heard the bathhouse pump engaging and was abruptly afflicted with the desire to be clean stronger than the desire to be blissfully prone.

 “What in the name of all the gods are you doing?” He asked, a touch more waspishly than he wanted, and offered a wan smile of apology to the look Natanael shot him from around a mass of evergreen branches, cut lengths of bamboo, and assorted oddments of hempen rope, sprigs of colorful dried berries and flowers, silken ribbon, and little horses cut from gilt paper.

 “Kadomatsu,” Natanael replied, enigmatically, and rose to fix him a bowl of tea and a plate of bland boiled chicken with rice.

 Natanael continued in that recondite fashion for the best part of seven days, making a merry bonfire in the garden firepit out of the old midwinter decorations and the entire house smell gently of beeswax and citrus oils and the evergreen of the new decorations, three staves of bamboo cut at a sharp angle and tied together at the base with rope, sprigs of pine, red berries, and white flowers tucked in among them, along with the little gilt paper horses strung on red silk ribbons. He declined Merrick’s offer of assistance, neither brusquely nor angrily, but rather absent-mindedly, and instead asked him to run errands, picking up the shopping and suchlike, most of which tended to keep him out of the house. Once the cleaning and decorating was accomplished, he repaired to the kitchen where, between preparing foods that he promptly sealed in a set of lacquered wooden boxes Merrick had never seen before then stashed away in the cold storage room, he sat at the table writing note-cards in his outstanding calligraphy, painting little sketches on the opposite side, and then tying the whole to a vividly red envelope stuffed with silver.

 “Is something going on that I should know about?” Merrick finally asked, late one afternoon, as Natanael came in from refreshing the supply of incense sticks and charcoal at the shrine atop the garden hill, not to mention hauling up several armsful of cushions, woollen blankets and thick furs.

 Natanael blinked at him, his expression one of such unguarded surprise that it made Merrick’s heart contract painfully and, for an instant, flutter about inside his chest like a flustered matron’s hands confronted with something wholly untoward at tea time. “It is a custom of my people -- the turning of the new year is a holiday, with certain rituals appended.” A pause, and Natanael briefly looked rather more flustered at his encouraging gesture. “I -- thought you would be visiting with your family in the city. Though I did make you some osechi-ryori -- the boxes in the cold room -- “

 Merrick shivered melodramatically and, not for the first time, thought that sixteen was far too young an age to be told that human intimacy was a thing you could never have and reaching for it a thing you should never do. “Damon is even worse than usual after he’s been drinking and the lifewater will flow freely at Lyonsgate House on the new year, I assure you. I’d much rather be here, where it’s safe.” He offered his most winning smile, and rested his chin on his hand. “Do tell me all about these rituals.”

 Dinner that evening was served late, though the broth simmered slowly all day, dashi and mirin and seven-pepper spice, shrimp fresh from the monger that morning and soba noodles added at the end to make a hearty soup rich with unfamiliar but delicious flavors. As it drew toward midnight, they repaired together to the shrine which, thanks to Natanael paying assiduous attention to the braziers throughout the day and the quality of the tightly louvered shutters, was still tolerably warm despite the clear, bitter cold of the night in general, particularly once they were ensconced in the nest of furs and cushions and blankets he had made. Natanael, in his mercy, opened only one set of the shutters, the ones facing east, and so helped to preserve that comfort.

 “Do we stay awake all night?” Merrick asked, well-filled with hot soup and rice cakes and good company, his eyes struggling to stay at half-mast.

 From far below in the river valley proper the first of the bells ringing in the New Year started as the district hall clock struck midnight, joining with the clangor in the streets and the sound of bells from further up and down the river on all sides, and the fireworks blossoming in the sky. Natanael added a stick of incense to the sand-filled pot next to the brazier and Merrick did likewise, resting his chin on his companion’s thigh to watch the display. After a moment’s hesitation, his companion’s gloved hand came to rest in his hair. “We do not have to, no. Though it is good luck to greet the first sunrise of the new year.”

 “Mmmm. Then we…” Merrick was asleep before the thought finished itself, comfortable and curled close to Natanael’s warmth, and that night his dreams were perfumed with incense riding cold air.

 “Merrick.” Natanael’s voice was close to his ear. “Wake up.”

 He did, instantly and without any muzzy-headedness. Though it was still mostly dark, the eastern sky was beginning to visibly pale with oncoming dawn.

 “The stars are going out,” Natanael murmured, almost dreamily, his hair and hands fragrant with incense smoke.

 Together, they watched as the sky grew slowly more silver as the light rose and the stars winked out one by one. As the sun rose over the dark rim of the horizon, Natanael added more charcoal to the braziers and a last stick of incense to the pot, murmuring something in the language of his mothers as he did so.

 “What now?” Merrick asked, as his companion lowered the shutters and slid them closed.

 He was answered an instant later as Natanael slipped beneath the blankets and the furs, curling next to him, asleep without even an attempt to answer that question. It was, Merrick thought, settling back down himself, not a particularly unpleasant way to start the new year.

 July 14: Beast With A Human Face

 Jagdherrin Ionela von Kallisch had cause, on more than one occasion over the years, to wish that the order of birth in her daughter’s sons had been reversed. Damon was an utterly competent, capable, and dedicated man, a natural leader of other men, as fierce in their defense as he was on the Hunt -- a competence and a ferocity that stood him in good stead when rare circumstances forced them to justify the continuance of their commission from the Republic, as the Lege occasionally required. No one could summon fiery rhetoric on the floor of the legislature chambers quite like Damon, who had the injuries he had suffered before his twenty-fifth winter to display as object examples of the harm they kept from the innocent and the powerless.

 He did, however, lack two significant qualities of character that, in her estimation, kept him from being as fully-rounded a gentleman as he was a huntsman. The first of those was tact and the second was compassion. Lack of the first had, more than once, caused him to put his foot down firmly wrong with individuals whose goodwill would have helped his cause, so intent upon the Hunt that he considered any display of delicatesse or even basic courtesy to be an intolerable delay in the proceedings, to be disposed with entirely or tended to with such churlish brevity that it was almost more insulting than the lack.

 The second was causing him, at that very moment, to glare down from their high vantage in the upper mezzanine of the Monarch’s Residence at the quadrille being performed on the ballroom floor below, as though he found the mere existence of dance or dance floors mortally offensive. Fortunately, no one else was close enough to them to accurately determine the precise direction of his gaze -- the fearsome reputation the hexenjagd enjoyed conferred a few advantages, a bubble of personal space about them being but one -- or the provenance of his generally sour expression. Unfortunately, she knew any counsel she offered to him on the issue would fall on ears largely deafened by the unshakable conviction that the object of his distaste was a serpent clasped to a much-beloved bosom, a grotesque and inhuman abomination merely awaiting the proper time to tear away its mask of deceptive humanity to reveal the lusus naturae within.

 It didn’t help matters that Merrick and Kieran were obviously enjoying themselves greatly.

 July 15: Harbinger of Impending Doom

 The first time, it was triggered by touch -- not by Merrick’s touch, but the touch of a thing whose kin were pursuing him with murderous intent, and the sight of it was just that, a vision of horror and agony and death, but a thing still outside of himself, something he saw not something he felt.

 The second time was a flicker of light in the corner of his eye, a vertiginous moment of sensory disorientation, the sound of wood cracking -- no, not wood, bone, a mist of blood striking his face, coating his lips and the lenses of his spectacles, and he moved, just in time. Just in time to knock Merrick sprawling behind solid cover, the caster shell that would have otherwise reduced most of his head to a fine red mist striking the brickwork a few inches from Natanael’s face instead.

 The third time was a single unguarded instant of shared breath, Merrick pressing him back against a rough-hewn rock wall, faces a few inches apart and it lanced through him so savagely it was all he could do not to scream. But, then, he couldn’t scream, could he? It was all so quick -- an instant of horrific pain, bones breaking, flesh tearing, fingers like knives wrapped around his heart, two sharp tugs. No time to drown in blood or even breathe out one last breath and Natanael knew, knew in his bones, that if Merrick went where he himself needed to go, then Merrick would not return alive from that dark place.

 And so he went alone.

 July 16: Not Using the Z Word

 “Doc! Over here!”

 Nate slung his field bag over his shoulder and turned to face the source of that particularly strained and breathless shout. It was Sergeant Alessi, a beat cop he’d had more than a little contact with over the last few months, one of the solid, no-bullshit kind he respected most when it came to their knowledge of the local neighborhoods, their character and peculiarities, both usual and other-than.

 “Hey, Sarge. What’s -- “ He took one look at her and motioned her closer. “Okay. Give it to me in small words.”

 “Call came in about an hour and a half ago. Noise complaint.” Sergeant Alessi licked her lips, which were significantly paler than usual, as was her face, her scattering of freckles standing out even more vividly than usual. “My partner and I pulled the call. No one answered at the front door so we went around back -- the back door was ajar. Found the first victim in the kitchen, adult male, and another two -- adult female, juvenile male, upstairs in one of the bedrooms.” She shot a quick glance over her shoulder where her partner sat in the back of the first ambulance to arrive, being tended to by the paramedics. “On the way back down the stairs, something grabbed Tommy by the ankle, pulled him down. It refused to respond to commands -- repeatedly. I shot it, twice, in the chest, once in the head and -- “

 From the other side of the police cordon, a low ululating moan rose above the sound of emergency services vehicles and police radio chatter. Sergeant Alessi paled and hurried back towards her car.

 Nate pulled out his cellphone, scrolled through his contacts, and hit the auto-dial. “Delgado? Listen, I know you’re there and since I’m trying not to use the z-word, you might want to get your ass down here. Now.”

[michelleloc17]

Saitama x female!Reader part 3

It was a sheer luck that (Name) escaped that encounter only scathed with a sore jaw and a fractured shoulder. The doctors explained that if the cement block had hit anywhere else, the female could've died from the injuries she could've had. Once she was cleaned up and shot up with drugs to dull the pain, (Name) fell into a deep sleep. Saitama watched her quietly as she slept, taking note to the bandage wrappings on her shoulder and the patching on her cheek. Like before when he faced the level Tiger beast, guilt filled his chest, and he clutched his fists angrily. "Damn..." he hissed, trying to control the slight shaking in his shoulders. Genos was still silent since they were in the city, and gazed to his master in curiosity. "Master, is something troubling you?" "Yeah...there's a couple of things troubling me, Genos. One, I let (Name) get hurt. Two, it happened because I wasn't serious about the monster that was destroying city D, and when it got angry, it basically took its angry out on (Name)." "Master, you know that's not really your fault. That monster was acting reckless and it was an accident." Genos tried assuring the bald male, but felt discouraged as Saitama merely shook his head. "You're right, it's not really my fault, but I still blame myself." He whispered with a defeated voice, gazing up to the female with a frown. Even with Saitama blaming himself for what happen to (Name), Genos couldn't control the smile on his lips just thinking about the consideration and care the hero had for the female. During the months she's been around, the masters emotions showed more, he seemed happier around her, but at the same time, slightly flustered around her. When (Name) wasn't around, Saitama could go on and on just talking about her. Talking about her smile, her laugh, and her personality. There was one occasion when the bald man was so engrossed in talking about her, he had fallen asleep mid sentence. Even if the master denied it, Genos knew for a fact the master had feelings for (Name), and this behavior helped proof that fact. "Alright master, but I need to head back to the Hero's Association to give a report about the monster you defeated. Are you staying here with Lady (Name)?" The blonde Cyborg asked, throwing a jacket over his metal arms and placing a hand on the door. Saitama shook his head, still gazing at (Name). "No, I'll stay here if you don't mind. Thank you Genos." He spoke softly, and Genos was off to the Association. Genos ran as fast as his robotic legs glcouod carry him to the Association, obviously the battle was recorded, but as Heroes, such as Saitama and himself, they were still required to give reports about the monsters they faced. Sometimes, heroes if they were at the scene of the battle could give reports for the heroes who defeated the monsters encountered. This is designed so if a hero is injured to the point where they can physically give a report, another hero can do it for them. Even then, there are drones throughout all the cities watching the battles from the heart of the Association, so there really isn't a time where a battle isn't known of. The Cyborg slowed his pace, going to a slow walk as he entered the Hero's Association, heading straight to one of the many areas where heroes can report to their higher-ups and officials. Opening the large black door, Genos was met with a group of men and women dressed in business clothing and stern faces all seated in a row of a large rectangular table. It was an odd number of people, that being seven, with three on each side which the presumable top official sandwiched in between them. The man on the middle let out a soft cough, placing his slightly chubby chin on his thick fingers with his elbows propped on the table. "The S ranked hero known by the Association as Genos, to the public the Demon Cyborg. What is your reason for report?" He spoke, fixing the round glasses on his button nose to a more comfortable position, as the Cyborg spoke. "Yes, I'm here to report the battle between B ranked hero Saitama, known to the public as...Caped Baldy, against the Tiger ranked monster." The blonde noticed the sudden elevation of heartbeat the chubby man in the middle had, but continued to stay silent and be respectful. Clearing his throat, the man scribbled down some words Genos couldn't see, and nodded. "R-Right, is there anything we should be informed about?" The man replied, gazing up to see the black and gold eyes of the Cyborg. "A civilian who lives here in the Association was injured. Her name is Lady-- I mean, (First Name) (Last Name), and because of this B ranked Saitama threw the level Tiger monster with one of the most powerful hits I've ever seen Saitama perform." He explained, feeling a bit embarrassed about almost saying "Lady (Name)" to the Association, but still looked firm. It was true, the power conceived in that punch was of which the Association had never recorded Saitama of having. His punches were powerful, yes, but this punch exceeded the rates of the previous. It was like a whole other being was producing the damage Saitama inflicted on that beast in City D. Even in the tapes recorded by the drone, once the bald mans fist collided with the monsters jaw, which was barely picked up in the recordings due to how fast it was, the sheer force caused its body to disintegrate into thin air, leaving only small fragments of what was the level Tiger monster. Not even that, the shockwave from the punch shook the city and neighboring cities around them like an earthquake. "Yes, she's being taken care of at a hospital as we speak, correct?" The official reread through his slightly messy notes, as he spoke. Genos nodded. "Yes, she has already been taken care of and is resting. Master Saitama is there with her right now." "Of course...alright. Thank you for the report, Genos." He spoke, and the blonde nodded, turning a heel to leave. "Wait." The chubby man stopped the Cyborg, and Genos glanced toward them with his back still facing them. "About the civilian. Do you know why we kept her here at the Association?" The man asked, as Genos turned fully around. "...I'm not entirely sure. Was it negative intentions?" The Cyborg asked, feeling slightly protective over the (h/c) haired female. What ever the Association had in mind for (Name), if it was anything bad he would not hesitate to step in. "Not necessarily. It's about Saitama and his power ranking." The official explained with fear laced in his voice. He had noticed the change in demeanor Genos had when he spoke about (Name), which had the aura which carried, "If you hurt her, I'm killing you." "What about his power ranking?" Genos questioned, slightly suspicious at the Associations behavior. The official in the middle went silent, gazing from side to side to meet the gazes of the other officials, who's faces also held some fear in them. "W-Well...when the hero Saitama met the female again some months back, our scanners noticed that his power ranking slightly lowered from its amazingly high ranking. Obviously, Saitama's strength seems endless, but we've taken notice to how that power has been slightly altered since her arrival. So to study this more we kept her here to interact with Saitama." The main official explained, more scared as Genos glared at them. "Are you telling me you're tested my friends like they are lab rats?" The Cyborg seethed with anger, clenching his mental fists tightly. "Please listen! After today, we're having second thoughts on how Miss (Name's) presence affects his power. After she got injured like you reported, his power exceeded anything you've ever seen him capable of doing, and destroyed all the records he has made since being in the Association! We aren't treating them badly, we are just observing." The official felt a bit better as the Cyborg calmed slightly, breaking out in a wearily smile. "And you tell me this, because...?" "We would like some insight into their behavior, just so we can evaluate just what Miss (Name) is to Saitama." It had been a couple of hours since Genos had left, and there Saitama sat, still looking at (Name). He was slightly worried though that he might seem like a stalker to her if she woke up to see him just staring at her, but didn't know what else to do. At one point to entertain himself, Saitama placed his gloved index and middle finger on the bed and walked his fingers on the sheets, imagining his fingers were a little person walking around a large white landscape. The little person whom Saitama named "Little Saitama" quietly skipped across the white sheets, climbing a range of mountains and then making its was through a massive jungle of (h/c). "Saitama...stop touching my hips and shoulders please...and get your fingers out of my hair..." the sudden voice startled Saitama and he retracted both himself and "Little Saitama three feet from the bed, his breathing slightly altered. "You're...you're awake. How are you feeling?" Saitama spoke earnestly, hoping the newly woken (Name) would dismiss the fact he was using her sleeping body as a landscape to play adventure to pass the time. (Name) let out a soft yawn, stretching her limbs slightly but groaning as pain washed over her body. "Ouch...I'm feeling alright, but I feel slightly violated waking up to feel you touching me." "Don't make me sound like a pervert! I was bored, gosh!" He retorted back with his cheeks and ears growing pink. The female giggled hoarsely and nodded, gazing to the left to look outside the window of her hospital room. It has gotten dark, and (Name) knew they had encountered the monster in the morning. "How...how long have you been here with me?" The female asked, holding out her hand to the bald man, silently asking him to take it. Saitama complied, coming closer and taking a seat on the side of the bed, the shift in weight making the bed move and making (Name) hurt slightly. She felt mad at herself as she let out a soft whimper, but felt her heart flutter when Saitama's gloved hand placed itself on hers, squeezing it gently. "Since you got admitted into the hospital. I never left." "Did you eat?" "No." "Damn it, Sai. You need to eat." (Name) almost felt like crying hearing this, holding his hand tightly, as her chin shook. She damned herself as hot tears began to fall from her face, startling the bald hero. "(Name)? No, please don't cry! What did I say?" He pleaded with her, surprised as she tugged him closer, reaching her other arm to wrap around his neck. Her silent tears turned into sobs and she pulled him close, ignoring the searing pain in her shoulder and the sting on her cheek as warm tears dampened the patch on her cheek and going into the grazed skin. She hugged him tightly, burying her face in his chest, and crying her (e/c) eyes out, slightly cursing at him for acting so stupid. Saitama was silent, with almost all of his body on top of her as she hugged him, his muscular arms slowly finding their was around her waist. Gently, he moved his body to where he was also laying on the bed but at his side, to a more accessible position. His body was now closer to her shaking form, and with all of his power he controlled himself from kissing her right then and there. Saitama was slightly annoyed not at the fact Genos was right. Saitama did have feeling for her. He loved her, even after all these long years apart. It had taken nearly ten minutes, but after crying and blowing her nose, (Name) was calm once again, her now reddened and puffy face still buried in his chest with her arms wrapped around his neck. "It's all my fault we're here..." The female muffled through Saitama's chest after a while of being quiet, refusing to show her face to him in fear that she now looked like someone smacked her red in the face. Saitama lowered his chin slightly to gaze down at the top of (Name's) head, his fingers entangled in her (h/c) hair with a unreadable expression on his face. "Your fault?" He repeated, slightly shocked at the fact she was blaming herself just as he blamed himself. "I begged to tag along, and I ended up getting hurt, making you worry, making you miss lunch..." she hoped he was worried about her, she wanted him to. (Name) was about to let out an apology, but was distracted by Saitama's lips pressed gently against hers. She had never realized how much she had wanted Saitama to kiss her, until now.

[my-greatseo-love]

dog printed pillows

All in all, there are three main drivers for forceful conduct in pooches. To start with, is injury. That incorporates: misuse, disregard, disturbance and dread.

The second is imprudent reproducing. It is a well established truth, animosity breeds hostility. That is the reason we generally tell individuals who are acquiring another young doggie, to demand meeting the guardians. On the off chance that the reproducer does not need you to meet the guardians, run! try not to stroll back to your vehicle! That is a genuine warning, for the likelihood of being caught with a forceful little dog. dog garden flags

Since 1959, at the Institute of Cytology and Genetics of the Russian Academy of Science, in Novosbirsk, Russia, tests have been finished with foxes. They found inside 50 years and 40 age of specific reproducing of quiet to quiet, the dread and hostility has been reared out of the underlying base of forceful foxes. They have developed into foxes with a tamed pooch's adolescent like practices. Those practices include: accommodation, woofing, crying and the craving for human camaraderie. They additionally noticed an adjustment in the physiology of the creatures, for example, coat hues and surface changes, more extensive heads, floppy ears, and changes in the states of tails. These pooch like human amicable foxes are presently being sold around the world, as tamed pets.

On the other side, during those equivalent 50 years, forceful to forceful reproducing has made foxes that are very forceful and horrible.

The third reason is absence of socialization. It can't be focused on enough, how crucially significant it is to mingle a little dog however much and when could reasonably be expected. Dread is an enormous factor in animosity. The initial 20 weeks of a young doggie's life is the point at which they ought to be presented to however many new and for the most part positive encounters as could be allowed, to enable them to turn out to be less frightful. These encounters must incorporate gathering and being taken care of by new individuals. Meeting and collaborating with different creatures is completely fundamental. Presentation to new, uproarious, and unusual commotions ought to likewise be on your plan for the day. Atypical undertakings to such places as the youngsters' ballgames and bug markets help a pup figure out how to adapt to new circumstances. Furthermore, heaps of short, fun vehicle rides will enable your young doggie to figure out how to appreciate voyaging. This is the period when they will build up the adapting abilities they will require, to turn out to be balanced, non-forceful grown-up mutts.

The CAT Method

There are various strategies used to change forceful conduct in canines. They all work toward target of desensitizing the subject creature to the upgrades that siphons such adrenaline, that makes them frightful, furious and crazy! Constructional Aggression Treatment or CAT, is generally very effective in changing wrong practices.

It is a mix of socialization and conduct adjustment. By expelling the subject pooch from their usual range of familiarity, which by and large is confinement with just their family or their home, they standard speaking gradually partner being separated from everyone else isn't really that much fun.

Being pack creatures once the improper conduct is changed, most inalienably look for the security of a pack.

With CAT, the subject pooch learns if and when they show hostility, the object of their center, be it another canine or individual stays in their organization. At the point when their conduct changes to quiet, proper conduct, the object of their center is expelled.

For this model, we will utilize hounds. Be that as it may, if the subject pooch's forceful spotlight is on individuals, we change to individuals rather than different mutts. By following a similar basic equation, which is, "Act improperly and your difficulty remains in your face. Quiet down, and it leaves," you will fortify the discernment that quiet, not insane gets them what they need.

Canine Aggression

We have worked with various forceful pooches, by at first blockading them in the workplace, away from different mutts in the pack, isolated by just a sliding glass entryway. This enables them to perceive how much fun the others are having together.

The water can is in the kitchen, so when the pack needs to drink, they draw close to the sliding glass entryway. They drink and after that leave. On the off chance that the subject canine shows improper conduct while the other pooch is drinking, at that point a prompt, firm redress is made, essentially by letting them know "NO! Terrible!

The goal is to have them keep quiet, and in the long run, the other pooch leaves. We stress endorsement of fitting conduct by applauding the subject canine with a basic "Decent kid or great young lady." The reality the "risk" left when they were quiet strengthens to the subject pooch, the affiliation "I resisted the urge to panic, they left."

As we see fitting conduct changes beginning, we at that point case the subject pooch, and permit the various mutts in the pack into the workplace to hang out while we have our morning espresso. This brings everybody very close. At the point when the crated, subject pooch sees that the pack is absolutely disregarding his or her dramatization, it discourages them, and they will quiet down. That is the point at which the pack leaves them, and typically goes outside to play.

We at that point expel the subject pooch from the container. The person stays in the workplace, where they can watch through another arrangement of sliding glass entryways, different canines having a fabulous time together. beautiful Garden Flags

When we regard the subject pooch is prepared and needs to join the pack, we discharge the person in question, outside with canines that are most quiet, composed and can manage the new-comer's showy behavior. It is just merely minutes, before the subject canine acknowledges they are not driving away the others, they are not being assaulted, and they will unwind. Up to this point, we've had fantastic outcomes from the CAT strategy for conduct alteration.

At long last, we "street test" the subject canine in reality. They are removed the reason, which has now turned into their new safe place, and we test them in broad daylight. They are chained and strolled where there are different mutts and additionally individuals. In the event that they respond improperly, the focal point of their issue remains. On the off chance that they when they become quiet, the individual or pooch leaves.

When we are OK with the subject pooch's conduct, the last test is the canine park. There we have individuals and canines, their definitive bad dream! With each case we have worked with, the subject canine's conduct has been change enough, where they've had a superb time cavorting with different mutts in the recreation center, and meeting and welcome new individuals.

Main concern: How rapidly the CAT technique works relies upon you and your pooch. This isn't TV, where the issue is tackled in under 60 minutes. Be reasonable, firm, steady and patient. Conduct alteration requires some investment, yet it merits the exertion. In the event that you aren't willing to make the responsibility, locate a legitimate neighborhood mentor, who will do the critical step for you. At that point, it's dependent upon you, to prop the preparation up. Canine preparing doesn't stop toward the finish of a class. Your pooch's preparation is a work-in-advance, every minute of every day, for whatever length of time that you have one another.

Karen A. Soukiasian, GOOD DOG! - DOG TRAINING and BED-n-BISCUITS canine boarding and preparing - Owner/Trainer, St. Augustine, Florida - AKC CANINE GOOD CITIZEN and S.T.A.R. Little dog Evaluator gooddogsite.Read more=>https://doggieoftheday.com

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[conchita635gaming-blog]

Vbucks Fortnite Free of charge Amusing eight Videos About Practical Hints That'll Make You Cry

Players, young kinds in any case, don’t feel to notice this sort of things. They’re immediately after assault rifles (preferably the Legendary SCAR), pump shotguns, bolt-action sniper rifles (the scope is actually a boon), chug jugs, slurp juices, bandages, medkits, and protect potions. They see, and covet, skins that seem awesome but don't have any bearing on recreation Enjoy; for twenty bucks, you can don the Leviathan or maybe the Raven. Or they fixate on dance moves, the so-named victory emotes you may have your avatar complete, in the warmth of battle or after a get rid of. The Floss, the Refreshing, the Squat Kick, the Wiggle—these have spilled out into the world. You could see folks about you, or professional athletes on Television set, breaking into strange dances. The one particular often known as Go ahead and take L is major nowadays within the Bundesliga and at Moment Maid Park.

Fortnite Gold

Loads of completed players search down their noses at Fortnite, the best way, Probably, that some jazz and blues diehards, in 1964, dismissed the Beatles. The dances, the alliterative put-names, the dearth of accurate postapocalyptic menace: these can point out a lack of seriousness that to some appears to be spell-breaking. A classmate of Gizzard Lizard’s, ZenoMachine, a gamer for for a longer period than seems plausible (he commenced taking part in Group Fortress two in kindergarten and now develops his own online games), is definitely the eighth quality’s resident Fortnite Scrooge. “To start with, I’m not a admirer in the polygons,” ZenoMachine explained to me. We ended up over a park bench, right after university—a uncommon strike of daylight. “It has a hi-res texture but minimal-res polygons.” Gizzard Lizard had warned me which i wouldn’t fully grasp ZenoMachine, but I collected that he was critiquing the game’s aesthetics. He appreciated a realer glimpse. He objected to specified inconsistencies. The pickaxe, by way of example, which players use to demolish partitions and properties, results in Practically no damage to other players to be a weapon. “How can that be?” he mentioned. “I see why quite a bit of people like Fortnite. It targets gamers who aren’t skilled. But it violates the legal guidelines of regularity.” He said that The very first time he performed he won—by hiding out until eventually Everybody else experienced practically been killed off. This is recognized as tenting, and it is frowned upon by normal players. “If one thing so simple as participant preference affects the other players’ knowledge, you’ve bought a layout flaw,” ZenoMachine reported.

ZenoMachine develops his individual games utilizing a platform known as the Unreal Motor. Fortnite, mainly because it occurs, is built within the Unreal Engine, also. The game could be the generation of a company termed Epic Video games, based mostly outside the house Raleigh, North Carolina. In 1998, Epic released a primary-individual shooter referred to as Unreal, which appreciated only average good results but which, Pretty much by accident, experienced an enduring affect about the evolution of online video video games. Epic made use of Unreal’s underlying architecture, and some of its sections, for making what came for being often called the Unreal Engine, a essential platform that supports all method of online games, be they shooters, brawlers, platformers, or sandbox R.P.G.s. It’s basically a suite of tools that developers can use to style and Construct game titles together with other simulations. Rather than ranging from scratch in, say, C++, the popular graphic-coding language, impartial builders and also other companies use the Unreal Engine to help make their particular video games. (The licensing of your motor, subsequently, presents Epic the cash circulation to dedicate time and assets to the development of hit video games like Fortnite.) Each year, Epic uses existing video games, many of them all but forgotten, to soup up the Unreal Engine, so that it could handle an at any time additional advanced array of demands. Fortnite was the main Unreal Engine 4 launch. Among the other matters, Epic needed to adapt the motor that can help its servers accommodate the huge volume of information that has to be processed instantaneously when 100 gamers are competing in just one Fight Royale spherical. The concern of which steps have an effect on Other folks, and from what distance, on this large storm-sieged island—the old if-then trouble—is a great deal more complicated than it would seem.

“Consider Fortnite as a visual kind of media,” Jamin Warren, the editor of your society-and-gaming journal Eliminate Screen, told me. No matter what Fortnite’s attract like a sport to Perform, Additionally it is apparently quite possibly the most beguiling a person to watch. As video clip-recreation spectatorship fills arenas, and siphons a technology away from actual athletics, Fortnite has become by far the most viewed recreation on YouTube—by March, there were Just about a few billion views with the an incredible number of periods that players had uploaded—and the top recreation on Twitch, the streaming platform. Looking at isn’t just for spazzes anymore. “It’s produced a kind of worldwide arcade,” Warren said. “Instead of a handful of Youngsters looking about the shoulder of the new-shot more mature brother or whatsoever, down in the shopping mall, you have got many people observing, and the individual taking part in the sport can be a millionaire.”

The medium’s breakout star is called Ninja. He is a previous Expert Halo player named Tyler Blevins, who may have claimed that he will make over 50 percent 1,000,000 pounds per month by streaming his Fortnite periods, and his totally free-associative commentary, on Twitch (that's owned by Amazon). His YouTube channel has more than ten million subscribers. Previous thirty day period, he how fortnite get popular hosted a Fortnite tournament in Las Vegas, within an e-sports arena, and almost seven hundred thousand individuals tuned in to his Twitch stream. I’ve heard numerous teens confer with him as America’s biggest entertainer—which isn't as hyperbolic since it Appears. In April, Ninja ranked increased than any athlete on the globe in “social interactions,” a evaluate of social-media likes, reviews, shares, and views. Cristiano Ronaldo was No. two. In March, Ninja consented to a Fortnite session with Drake.

Blevins, who is 20-six, comes from exterior Detroit and life around Chicago (he gained’t say exactly where) along with his spouse, who handles his company affairs. He streams 10 to fourteen hrs every day, typically from about nine A.M. to 3 P.M. after which from six P.M. right until Each time. All advised, he logs about three hundred hours a month. What one sees is his game screen, together with his avatar in regardless of what skin he has picked, and, within an inset, a perpetual shot of Blevins himself. A ninja headband girds a Bieber-ish shock of hair that he dyes different colors: emerald inexperienced, platinum, yellow. He’s a lean, boyish guy who appears to make an hard work to take care of some semblance of a smile all of the time. His spiel is goofy, caffeinated, and moderately cocky. He does impressions. In March, he was mumbling some rap lyrics as he performed, and by some means the phrase “indica” arrived out given that the N-term. Amid the backlash, he apologized, sort of, and, when it came time for me to talk to him final week, his manager’s a single situation was which i not ask him about this, as he’d presently said what there was to convey, which was, in part, “I guarantee that there was no mal intent (I wasn’t even seeking to say the term—I fumbled lyrics and received tongue-tied inside the worst achievable way).” A scrupulous journalist may have named from the job interview, although the teenagers I’d been speaking with regarding the video game were being so impressed that I might speak with Ninja that I caved. At the final moment, although, Ninja bailed, professing disease. Burn off! (“I’m quite sure which was BS,” one of those teens texted me. “I think he was streaming today.”) At any price, Ninja’s sensitivity is a sign that avid gamers like him are coming into the mainstream. They've got to observe the things they say.

Onscreen, the millionaire maintains the environs on the gamer boy. The digital camera requires in an acoustic-tile ceiling, wall-to-wall carpeting, bare drywall, as well as a fourposter mattress. There’s a framed Detroit Lions poster propped against a wall, together with a mini-fridge stocked with Crimson Bull. Ninja is really a lifelong gamer, but he helps make a point to remind his lovers, lest they receive the fall-every little thing bug, that he did effectively in class, performed soccer together with other sporting activities, completed college or university when holding down a task at Noodles & Firm, and even appeared, with his spouse and children, on “Loved ones Feud.” The sport ability is legit. He wins a little something like 50 percent of your many hundreds of game titles he plays just about every week, from all comers. He’s a crack shot and it has a nose to the substantial ground. As usually as not, It appears he’s barely being attentive. He’s studying followers’ messages out loud, just like a converse-radio host, or jabbering with One more Fortnite star, such as Dr. Lupo or KingRichard, whenever they’ve teamed up for the game or two: “The recoil on this detail is stupid”; “You said you experienced a complete protect, ass”; “So keep my dick”; “That dude was seeking to consume a chug jug. What a noob.” All accompanied by occasional bursts of gunfire. “To any individual observing the stream, I hope you men are taking pleasure in the content, guy.”

Gizzard Lizard’s shoot-out in Tomato Town came about on the last night of April, which was the last night of Season 3. Anticipation was managing significant. Among the ingenious innovations of Fortnite should be to introduce seasons of about two months, as on the cable-tv series, and also to combine new plot and sport factors. (Previous week, within a crossover masterstroke, Thanos, the indestructible villain of The brand new Avengers Motion picture, dropped in on the game—that is certainly, gamers could adopt a Thanos skin—and so, for some time, the Fortnite established gleefully schooled a variety of Thanoses in a means the Avengers could not.) On April 30th, a comet that had been hovering about the island was alleged to strike following midnight. For times, meteors had been showering the sport. Teasers—the newest currently being “brace for impression”—experienced impressed a raft of speculation and conspiracy theories. In the beginning, individuals envisioned the comet to hit the crowded city location known as Tilted Towers, but some clues led Other people to forecast, properly, which the comet would wipe out Dusty Depot, which was thereafter to get called Dusty Divot.

It had been tough to do homework on a night such as this; Gizzard Lizard returned to the game. He performed on the Computer system he’d crafted at college. It didn’t Have a very graphics card. He’d by no means been a giant gamer—his parents were being pretty stringent about screens and experienced never consented to an Xbox or even a Wii—however he’d performed Minecraft for quite a while. This standard of obsession was a little something new. He noticed on his locate-your-buddies bar that a lot of schoolmates were playing, so he FaceTimed one who goes by ism64. They teamed up and strike Lucky Landing. Gizzard Lizard wore an earbud underneath a list of earphones, so that he could talk with ism64 whilst listening for that seem of approaching enemies. From the distance, it appeared that he was speaking to himself: “Permit’s just Construct. Watch out, you’re gonna be trapped less than my ramp. I’m hitting this John Wick. Oh my God, he just pumped me. Arrive revive me. Construct all-around me and come revive me. Wait around, can I've that chug jug? Thanks.”

I’d been struck, observing Gizzard Lizard’s video games for a couple of days, by how the spirit of collaboration, amid the urgency of mission and menace, seemed to deliver out something approaching gentleness. He and his pals did favors for each other, viewed one another’s backs, presented encouragement. This was a thing that I hadn’t witnessed A lot of, say, down at the rink. 1 could argue that the previous arcade, With all the ever-current danger of bullying and harassment and the problem of proclaiming dibs, uncovered A child to the world—it’s character-building!—but there was a little something to get claimed for such a refuge, even if it did include assault rifles and grenades.

Then the John Wick was upon him. “Oh God! Oh God!” Foiled once more.

A John Wick was an achieved participant who had attained a pores and skin that bears a resemblance towards the character performed by Keanu Reeves inside the “John Wick” films. (Officially, the skin is known as the Reaper, presumably to stay away from licensing charges, but gamers simply call it John Wick.) It absolutely was available to anybody who had attained all hundred tiers of the sport in Time 3—a combination of accomplishment and experience which might have expected taking part in for among seventy-5 and 100 and fifty several hours.

As the final several hours of Year three expired, players scrambled to succeed in Tier a hundred, and have their John Wick skins. Gizzard Lizard was nowhere shut. He’d started the year for a noob. Arrive another morning, Day One among Period four, he had a intend to place while in the several hours for getting to Tier one hundred. It could get major commitment. For The 1st time, he bought a thousand Fortnite V-bucks, for $nine.ninety nine, with which to obtain skins. He went With all the Carbide, a modern one which introduced to head a wetsuit. This was The 1st time he—or, much more to The purpose, his moms and dads—had at any time invested anything but quarters over a match.

[brieflyuniversallyfun-blog]

Crimson On Broadway Assessment

Red On Broadway Evaluation

But when I am at dwelling, I drink nearly completely unfastened-leaf teas; I believe that critical tea enthusiasts will do properly to department out and explore different teas, even if they do enjoy Tazo tea. There's a time period here that you'll have to observe. To begin with, you could be more likely to get step-by-step directions that can stroll you because of so there isn't a be involved there. She mentioned my identify was not in there and she was willing to substitute one meal. These rank amongst the perfect ribs I had ever eaten wherever in my life, and it even rivals the Jack’d Chicken Pizza for one of the best meal I had tried at Buffalo Brothers. Even beyond that, they were television’s longest sustaining Yuletide specials, persevering with nicely after Andy Williams, Glen Campbell and Perry Como had packed away the prop fireplace and the flocked Douglas fir.

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That Escalated Quickly: Ten Takeaways from Eagles 37, Cowboys 9

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  The offense played an atrocious first half and the Eagles still beat Dallas by four touchdowns on the road.

It’s hard to fathom. It really is. This is one of those big games that the Birds would have totally blown in years past, finding a way to flame out and disappoint on a national stage.

But not this squad!

They seems to have a mental fortitude and knack for adjustment that past Eagles teams just didn’t have.

Down 9-7 at the half, they scored 30 unanswered points to close out the game. Dallas pulled their starters in the fourth. It went from a harrowing nail-biter to a boring blowout in about 45 real-time minutes.

And maybe the most impressive thing was the first half defensive performance. Say what you will about the Cowboys missing two key offensive players, but the Eagles defense really propped up the other two units when they were struggling. How much more manageable is it going into halftime down by two points vs. ten? I think that was probably the key to the game.

The Birds are 9-1 with the NFC East in the bag and home field advantage in sight.

Buckle up, boys and girls.

  1) Ronald Darby

The ankle looked fine to me. So much for the “let’s not disrupt the secondary’s chemistry” storyline.

He started with a nice open-field tackle on Dez Bryant on Dallas’ second drive, then followed it up with a strong swat on that Dez end zone fade a bit later.

Honestly, I do think he could have been called for pass interference on that play, but this officiating crew was allowing a lot of contact last night. We really didn’t see too many flags at all.

Darby got one of the three picks on the night:

.@realronalddarby INTERCEPTION!

The @Eagles' second of the half. #PHIvsDAL #FlyEaglesFly http://pic.twitter.com/ctDdSp3dTK

— NFL (@NFL) November 20, 2017

He gave up 6 completions for 48 yards to Bryant on 8 total targets, with that INT, 8 tackles, and an additional pass defended. That’s a huge assignment for a player making his first appearance since week one, and he delivered.

  2) Roll ’em all

Jay Ajayi? LeGarrette Blount? Corey Clement? Kenjon Barner?

All four made contributions on the night, with Ajayi leading the pack at 7 carries for 91 yards on the strength of a 71 yarder that he just couldn’t take to the house. Blount ran it 13 times for 57 yards, and Clement and Barner had the touchdowns, so go figure. The Eagles ran for a season-high 215 yards

I actually thought Ajayi might get a few more snaps, considering the fact that he had two weeks off to learn more of the playbook and become more familiar with the Eagles’ offense. But the Birds are comfortable giving Clement the rock in important situations, which we’ve seen throughout the year.

Reuben Frank can sometimes go crazy with his stats, but to that point above, I think this one really tells the story:

Corey Clement has 10 touches this year in the red zone.

He's scored 7 touchdowns.

— Reuben Frank (@RoobNBCS) November 20, 2017

They’re really spoiled for riches here. Fuck a three-headed monster, it could be four-heads, and I didn’t even mention Wendell Smallwood. Make it five. Five heads. A five-headed monster.

  3) Injuries and idiots

Yea, the Cowboys were missing Zeke Elliott, Tyron Smith and Sean Lee.

And the Eagles were missing Jordan Hicks, Jason Peters and Darren Sproles, yet we seemed to hear a lot more about the Dallas injuries in the week leading up to the game.

So both #Eagles and #Cowboys playing without their starting left tackle, kicker and best playmaking linebacker. Cowboys also without Elliott while Eagles improved there with Ajayi trade

— Ed Werder (@EdwerderRFA) November 20, 2017

Funny how that works. Could it be that the importance of those players is magnified partly because there’s no depth behind them? That couldn’t be it, right? Seems like the Eagles are getting by with Joe Walker, Big V, and a stable of runners. One team has dealt well with attrition and the other hasn’t.

Anyway, Alfred Morris didn’t have a bad game. 17 carries for 91 yards is solid against this front, but Zeke could have crested 100 and probably taken that first half stretch play into the end zone. The Birds did a nice job overall, but they did get a gashed a few times.

The absence of Lee was obvious. He’s one of the best linebackers in the NATIONAL FOOTBALL LEAGUE.

And there were plenty of “woof” moments at left tackle for the Cowboys, because of…

  4) Derek Barnett

He played his best game in an Eagles jersey, finishing with a pair of sacks and a forced fumble, plus a key hurry on the first Prescott interception, a play where he torched backup Byron Bell.

There was another sequence later in the second quarter when Prescott threw high and out of play on third down with Barnett bearing down once again.

The takeaway for me was how Barnett finished a couple of those plays, starting with the one-arm open field sack:

Derek Barnett sacking Dakota with one arm http://pic.twitter.com/HSfoKoAtS5

— Patrick (@PatrickMCausey) November 20, 2017

Prescott isn’t as big as Carson Wentz, but he’s still 6’2″ and 227 pounds. The ability to hang on a guy and grip with one hand while pulling yourself back to your feet is wild athleticism.

Similarly here, on the fumble, he’s falling to the ground and almost horizontal with the turf while stretching as far as possible to get a hand on Prescott’s throwing arm:

.@dbarnett25 forces the Dak fumble…

And @NigelBradham_13 returns it to the HOUSE! #FlyEaglesFly #PHIvsDAL http://pic.twitter.com/E3p2TnonGW

— NFL (@NFL) November 20, 2017

  5) Good grades

Here’s an example of Pro Football Focus getting something right.

PFF graded Patrick Robinson with a 92.4 for another stellar performance in the Eagles’ secondary:

Patrick Robinson's incredible season continues http://pic.twitter.com/87jwCKtWRM

— Pro Football Focus (@PFF) November 20, 2017

He’s quietly made some big plays this season, with a strong second quarter tackle and a key pass breakup on this third down:

Patrick Robinson continues to play out of his damn mind. Heck of a pass break up to force the punt. http://pic.twitter.com/m33AaJ3wqs

— Patrick (@PatrickMCausey) November 20, 2017

He’s having a great year, for real. I feel like he slides under the radar constantly while always finding a way to step up and contribute on a weekly basis.

  6) The rest of the defense

What more can you say?

They held Dallas to three field goals at Jerry’s World.

Dak Prescott had a 30.4 QB rating while throwing three interceptions in a single game for the first time ever.

Plus:

4 sacks

5 tackles for loss

7 passes defended

6 QB hits

a defensive touchdown

Enjoy it folks. Units like this don’t come around too often.

  7) Special teams and weirdness

It seemed like this might be a shit game when the kicker was injured making a tackle on a 60-yard return to begin the game.

Jake Elliott shanked a 34-yard field goal and left the field shortly after to be evaluated for a concussion. That resulted in the Birds trying 2-point conversions from then on, hitting on three of four attempts.

Kickoff duty went to backup linebacker and special teamer Kamu Grugier-Hill, who knocked his first effort to the one-yard line and hit his second into the end zone. Who knew? Dude can do it all.

Which begs the question…

These Kamu Grugier-Hill kickoffs raise an interesting strategic question. If there is a LB or some other special teamer capable of kicking the ball into the end zone, why risk the kicker on most kickoffs in the first place?

— Andrew Kulp (@KulpSays) November 20, 2017

  8) Doug’s worst call

The play calling after the first drive left a lot to be desired. There was a shotgun draw play for Blount and a third and 10 draw play near midfield, something from the old Andy Reid “we’re gonna punt anyway” playbook. Not all of the struggles were on Pederson, obviously, as Torrey Smith had a big drop and Carson Wentz simply misfired on a number of throws. I would have tried to get Zach Ertz more involved somehow early on.

Aside from that, the only other thing I can think of is Doug’s decision to put Wentz back in the game with 6:00 left in the fourth quarter. Just place him in the bubble wrap and call it a day.

  9) Doug’s best call

I like how Doug went right back to Kenjon Barner on the opening drive and gave him that red zone opportunity after making the big sideline catch. That’s how you reward a guy after a nice play and go with the hot hand at the same time.

Otherwise, I think the way he called the opening drive of the second half really had a ton of purpose and downhill intent:

Ajayi 8 yard run

Ajayi 1 yard run

play action, back across field for Brent Celek 28 yards

play action, Wentz throws the ball away

Clement 1 yard run

Alshon Jeffery 18 yards across the middle

Clement 8 yard run

Clement 11 yard touchdown run

(two point conversion good)

Eight plays, 75 yards, 4:04. They ran it five times for 29 yards and Wentz made a couple of key tosses along the way. QB play was a big reason for the turnaround but they committed to running the football in the second half and ripped off a couple of huge gains on scoring drives.

  10) Awful announcing

Cris Collinsworth is kind of dopey, but I don’t think he “hates” Philadelphia like everybody says. I thought he had some nice things to say about Fletcher Cox, Darby, and Wentz. One thing that was weird was the single arm tackle Jalen Mills made on Dez Bryant. Collinsworth praised Bryant for his stiff-arm move when I’m 99% sure Mills made the better play there to get the bigger guy to the ground.

As for Al Michaels, he seemed kind of tired. Sounded like he was gonna fall asleep on the Nigel Bradham touchdown.

I also enjoyed the audio guy playing Lit’s “My Own Worst Enemy” going into commercial break after Prescott’s fumble. Not sure if the millennials “got” that joke/troll job.

Earlier on the broadcast, there was a weird shot of a bunch of turkeys at a farm awaiting Thanksgiving slaughter. That made me feel kind of like an asshole and consider veganism.

Also, I’m not at all surprised that dumbo Chris Christie was wearing a Notre Dame sweater while cheering the Cowboys in Jerry Jones’ box. Probably a Warriors fan too. And Duke.

Chris Christie wearing a Notre Dame shirt in the Cowboys owner's suite. He's like some sort of double cop http://pic.twitter.com/xJFLqsUBM3

— Mike Tunison (@xmasape) November 20, 2017

That Escalated Quickly: Ten Takeaways from Eagles 37, Cowboys 9 published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

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Nurse interview tips-Part 2: It’s your turn to ask questions

Learn about your prospective employer before and after nurse interview

When you come home from your first day at a new job, will you be energized by its possibilities or feel slightly sick to your stomach and anxious that you’ve made a big mistake? If it’s option B, you may be able to trace that nauseated feeling back to something you overlooked while interviewing.

An organization with a job vacancy spends a lot of money advertising for the right person to fill an open spot while marketing itself as the best workplace in the U.S. So, as you’re headed into your interview and prepared to present yourself as the world’s most fabulous nurse, keep one question in the back of your mind: Do I really want this job?

Whether you’re a new or experienced nurse, you should know something about the job you might take and the organization you’re considering joining. Neither exists in isolation from the other. You probably won’t have time to ask questions about every aspect of the job during a recruiter interview, but you might have time during subsequent pre-employment meetings with your prospective boss and staff. You can always research the employer on your own through an Internet search, social media and colleagues with whom you can network. Here are key discussion points to explore during pre-employment meetings and areas to investigate outside of the formal hiring process.

” … as you’re headed into your interview and prepared to present yourself as the world’s most fabulous nurse, keep one question in the back of your mind: Do I really want this job?”

5 areas to investigate before taking the job

Staffing — Every unit has a budgeted staffing plan. Does this organization connect budgeted staffing to an acuity system? If so, is the acuity system routinely used? Are budgeted positions filled or left vacant because of a difficult local job market, because the unit is an unpleasant place to work or because the organization is trying to save money by not filling positions? A well-managed unit will strive to fill positions so scheduling is consistent and projected for weeks in advance, incorporating workers’ vacations and unexpected emergencies.

Scheduling — You should know the basics that come with the job, such as shift rotation, weekend scheduling and call policies. Find out if scheduling is accomplished electronically or by personnel. Is the schedule generated by a centralized office for the whole department or created on the unit, as in self-scheduling? And what does self-scheduling mean on your new unit? Are the self-schedulers a small cadre of staff who have been cranking out the schedule for 10 years, where new hires have little chance of getting any requested time off or counting on a regular schedule that allows time to go back to school?

Management — Never take a job without interviewing your prospective manager, because management styles vary. For example, if you want to work for a maternalistic or paternalistic supervisor, you can find managers who treat their staff as children, doling out rewards and punishments commensurate with behavior. Some nurses want that. Other managers view their staff as vibrant professionals who, like race horses, need room to run and opportunities to win. And if this will be your first job, know that your initial manager may likely influence your socialization and how you view yourself as a nurse for a long time, so choose that person as carefully as you select your job.

Other managers view their staff as vibrant professionals who, like race horses, need room to run and opportunities to win.”

Co-workers — They are equally important in influencing your self-perception as a professional nurse are the staff around you. If you spend 40-plus hours per week around enthusiastic coworkers, then you’re surrounding yourself with positivity and your career may benefit from these good examples. If you hang out with Negative Neds and Nellies, your career may not have as good of a chance to prosper. Make sure you interview as many staff from the unit as possible. Some organizations allow for a group interview, and at the very least, you should be able to network via social media with some of the people with whom you will be working. Find out what sort of teamwork goes on, and get a bead on the culture of the unit.

Shared governance — Many organizations have or aspire to Magnet accreditation or Pathways to Excellence status, and you should seek them out. A requirement for these designations is not necessarily something labelled “shared governance” (or shared leadership, decision-making, or whatever combination of sharing is used as a label), but any program that empowers caregivers to make meaningful decisions about their practice and the resources that support it. But shared governance makes this happen.

Unfortunately, there are as many hospitals that use the shared governance label to lure in unsuspecting, talented professionals as there are hospitals who have real shared governance cultures and programs. You need a firm understanding of what shared governance is, so you can evaluate whether it has been successfully implemented in both the unit and organization in which you are considering employment. You can jump-start your knowledge by frequenting SharedGovernance.org, the website for the Forum for Shared Governance (full disclosure, I am its founder).

If you thoroughly investigate these five areas of human capital, you will be an informed potential consumer for any job you interview for. You will be ready to prepare for second and third interviews, accept the forthcoming job offer or move on to other prospects. It’s good to know about a job before you take it, but it’s even better to know everything about the organization  — the good and the bad — before you join the ranks.

  Courses Related to ‘Career opportunities’

CE166-60: Networking for Career Advancement (1 contact hr) The goal of this module is to enhance nurses’ skills in professional networking to keep their career development strategies robust. After studying the information presented here, you will be able to: Identify four potential resources to contact for networking, outline steps for face-to-face networking and describe three self-marketing sales props for use in effective networking.

CE691: Social Media (1 contact hr) This CE program is to inform nurses about how to use social media to enhance their careers. It describes how social media can have a positive impact on your career, identifies ways to avoid career damage with social media and compares several types of social media.

CE140-60: Interviewing for Career Advancement (1 contact hr) Take this CE module to enhance your ability to prepare for and participate in job interviews. After studying the information presented here, you will be able to identify at least four strategies for preparing for an interview, select the best responses to typical interview questions and choose appropriate questions to ask an interviewer.

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