#VINTAGE RUGS IN HOUSTON

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VINTAGE RUGS IN HOUSTON | Call (713) 338-2803 * Madison Lily

Madison Lily 1727 Post Oak Blvd Houston, TX 77056 (713) 338-2803 https://madisonlily.com

Madison Lily Rugs designs, creates, and sources luxury handmade rugs in Houston, Texas.

With over 25 years of industry experience, we craft and deliver custom rugs to interior designers and discerning homeowners worldwide.

Our gallery offers a vast selection of in-stock inventory as well as a custom rug program that is unparalleled.

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Revitalize Your Home with Distressed Rugs Guide to Finding the Perfect Piece in Houston

Transforming your living space into a cozy and stylish haven is easily achievable with the right interior design elements. Distressed rugs are a timeless choice that not only adds warmth to your home but also brings a touch of vintage charm. If you're in Houston and on the lookout for the perfect distressed rug, this guide is tailored just for you. At David Oriental Rugs, we understand the significance of finding the ideal piece to complement your home decor.

Choosing Distressed Rugs in Houston: Houston, with its diverse cultural influences, offers a rich array of distressed rugs to suit every taste. When selecting a distressed rug for your home, consider the color palette of your space. Earthy tones like beige, brown, and muted blues can effortlessly blend into a variety of interiors, while vibrant reds and greens can add a pop of color.

Texture and Material: The texture of a distressed rug plays a crucial role in enhancing the overall aesthetics of your room. At David Oriental Rugs, we offer a curated collection of high-quality rugs crafted from materials like wool, cotton, and silk. These materials not only provide durability but also contribute to the unique distressed appearance that adds character to your living space.

Size Matters: Finding the perfect-sized rug is essential for achieving a balanced look in your room. Measure the space where you intend to place the distressed rug, ensuring it complements the dimensions of your furniture and room layout. Oversized rugs can create a sense of luxury, while smaller ones can define specific areas within a room.

Conclusion: Revitalize your home with the timeless appeal of distressed rugs Houston. At David Oriental Rugs, we take pride in offering a diverse range of options to suit your unique style and preferences. Discover the perfect distressed rug that will not only stand the test of time but will also become a focal point in your home's interior design. Browse our collection and embark on a journey to elevate your home decor.

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Antique Finish Rugs in Houston's Premier Oriental Rug Store!

Introducing the Antique finish rugs Houston that exude timeless beauty with a touch of vintage allure! Each rug in this collection is meticulously crafted to showcase an antique finish, capturing the essence of a bygone era while seamlessly blending with contemporary aesthetics. Whether you're looking for a rug to complement your traditional decor or to create a striking contrast in a modern setting, the Antique Finish Collection has something to offer.

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Elegance in Every Thread: Antique Finish Rugs in Houston's Premier Oriental Rug Store!

When it comes to adding a touch of elegance and sophistication to your home decor, few things can rival the charm of Oriental rugs. These exquisite pieces of art are not just floor coverings; they are intricate creations that tell stories of culture, history, and craftsmanship. At David Oriental Rugs, Houston's premier Oriental rug store, you'll find an unparalleled collection of masterpieces that can transform any space into a haven of elegance and warmth.

Unveiling the Antique Finish Collection

Introducing the Antique finish rugs Houston that exude timeless beauty with a touch of vintage allure! Each rug in this collection is meticulously crafted to showcase an antique finish, capturing the essence of a bygone era while seamlessly blending with contemporary aesthetics. Whether you're looking for a rug to complement your traditional decor or to create a striking contrast in a modern setting, the Antique Finish Collection has something to offer.

Craftsmanship That Transcends Generations

What sets them apart is their unwavering commitment to craftsmanship. Each rug is handpicked and handwoven by skilled artisans who have mastered the art of rug making over generations. The intricate patterns, vibrant colors, and impeccable detailing speak volumes about the dedication and passion that goes into creating these rugs.

Preserving Beauty: Best Oriental Rug Cleaning in Houston

Investing in an Oriental rug is an investment in beauty and heritage. To ensure that your treasured rugs retain their allure for years to come, David Oriental Rugs offers the best rug cleaning service in Houston. With their expertise in handling delicate fibers and intricate designs, you can trust them to clean, repair, and restore your rugs to their original grandeur.

Visit Us Today: Discover the Timeless Beauty of Oriental Rugs

Step into the world of elegance and artistry at David Oriental Rugs. Whether you're a connoisseur of fine rugs or a homeowner looking to elevate your living spaces, their diverse collection and exceptional services, make them the ultimate destination for all your rug needs. Experience the fusion of history, culture, and craftsmanship – visit www.davidorientalrugs.com today and bring timeless elegance into your home.

[homestuck-headcanonymous]

dinosaurs eating people (they didn’t get to say goodbye)

a/n: this is a whole lot of angst. tw for suicide.

the moment of silence after you die, dave strider thinks, must be the loneliest moment in the world. dread has always been woven into his bones, his blood, polluting every second he had- but not like this. nothing was like this.

he remembers the day they pulled apart from the alpha timeline like it was yesterday- maybe it was. he does not know when or where or what he is in this strange too-dark-to-be-darkness, and maybe he is nothing at all. It was the littlest thing- a gear was fixed from where it had broken, something to do with a door mechanism nobody ever used- and then it was gone. shattered. like a dead butterfly’s wings in the palm of a child’s hand grasping too tight. it *hurt*, almost, the knowledge of it- like a recoil from the shotgun bro had tried to teach him to use, the one that was stuffed inside of the hall closet in the apartment he hadn’t seen in years. terezi and rose felt it too, he could tell. he’d never seen grief-and-guilt-and-pain and pure, exhausted, aching resignation mix on his sister’s face like that, and it almost made his chest tighten and sting all over again as he saw her feel the string holding them to a future draw taut and snap back on her, like the lash of a too-tight violin string breaking.

it was so quiet that day. it felt wrong, but what could he do? it was grief, in a way, but it never felt like it. it felt like the second after you drop something important on the ground and it shatters. the moment you realize that you have done something irreparable. karkat came into his room that night while he stared at the ceiling. the scent of sopor was thick around him, and he didn’t have to say why. dave knew. he understood. after all, if you’re doomed, why not try and do whatever you can to ease that pain? karkat’s shoulders were shaking, and his expression was softened and blurred with tears as red as the stained glass window of the cathedral he saw once on a bus ride. it was a portrait of jesus on the cross, bloodied and red but still resolute, still willing to die for the future of those around him. dave held karkat that night, but neither of them slept very much. karkat still smelled like home to dave, underneath the saccharine-sticky scent of slime, and when he dozed off in the irregular moments of what he thought would have been almost dawn, he thought christ was a fitting metaphor for karkat. born to die, in a way, but to save others. who was this saving? in a moment of bravery, he left the lightest of feather-soft kisses on karkat’s forehead. the troll didn’t stir from his fitful slumber. he could never understand, dave thought, what karkat was going through, but it could have never been easy.

it was so easy to fall in love like that- the space when there is nothing but you and those you care about. karkat woke late the next morning, messy-haired and sleepy-eyed in the soft light of the alchemized fairy lights, and dave strider wished that he could take a million photos, just to see the scene forever, because karkat vantas was the most beautiful sight in all of time and space like that.

“thank you, dave. for letting me stay. you know. last night. i...i think i just needed to not be alone for a little bit.”

his voice is bleary and soft, and it feels like soft rain during a houston summer. dave could listen forever.

“and i know that you’ll just say that it wasn’t a big deal, or that it was nothing, or that it didn’t matter, but it did. it meant a lot to me. so...thanks. i’m.. glad you’re here.”

karkat’s hand is cupping his cheek now, soft and gentle and so warm that he wants to lean into it like a cat being pet, and it is the kindest way anyone had ever touched him. he realizes that his shades are off, set aside to sleep. he realizes that he doesn’t care.

when dave strider kisses karkat vantas for the first time, it is knowing that the world has ended, and seeing the wild, bright unknown of whatever comes after. neither of them quite knows how, and it is awkward and new, and utterly, wonderfully, perfect.

dave’s never considered himself a romantic, but maybe, he thinks, one day, that could be changing. he knows karkat loves that stuff, and when he tries to set up a picnic for the two of them in a room without much in it, the alternian fruit salad bites him, and the candles are smoky and burn stutteringly, but seeing the way karkat’s eyes light up the room and his quiet laugh of gentle disbelief makes his heart melt in relieved affection.

dave strider is completely, utterly, head over heels in love, and he knows it.

here, now, in this space of nothing he is becoming, he wished that he had said it a million times.

they never talked about it, that much. the world ending. everything ending. *them* ending. dave wishes that they would have. it just hurt too much, in the late nights when he thought of it, karkat’s head rested on his chest and neither of them sleeping. it burned too much, to gaze into the blazing sun and face it. he knew that they were out of time, but somehow, he always thought they’d get just a little longer.

the day he died was a little like that. rose stayed in her room alone, that morning. he heard kanaya knocking at her door softly, and he saw the wine-red blood and the blood-red wine spilling across the metal floor when kanaya entered, soaking into the rug that rose had spent weeks crocheting, the colours of lavenders and sunshine and stormy skies in soft woolen doily-patterns. he heard quiet whispers of “no no no no please no” filling his ears and it was only as he fell to his knees, his sister’s blood smudging his face, that he realized that they were coming from him. kanaya was curling into herself shaking like a leaf in the breeze, and dave wanted to too. it was like a gnawing hollowness, the denial of something right in front of you, of watching a chunk of your sliced-off heart bleed to empty on the ground. it was the beginning of the end. or maybe it was the end of it. when he saw karkat coming out of the winding hall where terezi’s room was, teal soaking his skin up to the elbows, he knew too. the instant dave touched karkat’s shoulder, all the comfort he could think to give, it was like the troll shattered, falling to the ground.

“’rezi...i..i tried so hard to save her....but i was too late....the blood....there was so much blood...”

dave doesn’t know what to say, really. what to do. how do you comfort someone when the world is ending? he drops to his knees and wraps his arms around karkat’s shoulders, as though he can hold him tight enough to turn back time. he wishes he could. just to stay like this for a few more moments.

they hold each other like that for a while. neither of them have the energy to spare for tears, but they grieve together. it is quiet. and for a moment, it feels like someday, everything will be okay. when dave looks out the window, he sees the collision course they follow. cleanup for heroes doomed to die. he knows that there will not be a someday. not for them. when he goes back up to rose’s room to invite kanaya down for coffee of a late breakfast, or anything to not make her stay alone, the door is just ajar, and her sewing kit- the one she always kept in her pocket, the one she loved so much- with the ivy-patterned canvas and the vintage scissors and the tiny little star sketchbook for design ideas- is strewn across the hall, pins and needles and spools of thread scattered and thrown everywhere. the scissors are gone- he remembers, distantly, how they had been a present to her from rose- how he’d walk out of his room in the middle of the night and find her still trying to alchemize what she wanted. how relieved rose had looked behind her tired eyes on kanaya’s wriggling day party, when her eyes lit up at the delicate embroidery scissors, with their little brass handles carved like lace with tiny roses. it had been a happy day. a few months before the split. he does not need to look, now, to know where the scissors have gone. he notices the jade-green blood, half-iridescent, soaking into his shoe far too late, and it makes him feel sick to his stomach.

dave goes back to his room. he grabs one of the jugs of bleach from the cleaning supplies cabinet they never really ended up using. idly, he wonders what they could have used all the time they wasted on them for. how many days could he have spent with the people he loved? what could have happened in those days falling from the timeline? he wants to hit something with the injustice of it all, punch and kick and scream and cry, because how could he have been so stupid? to have wasted the hours he doesn’t get anymore because he lost them?

it’s his turn, now. he knows it.

karkat is waiting inside his room, the quilt kanaya made for him as a christmas present reddened and damp where his tears have fallen. in a moment, karkat wraps his arms around dave’s neck, clinging onto him. dave wraps his arms around him too, and buries his head in karkat’s shoulder. he still smells like home to dave, and it makes dave feel like his chest is collapsing in on itself, concaved to less than a hollow space. the jug of bleach is set on the ground for a moment. it is not forgotten.

karkat sees it when he lets go. dave knows he knows in a split second.

“dave, you...this is some sick joke, right? some sick fucking joke? you can’t be..not you too, right?”

karkat sounds desperate, devastated- and dave strider has never hated himself for doing something more in his life.

but he still cannot stay.

he steels himself with the same determination, the same icy chill he was raised to have. a strider man hurts people for their own good, a million times those words were blazed into his ears while he lay bloody on a rooftop ringing again.

“go away, vantas. i need to do this. it doesn’t concern you.”

he sounds like *him*- like bro- and it almost makes dave flinch back on instinct- reach for a sword and glance around and brace for the impact of a sword against his skin.

karkat’s eyes are filling with tears again, and the impact of it hurts more than any strife ever could have.

“doesn’t *concern* me? dave, what the fuck are you talking about? i *love* you! you don’t need to do this. please,- god, just....*please*, don’t leave me alone here. please, don’t leave me *alone*.”

dave freezes for a second. karkat stares back. the last card has been played. it is a second too long.

“god, y’know what! *fine*!! i guess i *can’t* fucking stop you! because *apparently* wanting the guy you thought was your fucking *soulmate* to not spend his last fucking moments alive with you chugging off-brand human clorox is an unreasonable fucking request! maybe....maybe you just didn’t give as much of a shit about me as i did about you! maybe i was a braindead fucking dumbass to think that you ever even loved me enough to give a shit about what i think!!”

karkat slams the door behind him when he leaves. dave slides to the ground, his back against it. he can hear karkat crying, now- his momentary desperate anger flickered out to nothing but loss and loneliness. dave’s guilt feels almost physical, now- like hot wax melted onto his skin that won’t let go. his hands are shaking. he realizes that his shades have fallen off, and that he must have stepped on them without noticing. one lens is cracked, the other shattered- the frame is twisted beyond repair. the jug is heavy- but not too much. his arms shaking, he slowly lifts it to his mouth. time is running out.

in the end, dave strider doesn’t need to kill himself. in the moment the bleach touches his tongue, searing it, the meteor crashes into another, shattering apart. the impact kills them all. there are no survivors. there is nobody left to remember them.

and now, dave strider is here. there is nothing. it is dark. *he* is nothing. the last thought he has before all he was is no more is that he just wishes that the people he loved did not die thinking that they were alone. that karkat did not die thinking he was alone. that he could have gotten just one last chance to say goodbye. it is what he has been thinking all along. it never comes true.

[coincidencesconstantly]

Home Office Furniture Houston Store

When considering great furniture, particularly relative to home office furniture, you are not thinking of small areas with adequate area for a table as well as a chair, and also neither are you taking into consideration the low-cost published plastic-coated chip wood computer desks as well as screw-in legs. Great furniture involves solid timber and also very carefully matched veneers, brightened to a gorgeous coating however with space for the modern paraphernalia of the modern office. Consider oak, walnut, cherry as well as myrtle veneers, very carefully applied to a strong wood base with the natural timber patterns meticulously matched, blending form and function with vintage design fulfilling the needs of the brand-new globe office. Elegant, yet functional and sensible, providing a beautifully matched blend of the old and also the new, fine home office furniture store provides an office of which you can be happy. In the contemporary globe, the office is an important part of the space, however one where feature often tends to win over layout when in fact there is no need for this competition. It is perfectly viable to have a well developed home office with good leather furniture that fits to remain on while executing your work. Your work desk need not be an unsteady development of plywood as well as spindly legs, yet an artwork, crafted from strong hardwood with great cherry veneers, triggered with some classical attractive hardware.

Stunning natural leather furniture is constantly in fashion, never ever watching out of place in the middle of any kind of kind of great furniture, as well as a solid wood veneered work desk would not look right without a lovely leather upholstered chair to choose it. You might additionally have a collection system mounted along one wall surface, set up to suit your demands, including area not only for books, but also for a modern noise system or entertainment. Your strong timber and veneered home office furniture Houston can depend on a rug of your finding, or possibly a wooden flooring: not the thin laminates that several appear to utilize these days, however solid wood parquet obstructs, assembled just as you desire them. If you are designing your office with lovely fine furniture then the home furnishings and flooring need to be of equal quality. Numerous like their flooring to be parquet with a rug square to lower some of the noise that a wooden flooring can cause, or even a rug square with felt surround is preferred with numerous people. You also have your drape fabrics to think about and also the wall covering, and these as well ought to fit the style of your office furniture. You have a substantial range of each to select from, as well as amongst your devices are different designs of clocks, wall art as well as lights such as a light fixture, reading light and also table decorations. Contemporary spotlights would certainly not look out of place. When taking into consideration the layout and format of your residence office furniture company, it is normally a good idea to have an experienced come to your house and also review it with you after seeing the room you have offered. They will likewise be able to aid with matching the wooden great furniture with the wall and floor treatment. When taking into consideration fine furniture, particularly fine office furniture as well as natural leather furniture, you have to think about the quality of the items as well as their cost. Naturally you want the best quality you can get at the cost your willing to pay, and also you will likely be amazed at just exactly how economical lots of outstanding styles are. Before selecting your home office furniture requires you must first take a note of the office tools you have. Computer, printer, scanner and so forth, telephone as well as possibly submitting cupboards. The declaring cupboards can be veneered in timber similar to that used for the main furniture: the desk and publication instance or library devices. Printers and so on can be saved out of site and also still stay functional, while you have a selection of telephone layouts to fit the style of the office. Your paperwork can be kept in a typical wooden bureau or in desk drawers as well as cupboards that can likewise be made use of as little filing systems. As a matter of fact, all of your needs can be incorporated into your office furniture style and also layout. Natural leather furniture, such as couch and chairs, is available should you require it as well as you have a large range of great furniture ideal for usage in a conventional design of home office which is much superior to the chipboard as well as plastic utilized in most modern workplaces.

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Them There Songs Used In Movies Creating That There Perfect Moment

Music and film have had a symbiotic relationship for as long as celluloid carried sound. Often times lesser films are elevated simply by the use of the perfect song (Kenny Loggin’s “Meet Me Halfway” made the almost run of the mill OVER THE TOP memorable for more than Sylvester Stallone adjusting his hat backwards) or a somewhat forgotten tune is resurrected thanks to it’s inclusion in a hit film (think “Bohemian Rhapsody” in WAYNE’S WORLD). There are those songs that have been with us for what seems like forever, but the moment they appeared in a classic scene, their association with their moving picture counterpart shines a light on them in a completely different way then we’ve ever thought of them (”Stuck In The Middle With You” in RESERVOIR DOGS). This is the beauty of the pairing of cinema and sound. 

There’s an old tale about when John Carpenter first screened his 1978 film HALLOWEEN for some executives. Without a score present one of the female audience members attending claimed it was the least scary film she ever witnessed. That same audience, complete with that same woman was shown the same exact film a short time later, this time with Carpenter’s now iconic score attached and that same woman was astounded by how frightening the film was. She was certain changes were made in the editing process, but the truth of the matter was it was only the music that was added. Proof that music can make or break a film.

Everyone now seems to know how important a film’s score can be. Try thinking of an INDIANA JONES film without whistling or humming John Williams’ “Raiders March” theme. Nearly impossible. The same holds true for pop music when used properly in a movie. Ever heard Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” on the radio and not immediately thought of John Cusack holding that boombox above his head? Bet you at least once thought of rockin’ the Ray Bans, white socks and a button down shirt and little else when you heard Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock N Roll”. Those of us familiar with those scenes seem to forever associate those tunes with those images.

Whether a film or scene needs a boost of adrenaline (Kenny Loggin’s “Danger Zone” in TOP GUN), a rousing anthem (Survivor’s “Eye Of The Tiger” in ROCKY III), a somber dramatic gut punch (Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” from TITANIC) or a crowd pleasing showstopper (Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes’ “The Time Of My Life” in DIRTY DANCING), music, pop music specifically in film is as important a piece to a movie’s success as the actors the director or the script itself are.

What are the greatest uses of pop music in film? Here’s my definitive top 10 list of the greatest songs to appear in a film and the scene they’ll forever be linked to. Note: I’ve excluded songs that were written specifically for a particular film, so although memorable and great, tunes like Kenny Loggin’s “Footloose” or Ray Parker Jr.’s “Ghostbusters” are not addressed.

10 - Harry Belafonte - “Banana Boat Song (Day O)” - BEETLEJUICE (1988)

Director Tim Burton’s use of Belafonte’s “Banana Boat Song (Day O)” covers two attributes I spoke of earlier. It’s a song that is almost completely juxtaposed against the occurrences on screen as well as a nearly forgotten song that found new life once it appeared in the film.

9 - Dire Straits - “Romeo And Juliet - CAN’T HARDLY WAIT (1998)

Right about the time gross out comedy was about to hit big with the likes of AMERICAN PIE (1999), a throwback to the teen angst filled rom-coms of the decade prior found itself a little audience. That film, CAN’T HARDLY WAIT had an onscreen couple you couldn’t help but root for in Ethan Embry and Jennifer Love Hewitt. Throughout the film, like many in a long line before it, our love struck protagonist Preston (Embry) tries to drum up the nerve and courage to ask his longtime highschool crush (Hewitt) out, in this case before their final graduation senior party comes to an end. One of the film’s more tender moments is when Preston, contemplating his next move before time runs out, does so while the Dire Straits ‘’Romeo And Juliet” sets the scene. It’s heartwarming and perfectly timed.

8 - George Thorogood And The Destroyers - “Bad To The Bone” - CHRISTINE (1983)

Used in films quite often, George Thorogood And The Destroyers’ “Bad To The Bone” is often played for laughs (TERMINATOR 2: JUDGEMENT DAY (1991)), but for my money it’s appearance in the opening scene of John Carpenter’s CHRISTINE is it’s best use. If ever a demonic, possessed inanimate object could ever speak of it’s evils and the perils to come, this would be the song that voices those warnings of the threats ahead.

7 - Chuck Berry - “You Never Can Tell” - PULP FICTION (1994)

It’s a tricky endeavor to place an almost three minute dance scene in the middle of a hard nosed crime film. Do it wrong and you’ll almost certainly lose your audience. Do it right and you create one of the most iconic scenes in motion picture history. Quentin Tarantino’s gangster picture is full of memorable dialog and occurrences, but arguably none that encompass exactly the absurdity and attention to detail Tarantino has become known for like the Jack Rabbit Slims dance scene. For the film buffs you have John Travolta cutting a rug once again onscreen, long after his SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER (1977) days and better yet doing so to such an iconic Chuck Berry song. Classic.

6 - Whitney Houston - “I Will Always Love You” - THE BODYGUARD (1992)

It’s a common misconception that Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” was written specifically for THE BODYGUARD. The truth of the matter is it was written by Dolly Parton way back in 1972, and released in 1974 as the second single from her album “Jolene”. It’s not even the first time the song appeared on film as Parton’s version was featured in 1974′s ALICE DOESN’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE, in 1982′s BEST LITTLE WHOREHOUSE IN TEXAS and in 1996′s IT’S MY PARTY. It’s the inclusion of the song in the 1992 Houston, Kevin Costner film that launched the song into cinematic history. Houston’s powerful vocals carry the tune farther than Parton herself was ever able to. Placed perfectly within the film itself, “I Will Always Love You” sparked the right emotions the film was striving for and became one of the most popular singles of all time.

5 - Righteous Brothers - Unchained Melody” - GHOST (1990)

Who would have thought that one of the men responsible for films such as AIRPLANE! (1980) and THE NAKED GUN: FROM THE FILES OF POLICE SQUAD! (1988) would also give the world one of the most romantic films of the 1990′s? Jerry Zucker’s GHOST captured the hearts of nearly everyone when it hit theater screens in the summer of 1990. It’s “potter scene” featuring the Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody” not only launched a litany of copycat humorous (some not so funny) spoofs, but it also catapulted the duo’s song to number 13 on the Billboard charts, almost three decades after it was first released and charted for the first time back in 1965. 

4 - Sam Cooke - “Twistin’ The Night Away” - INNERSPACE (1987)

***SPOILER*** There’s something sweet when two movie characters share “their song” in a film. Often times it’s done in such a manner that it purposefully tugs at the heartstrings. Joe Dante’s INNERSPACE takes a different route. With his lead protagonist Tuck Pendleton (Dennis Quaid) trapped inside unassuming store clerk Jack Putter’s (Martin Short) body, Pendleton, with the use of the music he often shares with his lost love interest (Meg Ryan) simultaneously loosens up the hypochondriac, nervous wreck Putter and wins back his girl, all thanks to Sam Cooke and a few remade tunes by Rod Stewart. The songs still play and offer realization to the characters, but it’s Dante’s approach that sets this film apart. The “Twistin’ The Night Away” dance scene is the cherry on top. Martin doing his best, vintage Martin to a fabulous Cooke tune. You can’t help but feel good after such a scene.

3 - Eric Clapton - “Layla” - GOODFELLAS (1990)

***SPOILER*** Now the meat and potatoes of this list. These final three embody everything I love about film. Talk about juxtaposition. Martin Scorsese’s usage of the outro from Eric Clapton’s “Layla” is the perfect example of this exercise in film and music marriage. As the deadly finale to the Lufthansa Heist rears it’s ugly head, the opening piano notes play over the camera rising above the hood of a parked pink Cadillac. Inside the bodies of two of the “expendable” participants in the heist. The montage then goes on to show the discovery of the other principal cast members who met the same fate. It’s a chilling scene that reminds the viewer that all the glitz and glam of the gangster life that came before usually ends in this manner. Chilling and perfectly orchestrated filmmaking.

2 - Night Ranger - “Sister Christian” / Rick Springfield - “Jessie’s Girl” - BOOGIE NIGHTS (1997)

***SPOILER*** 1997′s BOOGIE NIGHTS already boasts one of the greatest scenes in cinematic history, the opening three minute tracking shot that rivals the one found in 1990′s GOODFELLAS, but it also features one of the most tense scenes ever to grace film stock. With life unraveling at lightning speed, Dirk Diggler (Mark Wahlberg), coerced by his rag tag crew, agrees to try and sell baking soda in place of cocaine to local eccentric and unsuspecting dealer Rahad Jackson (Alfred Molina). As the scene unfolds, the tension and anxiety build for not only the characters, but the audience as well as Jackson, high as a kite on his product, along side a firecracker throwing Asian boy toy, insists Diggler’s gang listens to his mix tape of assorted 80′s gems. Remember, this film takes place in the Regan era, so the character’s excitement over being able to experience and share his vision on a single audio cassette makes perfect sense. As Night Ranger’s “Sister Christian” builds to a crescendo, Diggler’s discomfort with the entire ordeal becomes evident. As the song gives way to the more subtle “Jessie’s Girl” by Rick Springfield, Dirk’s right hand man Todd (Thomas Jane) grows impatient and turns the once shady deal into a full on armed robbery. Needless to say things don’t end well for nearly all involved, with Diggler barely escaping with his life intact. It’s a masterful achievement in filmmaking and one of the greatest scenes in 1990′s cinema.

1 - Grateful Dead - “Ripple” - MASK (1985)

***SPOILER*** I’ve championed this film and it’s ending on multiple occasions. For me, it’s the most emotional scene in any film I’ve ever seen. As Rusty Dennis (Cher) starts her day, California sun in full effect, she becomes unnervingly aware that her physically handicapped son Rocky (Eric Stoltz) has not gotten up and made it off to school. She cautiously enters his bedroom, knowing exactly what she’ll face, but does so with a brashness and sense of denial that sort of makes the day seem as any other. Her son is dead. We know it. She knows it. As her denial gives way to sorrow, then to frustration we overhear The Grateful Dead’s “Ripple” softly playing on the radio. Rusty completely breaks down, smashing things with reckless abandon. The song still plays. As the scene concludes her anger and denial rests into a soft acceptance. The song still plays. She reapplies her son’s pins from his dream travel map that he removed the night before, knowing it was to be his last night on earth. The song still plays. It’s gut wrenching. If you’re human with even the slightest bit of compassion for your fellow man this scene will wreck you.

HONORABLE MENTION - Stealers Wheel - “Stuck In The Middle With You” - RESERVOIR DOGS (1992)

***SPOILER*** Quentin Tarantino films could populate a list like this all on their own. Being as I went and chose his usage of Chuck Berry’s “You Never Can Tell” from 1994′s PULP FICTION for the list, I decided it would only be fair to go to the Tarantino well once. Leaving off his “Mr. Blonde torture scene” would make a list like this invalid, therefore I’ve included it as the honorable mention. No need to dig into the gruesome details of the scene, if you haven’t ever seen it for yourself you should. If you have, you know what I’m talking about. An upbeat song played over torture and murder. It doesn’t get more diverse in content than that!

[tsgaustintexas]

Due East x Rancho Pillow Mercado

Somehow, in this jampacked spring season, we caught up with Mollie Brown, Founder & Owner of Due East. We sat down with her between her most recent pop-up at the famed Rancho Pillow and an upcoming trip to Marrakesh - dream job, amirite?? Mollie is our go-to lady for when we want to add a little warmth to our space, her curated collection of textiles + home goods ethically sourced from Morocco are the best around. I’ve recently become the proud owner of two Due East poufs and I - and anyone that steps foot in my house - am obsessed. But after hearing all about Feast In The Field’s Mercado, I have my eye on an updated version of this classic... 

Keep reading for all the details and next time you shop with Due East, be sure to tell her that The Scout Guide sent you! xo - LAK 

Photos by Mollie Brown of Due East 

LAK: You recently popped up at Rancho Pillow’s annual Feast In The Field - tell us everything!

MB: It was a whirlwind! I attended one of the first Feasts in the Field a few years ago and have been dying to go back ever since but my schedule never allowed it. The stars aligned this year and I was asked to be a part of their pop up, Mercado. The good energy from the whole experience went far beyond the pop-up. The food, the music, the guests and the amazing humans working it ... it was magic.

LAK: Loving that there was a New Orleans twist this year, what were your culinary highlights?

MB: Kelly Fields of NO’s Willa Jean and Cheetie Kumar of Raleigh’s Garland put together a delicious menu for us, each night with a special twist. The highlight was definitely the lamb slow cooked over an open fire.

LAK: Kudos on being asked to be part of the Mercado, what products were shoppers loving on the most?

MB: Due East sold rugs and poufs but what I’m most excited about is selling out of a brand new line of kilim square poufs (they’re firm enough for a seat and can serve as a side table, too). They went so well that I have set up a pre-order for the new collection!

LAK: Did you have any time to go exploring - what was your favorite find?

MB: I didn’t get to head into the fields, but in the Mercado, I was joined by the most amazing artists and everyone contributed something special. Depetra from Houston makes stunning jewelry, Ellen Macomber from New Orleans makes one-of-a-kind wearables and Rancho Pillow had its own line of goods this year, too.

LAK: Now that you’ve had a little R&R what’s next for Due East?

MB: I have spent a lot of time in the last few months working one-on-one with retailers and designers on custom projects which I really enjoy. I love how personal it is. No project is the same and I really enjoy how much of a creative, collaborative process it is. All that said, I don’t have any plans to abandon the site. I still love that part of the business and it’s what started this whole thing in the first place!

LAK: Do you have any trips planned to return to the motherland?

MB: I’m packing now! I head back to Morocco April 11th and am so excited about getting back to the place that gives me constant inspiration.

LAK: So jealous! We will definitely be following you on Instagram. What is at the top of your sourcing list?

MB: This trip is half sourcing and half reconnecting with business partners and artisans, new and old. For product, I’m most excited to source some new vintage kilims for the poufs that sold out at the Mercado!

LAK: When will we get to shop your latest Moroccan haul?

MB: I’m slowly throwing up some of the pieces I sourced for the Rancho Pillow Mercado on my site and there are a lot of new gems in my office waiting to go live, so keep an eye on my Insta for the latest!

LAK: Let’s wrap it up with a fun question. Where’s your favorite spot to cool down on a hot day? Which are quickly approaching...

MB: I may be the only human in Texas who doesn’t love the water but my husband loves Deep Eddy and I’m perfectly fine to accompany him and lounge ;)

LAK: Let’s end with a fun fact: For those that don’t already know, where did the name ‘Due East’ come from?

MB: Texas and Morocco share the same latitude lines so if you were to head “Due East” from here, you’d hit Morocco! Another fun fact is that if you follow the actual central latitude line of Marrakesh, Morocco west back to Texas, it goes through a sparsely populated area in Texas with an old rock church in the middle of nowhere ... where I just so happened to get married. Chills, right?!

[madisonlilyrug]

VINTAGE RUGS IN HOUSTON | Call (713) 338-2803 * Madison Lily

Madison Lily 1727 Post Oak Blvd Houston, TX 77056 (713) 338-2803 https://madisonlily.com

Madison Lily Rugs designs, creates, and sources luxury handmade rugs in Houston, Texas.

With over 25 years of industry experience, we craft and deliver custom rugs to interior designers and discerning homeowners worldwide.

Our gallery offers a vast selection of in-stock inventory as well as a custom rug program that is unparalleled.

[thehoustondesigncenter]

June Showroom Spotlight: LGI Oriental Rugs

Read the June Showroom Spotlight featuring LGI Oriental Rugs, and learn about their amazing selection of rugs from across the world. From Kilims to antique and flat weave rugs, they offer a wide array of sizes and styles to fit any space.

Showroom Name LGI Oriental Rugs, Showroom 155

Name and role in the showroom Maria Jaffer, Owner

Can you give some background on LGI Oriental Rugs? LGI started in 1978 as a wholesaler to other dealers, in 1984 it became a Trade Showroom and that is still our business model. We sell only handmade rugs from all over the world including antiques, contemporary, flat weave, and vintage [rugs]. LGI has been family owned and operated since its inception, a fact that gives us a very personal stake on all the decisions and policies of the showroom. We have been at the Houston Design Center since 1993, so a little more than 27 years. 

What makes LGI unique?

We give an incredible amount of attention to service since we consider ourselves the designer’s representative when we interact with our clients.

What is your favorite product in your showroom right now?

It is difficult to choose a favorite product, but the new colors in contemporary rugs from Nepal are wonderful. We are also getting what designers are calling “happy rugs” from India that are bringing a lot of color to transitional pieces. We also have a very extensive collection of Kilims.

What is something you would want someone coming to your showroom to know? We would like designers to know that we have an incredible selection of new and antique rugs…we are to the trade so you have to come with a designer [to shop].

How have you adapted your showroom and business  to help make it a safe shopping experience?  We have very few surfaces but we clean them in the morning and also between clients. We have a small station where we have masks, gloves, wipes and disinfectant. We wear masks when clients visit and we recommend that clients wear them but we do not require them to do so, and we all practice social distancing.

Do you have any LGI news you want to share? We always have free pick up and delivery, and we also clean and repair rugs.

Get Connected with LGI Oriental Rugs

Showroom 155 in the Houston Design Center, to the trade only.

Website: lgiorientalrugs.com/ Email: info@lgiorientalrugs.com

from The Houston Design Center https://thehoustondesigncenter.com/2020/06/june-showroom-spotlight-lgi/

[hestiahomeservice]

Austin Home Remodeling: Do You Need an Architect or a Designer?

Getting reading for an Austin remodeling project for your home is an exciting time. Breathtaking spaces make life even better, and they’re a great investment as well. For the best results, it’s important to work with professionals. Expert contractors can ensure open and closed spaces look just right. Should you call an architect or a designer for your remodeling project?

Architects vs. Interior Designers

Architects tend to focus on the functional and structural aspects of home renovation. They’re experienced in things such as staircases and weight-bearing walls. If you’re planning on making significant changes to your home’s underlying structure, then calling an architect is a great idea, especially for interior and exterior modifications.

What about designers? These professionals also have experience with renovations, but their real strength lies in their sense of design flair. Instead of thinking primarily about building regulations and weight distribution, interior designers understand how space can make you feel. They take into account things such as lighting, ambiance, room layout, furniture, floor coverings, and other finishing touches.

The Benefits of Architects for Home Remodeling Austin TX

When you’re taking on a large-scale renovation project, an architect is often your best choice. Architects receive training in structural engineering, project management, and building design. They can conceptualize complex projects, coming up with amazing solutions to big problems. Architecture firms with high-tech programs can show you a 3D rendering of what your home will look like ahead of time.

For example, if you’re dying for an open-concept kitchen and dining room, but there’s a weight-bearing wall in the way, an architect can usually find a way to deliver what you’re looking for, even if it’s a little tricky. Here are a few other situations where certified architects are essential:

Whole-home renovations

Home construction

Multiple roof lines

Complex exterior add-ons

New bathroom additions

Rewiring or plumbing projects

Project coordination

Many architects have the gift of viewing your home as a complete work of art. They can keep rooms balanced and make sure the entire house follows the same aesthetic. This is useful when you purchase an older home and want to modernize things.

The Advantages of Interior Designers for Remodeling Projects

If your home renovation project primarily requires creativity and aesthetic changes, then an interior designer is an excellent option. These pros are talented at understanding your lifestyle, personality, and goals, and turning your home into a place you love. When it comes to creating expressive rooms with an individual “feel,” designers reign supreme.

For kitchen remodeling Austin TX projects, designers can help you pick out the ideal cabinets, countertops, appliances, tile, rugs, artwork, and other design elements for your vision. Whether you’re looking for something vintage, Victorian, country, chic, retro, minimalist, contemporary, or kitschy, these experts can turn your ideas into reality. While architects focus on the big picture, designers pay attention to every little detail. Any time you want a room to have that wow factor, you know who to call.

Are you dreaming of an en-suite bathroom that feels like a spa? A designer can help you choose the perfect tile, light fixtures, tub, shower, and bathroom vanity. At the same time, they may recommend layout changes to make the room more spacious.

How Can You Decide Between Architect and Interior Designer?

It’s not always easy to choose between architects and interior designers, especially since their skills may overlap. One way to decide who’s right for your project is to request a consultation and ask questions. Here are a few things you can ask:

What design services do you offer?

Who will handle project management?

How much previous design experience do you have?

What kind of certification do you have?

What kind of and how much insurance do you carry?

How would you solve this or that problem?

How much will this project cost me?

Make sure the professional you hire can meet all of your needs while sticking to your budget. Things such as experience, certification, and insurance are essential for all building experts. It’s OK to ask for references or a remodeling portfolio so you can be sure you’re working with the best.

At Hestia Construction & Design, we bring you the best of both worlds. Our team of designers and architects take care of planning, engineering considerations, artistic elements, and practical features for your home. Once you’re happy with the proposed remodel, we coordinate the entire project, so you don’t have to worry about a thing. To learn more about our professional qualifications, contact us right away, or schedule a free appointment.

Learn More

Austin Home Remodeling: Do You Need an Architect or a Designer? | Hestia Construction & Design — Houston, Texas

[universalpositions]

Where to Find the Best Rugs in Houston

Houston, Texas, is the state’s biggest city, the nation’s fourth-biggest metropolis, and a haven for art, theatre, culture, high technology, and huge businesses. Houston additionally has a sturdy industry of vintage Persian carpets, Oriental rugs, and hand-made carpets from across the world.

 Some pointers on making your rug last:

  An excellent stain remedy will save     you any spills from turning into stains. Check a nearby carpet supplier     for products and make certain to allow the right kind the cloth for your     rug (wool, polypropylene, olefin, etc.).

To calmly distribute wear, rotate     your rug every few years.

Spilled food located on your rug     can create mold and intense damage. If you are placing a plant on a rug,     make certain it has a water-proof dish beneath it.

 The Rugs in Houston sells Area Rugs, Persian Rugs, Round Area Rugs, Shag Area Rugs, Cheap Area Rugs, Stair Runners, Oversized Rugs, Oriental Rugs, and Custom Rugs.

 If you are searching for rugs in Houston, we carry the finest carpet and rugs.

 For more details, go to www.davidorientalrugs.com

[theshannonlewis]

Petrichor (Iwaizumi/Oikawa)

Haikyuu!!, IwaizumixOikawa, NSFW, 13,700 words.

When Iwaizumi stumbles into a vampire den on the night of the full moon, it seems like his luck has gone from bad to worse. But Oikawa is more than the lurking predator he tries to be, and promises to upend Iwaizumi's lone wolf existence before the sun rises. Iwaizumi POV, companion to Ichor by @carriecmoney​ 

Also on Ao3. 

Iwaizumi was twenty miles west of Baton Rouge when he heard a muffled burst and his semi veered sharply to the right. A blowout. Perfect. Because he needed one more thing to go wrong tonight. He clenched his jaw and eased on the gas, working against the tug on his steering wheel to correct the truck’s course, then pulled onto the shoulder and parked. He was three and a half hours outside Houston and moonrise was in two hours and fifty three minutes. Fifty two. He unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of the cab. Sweat started to prickle on his skin the second his feet touched the pavement, the heat and humidity in the air so heavy they were almost palpable. It made him hyper-aware of every hair and pore on his body, of the itch beneath his skin anxious to claw its way out. He did his best to ignore it.

This late, the two-lane highway was deserted, but he still checked both ways before dashing around the front of the truck. He knew exactly what had happened, but the sight of the ruined tire still made his stomach go cold. The shredded strips of rubber were letting out a hazy, burnt-smelling smoke. He stared at the mess for a long moment before shouting, “FUCK!” He kicked the tire and threaded his hands in his hair, pulling it in frustration. He wasn’t going to make it to Houston.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, flipped it open, and held it up, but he was in the middle of fucking nowhere, too far outside the city for more than one flickering bar. He paced back and forth, lifting the phone higher, angling it, praying for the bar to steady, not even daring to hope for a second one, but no. No reception. He flipped the phone shut and took a slow breath, forcing himself not to clench his fist down on the fragile plastic. He pulled open the passenger’s side of the truck and hauled himself into it, then started rummaging around in the glove compartment, looking for a map. He ran this route all the time, but made a point never to spend the night in Louisiana. He had people he could call at every stop from Durham to El Paso, but this stretch of I-10 was a dead zone - literally. The vampires played by different rules.

He unfolded the map on the dashboard, weighing one corner down with his phone and smoothing the other out with his palm. If there was one thing Louisiana had, it was overgrown places he could hide out in, and sure enough, a quick scan of the map revealed that he was barely a handful of miles outside a wildlife refuge. But there was no telling who else he might find there, and he couldn’t just leave a truck with the better part of a million dollars in merchandise abandoned on the highway overnight. They were expecting him before dawn, expecting to have enough time to get the cars on the lot before the dealership opened. He slammed his hand on the dashboard and swore again. It wasn’t even his fucking delivery to make – someone had called in at the last minute, and his boss had said: cover the route, or find a new job. And it wasn’t like he could just say, sorry boss, no can do, full moon tonight, you know how it is. Because his boss didn’t know, and Iwaizumi had gone to a lot of trouble to keep it that way.

What were even the chances of getting a tow at this hour? He wouldn’t be able to get the tire replaced until morning, but if he could get the truck off the road, he might have time to find somewhere safe to ride out his shift. He flipped open his phone and looked at the screen again. Still no bars. He wasn’t going anywhere if he couldn’t make the call. He jammed his phone in his pocket and started refolding the map. When it wouldn’t bend on the creases, he let out a seething breath and crammed the whole thing back in the glove box and slammed it shut, kicked the cab door open, and jumped back out of the truck onto the shoulder. According to the map, he was still miles away from the next rest stop, and he didn’t want to rely on the uncertain hope of finding a working payphone there. He thought he remembered seeing a truck stop off the side of the highway a few miles back, and heading back toward the city seemed like a safer bet either way. With any luck, he’d bump into an emergency call box before he got that far. He double checked the doors on his truck to make sure they were locked, then started walking back the way he came.  

Even after midnight he could still feel heat radiating off the pavement. The swampy night air was so thick with moisture it made his breathing sluggish and confused his sense of smell, intensifying his awareness of the faint, distant scents carried on the breeze – bloom and decay, stagnation and-

He stopped mid-stride and turned into the wind, closing his eyes and breathing deep. It was too faint to be more than paranoia – more than nerves – but the hairs on the back of his neck pricked at the musky hint of wolf he almost-smelled on the air, there and gone too fast to pin down. He started walking faster.

Two miles on, a postal freighter zoomed past him without slowing. He wasn’t holding out hope for catching a ride (and wasn’t in any shape to take one even if he got the offer), but if another driver saw his truck at the side of the road, there was some chance at least that someone would call 911 as a courtesy, and having even one car pass by was reward enough for resisting the urge to put the truck in neutral and drag the fucker to the next rest stop by himself.

He came to streetlights before he found a call box, and not long after that, he saw the truck stop he’d glimpsed in passing. Now that he was really looking, though, he realized the wide lot was empty and all the signs had been taken off the gas station. Sure enough, when he caught sight of the service sign leading up to the off ramp, the markers for gas and food had been taken down, leaving only an unfamiliar logo listed under lodging. But it was better than nothing.

With a quick glance in either direction, Iwaizumi dashed across all four empty lanes of the highway and the median in between, then jogged down the swampy grass incline that bordered the exit ramp and hopped the low chain fence that separated it from the abandoned truck stop. Up close, he could tell it had been out of use for a while: the windows on the small convenience store were boarded up, the paint was peeling off the overhang, and the dense trees had started to encroach on the edges of the lot. There was a payphone next to a metal cage that had probably once housed propane tanks, but when he picked up the receiver, there was no dial tone.

He sighed and looked back to the highway, letting his eyes follow the curve of the exit ramp. If the sign was right, there was a hotel nearby, and a hotel had an even better shot of being open and staffed at this hour than a gas station. He checked the coin return on the payphone for loose change out of habit, then started walking across the parking lot toward the road. He followed it for another half a mile before a narrow drive veered off into the trees. He almost missed the small sign with the hotel logo on it; like everything else, it was half-swallowed by the overgrowth.

At the end of the lane, he found a long, single-story motel with maybe a dozen rooms built in an oblong clearing. The building had probably been hip and new-looking sometime in the sixties, but now it was tired and faded, the paint washed out and the vintage sign short a few bulbs. It was the kind of place you wouldn’t stop for the night unless you really had to, but there was a light on in the front office, and that was all that mattered.

When Iwaizumi pulled open the front door, he was expecting avocado-green carpets and a pervasive, musty smell of age. He was less prepared for the reality – polished wood floors and wood paneling on the walls, expensive looking rugs, and a big candle-style chandelier illuminating it all. It was unbelievably tacky and unsettlingly out of place, like someone had tried to dress up the Bates Motel to look like the hotel from The Shining. The front desk was wide and grand – big enough for an actual hotel – but there was no one sitting behind it. Iwaizumi rang the bell and waited, but no one came. If there’d been a phone sitting on top of the desk, he might have risked grabbing it and making a call, but he didn't see one, and wasn't quite desperate enough to climb over the counter to look. There hadn’t been a payphone outside the building, either.

When minutes passed and still no one came, he started peering down the halls, looking for signs of life. To one side of the front desk was an enclave with a vending machine (broken), and to the other was a long hallway that led, presumably, to the rooms (deserted). Just beyond the desk, though, he found a beautifully carved wooden door with a small metal placard that read: Bar. He could hear muffled sound coming from the other side – music, maybe – and after a moment’s hesitation, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The bar was, if it was possible, even gaudier than the lobby – the walls draped with rich red fabric, a genuine mahogany bar running the length of one wall, and petite crystal chandeliers casting a dim light over the wide room. And, he realized, the music he’d heard was actually someone playing an honest-to-god grand piano at the far end of the bar. It was outrageously incongruous, not only with the exterior of the building and its location, but with the fact that there were only two other, poorly-dressed people there, both of them draped drunkenly over their tabletops. It was almost like-

-like the way you might decorate if you were a vampire making absolutely no attempt to pretend you weren’t a vampire.

He breathed in. The two people at the tables weren’t drunk, or sleeping. His eyes shifted back to the pianist, whose playing hadn’t faltered. Who hadn’t acknowledged his presence at all, in fact, but who was wearing a very small smile. He had elegant hands with long, graceful fingers, and played like he’d had a lot of practice. Just as Iwaizumi caught himself staring, the pianist’s gaze slid in his direction, a movement of eyes rather than a turn of head. It was just the barest sidelong glance, but there was hunger in it.

It was too late to leave. Iwaizumi knew, academically, that vampires were fast, but he didn’t have the practical experience to know if “fast” meant pinned to the door as soon as you turn around or chased out into the parking lot and gutted like an animal. Too fast, either way. He took a breath, walked past the bar, and followed the sign around the corner to the bathrooms. There was a payphone hung on the wall between the two bathroom doors, and he picked up the receiver and put it to his ear.

No dial tone.

He pressed down the hook, then let it up. Still nothing. He tried once more, but the line was dead. It was still a little less than two hours until moonrise, but even if he was able to force the shift early, he wouldn’t be able to do it fast enough for it to matter. If he was going to fight, it was going to have to be as a human. He breathed out and set the receiver back on the cradle, found a quarter in the coin return, put it in his pocket, and headed back into the bar.  

The pianist was now the bartender, graceful hands drying an old fashioned glass with a clean white towel. Iwaizumi sat down on the barstool across from him. “What’s your poison?” the vampire asked, his voice like honey with hooks in it.

“Actually,” Iwaizumi said, because if he was going to die anyway, there was no point in beating around the bush, “I was hoping I could use your phone.”

“Paying customers only,” he said, sounding so apologetic.

“I’ll pay you twenty bucks to let me use your phone.”

He tsked, soft and scolding, then drawled, “You ain’t from around here, are y’all?”

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. He didn’t know anyone that sounded that Southern that wasn’t trying too hard. “Alabama, actually,” he said dryly. “I’ll have a bourbon, neat. Can I use your phone?”

The vampire gave the glass a final wipe before setting it down in front of Iwaizumi and filling it. “In a hurry?”

“Just to make that phone call,” he said, swirling the liquid in the glass and trying to remember what hospitality rules vampires played by. He was pretty sure taking the drink wouldn’t protect him against his host, but he was less sure it wouldn’t oblige him to stay.

“What seems to be the trouble…” his eyes flicked down to the patch stitched onto the breast of Iwaizumi’s work shirt, “Hajime?” He said it the way no one but Iwaizumi’s mother ever did – smooth and fluid, the syllables familiar on his tongue, somewhere halfway between fond and teasingly reprimanding. Most people gave up after two tries and just called him “Jimmy.” It made Iwaizumi give him a second look, a quick glance at his eyes before he could check the impulse, then down to his lips, which wasn’t better. He leveled his gaze resolutely at the sharp line of the vampire’s cheekbone. The vampire’s mouth quirked, the hint of a smile, and he added with the little lilt of a question, “I.?”

“Iwaizumi,” he said, a second before thinking better of it.

“You wouldn’t think they’d need to use an initial,” he said, pouring himself some bourbon. He rolled the edge of the glass thoughtfully along his lower lip. “I don’t imagine there are too many Hajimes in Alabama.”

“I’m the only one I know,” he said.

The vampire hummed eloquently, amused and agreeing, and lifted his glass, “Oikawa Tooru. Yoroshiku onegaishimasu.”

If this guy – Oikawa – had any Japanese in him, it was as far-flung and watered down as Iwaizumi’s, but even with the flippant, ironic tone, the language suited him better than his overwrought drawl. Iwaizumi breathed out a soft laugh, lifted his glass, and clinked it against Oikawa’s, “Yoroshiku.”

He was surprised when Oikawa drained his glass in one long swallow, emptying it and leaving no room to suspect that he’d faked a polite sip. And if he was going to drink… Fuck it. Iwaizumi tossed back his bourbon. It wasn’t top shelf, but it was pretty good. “Now that we’re drinking buddies,” Oikawa said, leaning casually up against the bar, “you gonna tell me why you’re darkening my doorway this lovely evening, puppy?”

Iwaizumi smirked. It was like Oikawa had flashed the cards in his hand and winked, to make sure they were playing the same game. And since the game didn’t seem to involve either of them tearing the other’s throat out just yet, he said, “Blew a tire on my truck maybe two and a half, three miles west on I-10.”

Oikawa made a sympathetic sound, refilling Iwaizumi’s glass. “Hoping to call a cab, then?”

“A tow truck, actually.”

“Mmm, you sure? If you left now, you might make it to Homochitto.”

Underneath the reminder that he was trespassing, it was a surprisingly apt suggestion. Homochitto National Forest was the closest sizeable stretch of woodlands outside Louisiana state lines, and probably the only one he had a prayer of a chance of reaching before he started to turn. Any other route out of the state, he’d shift before he hit the border. Oikawa knew it, and knew that he knew it, too. Iwaizumi took a moment to consider. The tourism in New Orleans was enough to sustain the highest vampire population in the south outside Orlando, but unlike Florida – which was mostly new blood and spread out enough for the vampires and shapeshifters to keep to themselves – Louisiana was run by vampires who were very old and very territorial. All the major packs in the state were blood-bound to one leech or another, and if you weren’t pack-allied, you weren’t welcome. There were probably a handful of smaller packs, maybe a few pockets of loners, but without knowing who ran where, just being within state lines on the night of a full moon was all but asking to get attacked.

It was impossible to guess Oikawa’s age, but if he was a vampire of any standing, he probably had control of at least one pack – and if he did, he could probably, maybe, give him permission to run in his territory for the night. But he wouldn’t do it out of the kindness of his heart. In fact, it was entirely possible that he was stalling, cutting Iwaizumi’s options by running down the clock. If he was, there wasn’t anything Iwaizumi could do about it. If he tried to leave and Oikawa didn’t want him to, he wasn’t going to make it very far. Then again, if Oikawa wanted him out of the state, he wouldn’t keep trying to stall him.

“Can’t just leave my rig in the road,” he said finally. “If you’d let me use your phone, though, I’m sure I could get myself a lift. I know a few of the guys up by Homochitto that wouldn’t mind having me.” A handful of werebears that owned a bar in Jackson had the southern portion of the park on lockdown, but he’d managed to drink their big white-haired bouncer under the table enough times to earn himself an open invitation to run with them whenever he was in the area.

He could tell Oikawa hadn’t expected that, the subtle shift of his eyebrows revealing that he was maybe even just a tiny bit impressed. “I take it you were headed that way already?”

Iwaizumi shook his head. “Just came from there. I was on my way to Houston.”

“Houston?” Oikawa parroted back at him, and this time surprise flashed across his face, too plain to hide, before he was able to school his expression. “I was under the impression that Houston was predominantly feline-controlled.”

It was, and the pack that ran the east side of Texas was notoriously exclusive and aggressively territorial. But he and the packmaster were close; when he didn’t run with them, he usually rode out his shift in one of the pack’s heavily reinforced, soundproof storage units scattered throughout the state. Out loud, Iwaizumi said with a shrug, “I’m not picky about who I run with.”

It was a card well played, he could tell from the subtle curve of Oikawa’s lips. “And good at making friends.”

“I’m a friendly guy,” he said, letting something not so friendly show in his smile as he stood. He picked up his glass and swallowed down the last of his bourbon, then tossed some cash on the bartop. “Thanks for the drinks.”

“I can get your truck to Houston,” Oikawa said, plain and flat, no bullshit, smile dropping.

“And?” he said, looking at Oikawa expectantly.

He only realized he’d looked him in the eyes again when Oikawa said, “I can give you anything you want.” He felt the pull of it, more than words, like hot fingertips on his skin, like hazy lights and wisps of steam, sparks in the periphery of his awareness. He was momentarily drawn in by it, felt the pull of his breath leaving his body, his vision narrowing down to the sly promise in Oikawa’s heavy-lidded eyes. His feet were moving on their own, making him lean into the bar, bringing him closer to Oikawa, solidifying the ghosts of lips and hands, the phantoms of soft, short breaths dancing through his mind.

He could feel himself falling, but he could still see the trap. He slammed his hand down on the bar hard enough to make his palm sting, forcing himself to focus on the pain and tear his eyes away from Oikawa’s. He blindly grabbed Oikawa by the front of his shirt and jerked him forward, then growled, “I want to make a fucking phone call.”

Oikawa’s eyes widened minutely, and then he laughed, loud and genuine. The whispering, dreamy feeling sloughed away, but Iwaizumi’s skin was still prickling, like someone had breathed, softly, on every inch of his body at once.

“You’re going to break my heart, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said, then stumbled a little when Iwaizumi let go of his shirt and shoved him backwards.

“Your mind games won’t work on me,” he said, only falling back a step before forcing himself to stand his ground.

Oikawa leaned forward on the bar, wearing a lazy smile and resting his cheek on one hand, “No, they won’t.” He looked smug and self-satisfied, a sated cat with a feather sticking out of its mouth. “An illusion’s no good when what you want is right in front of you.”

Iwaizumi grit his teeth, refusing to rise to the bait. “I think I’ll take my chances with your pack.” Oikawa’s smile faltered, just a little. “That’s who I smelled on my way here, right? Up in the wildlife refuge?”

The smile came back, but it was a little less genuine-looking. “I don’t think even your diplomatic skills are a match for my bloodhounds.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he said again, and this time he put his back to Oikawa and started for the door.

“They’ll kill you, Hajime.” The way he said it made Iwaizumi stop in his tracks, because it didn’t sound like a gambit – he sounded tired and resigned. “The reason you smelled wolves is because the leader of the pack doesn’t turn back except for the week around the new moon. He’s completely rabid, and the others are too afraid go against him.” Iwaizumi’s shoulders stiffened. It was the politest-possible way of saying the packmaster was a flesh eater. He had to resist the urge to let his eyes wander over to the bodies still slumped on the tabletops. So it was true; the Louisiana vampires really did use wolves as their own personal garbage disposals.

Iwaizumi clenched his fists, “Are the others-”

“No,” Oikawa said flatly, “and for what it’s worth, he was… a gift.” The word had an edge to it that made it very clear the “gift” had been unwanted. Before Iwaizumi could ask why he didn’t put the beast out of his misery, Oikawa added, voice dripping with disdain, “From the Bishop.”

Iwaizumi sighed. He’d spent years trying to stay as far away from pack and pact politics as possible, but one blown out tire and he’d stepped right in it. “How big is your pack?”

“Seven wolves total.” If it was true, it was a big pack – too big for the patch of land they had to run in – and with a vampire-appointed rogue werewolf leading it, it stank of the worst kind of gamesmanship. Iwaizumi wrinkled his nose in distaste, but Oikawa didn’t seem to notice. “I could mark you as a pack member, but even if I did, without an introduction I think Mad-Dog-chan would tear you to shreds.”

“What’s your offer?” Iwaizumi asked. He was running out of options, but the fact that Oikawa had tried to mind control him meant there was something he wanted that he couldn’t take by force. Iwaizumi just had to figure out what it was.

“I’ll get your truck to Houston and no one will know it wasn’t you who drove it. And I’ll give you a room where you can ride out your shift, and safe passage until sunset.”

“What’s your price?”

“One pint.”

It was Iwaizumi’s turn to show his surprise. “A pint,” he repeated. “Of my blood?”

Oikawa gave a small nod. “From the vein, or no deal.”

He took a moment to survey Oikawa’s expression, careful not to look him directly in the eye. He knew there was a trap somewhere in the offer, but he needed time to find it. He needed to stall. “Show me the room.”

“Of course,” Oikawa said. He stood and walked around the bar, passing Iwaizumi at a casual distance, then gave a flick of his hand, motioning for him to follow.

Oikawa’s movements were smooth and graceful; he knew how to carry himself, and how to draw attention to his… assets. Iwaizumi forced himself to look up at the back of Oikawa’s head. He was a few inches taller than him, which Iwaizumi found inexplicably infuriating, broad through the shoulders and lean in the hips and, shit, he was staring at his ass again. Iwaizumi dropped his gaze to the ugly carpet and forced himself to think. If all Oikawa wanted was his blood, he could easily have taken it by force – and more than just a pint. Which meant he had something else to gain. Was it the bite itself? But no – as far as he understood it, establishing a blood bond was more involved than just a bite or a fluid exchange. It was possible Oikawa wanted to trap him in his safe room – which was why he’d asked to see it before agreeing – but again, if vampires were as strong and fast as he’d been told, Oikawa wouldn’t have even needed to negotiate; he should have been able to just take whatever he wanted.

But he hadn’t, and for the first time it occurred to Iwaizumi that, just maybe, it was because he couldn’t.

Oikawa had drained and killed two humans earlier that night, which was strange enough by itself; he’d shown genuine-seeming distaste for the idea of feeding corpses to his hounds, and his location paired with his mind control abilities should have guaranteed him a steady and discreet supply of blood, assuming he played catch and release with his customers. Instead, he had two fresh bodies on his hands and was, apparently, still hungry after drinking both of them dry. That was, what, close to three gallons of blood? He should have been glutted, but instead he had a starved look in his eyes. It didn’t add up.

Iwaizumi walked half a step faster, narrowing the distance between them, then took as deep a breath as he dared to without being conspicuous about it. He caught it on his third controlled inhale – the subtle, cloying stench of decay, almost imperceptible beneath a layer of tasteful, expensive cologne. Oikawa was hurt.

For a brief moment, he considered turning around and bolting. He wasn’t certain he could outrun Oikawa, but he was pretty sure, now, that he could outmuscle him, which made speed less important. Even if he could get away, though, he didn’t have anywhere else to go. He still didn’t have a working phone, there was no safe place for him to hide, and he was running out of time to find a solution. The offer Oikawa had made him was the best one he could hope for; no other vampire would be so quick to cut a deal, and he doubted a blood-maddened werewolf would give him a fair shake, either. Oikawa’s offer was a fair one, and his injury – whatever it was – gave Iwaizumi all the bargaining power.

They reached the end of the hall and Oikawa unlocked the last door – room 13, because of course it was – and as soon as he opened it, Iwaizumi realized the motel’s resemblance to the Overlook Hotel was more than just coincidental, because Oikawa’s room looked exactly like the hotel room from Interview with the Vampire: walls papered in gold and red, opulent furniture and heavy curtains done in red silk and velvet and brocade, polished wood floors, brass chandeliers and unlit candelabras, a second, somewhat smaller piano, and a lace-covered wood coffin in the center of the room in place of a coffee table.

Iwaizumi snorted. Vampires didn’t even need to sleep in coffins. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a movie guy.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Oikawa said, throwing open a heavy set of curtains on the far side of the room to reveal, rather anticlimactically, a plain steel door. He wore the key on a chain around his neck, and he unfastened the clasp and slid the key free, tucking the chain in his pocket as he unlocked the door. “This key opens the lock from both sides,” he said, handing it to Iwaizumi as he pushed open the door, “and it’s the only one.” Oikawa gestured for Iwaizumi to lead the way inside. “Ladies first.”

“Age before beauty,” Iwaizumi countered.

Oikawa’s lips quirked, somewhere between irritated and amused, and he asked coyly, “Is that a question?” He didn’t wait for a response before heading through the door, and Iwaizumi followed after him. It was a squat room with concrete floors and cinderblock walls, both covered in claw marks, and there were heavy iron chains and manacles hanging from the wall that had obviously been used, frequently and recently. There was a drain in the center of the floor, and the concrete around it – and beneath the manacles – was stained. There were no windows, and only one caged light bulb in the center of the ceiling. Iwaizumi tested the key on the inside lock and tried to remember if there had been a time in his life when getting tours of people’s private dungeons would have seemed unusual or even unsettling. It had been a long time, and he’d seen a lot of private dungeons in the interim. This one wasn’t bad.

“How’s the door frame?” he asked, pressing his hand to it and putting his weight on it.

“I’ve had the door dent but never seen the frame give,” Oikawa said. “And the concrete is reinforced. You’d snap your neck on it before you broke through.” He smirked. “Of course, if you’re worried, I could always chain you up.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Too bad. You’d look good on my wall, Iwa-chan.”

“I take it you don’t have any qualms about mixing business and pleasure.”

“If there’s no pleasure in it, I want no business with it,” Oikawa said, a little too smoothly. It was a pretty good line, even if it sounded practiced.

“How do you want to do this?”

“Well, you should probably start by taking your clothes off,” Oikawa said. He didn’t sound like he was joking. When he caught Iwaizumi’s skeptical look, though, he clarified, “Unless you’re hiding a spare set of clothes somewhere, I assume you’d rather not turn in the ones you’re wearing.”

“I’ve got plenty of time before moonrise,” Iwaizumi said flatly. “I think I’ll make it.”

Oikawa let out a low, rolling chuckle. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

He didn’t know well enough what it was he didn’t know to be able to argue without showing his ignorance, so instead he said, “But you have. I take it you have a taste for werewolf blood?”

“It has its charms.”

“They say, for a vampire, it’s like dropping acid.”

“They say a lot of things,” Oikawa said, and it was only when he pushed the door shut with a heavy clang that Iwaizumi realized they’d been circling each other. Oikawa’s posture had shifted from feline to lupine, his shoulders squared and body angled in a display of dominance and challenge that Iwaizumi had responded to on instinct. Even without eye contact, the way Oikawa moved made Iwaizumi prickle with eagerness, the giddy desire to clash and find out who would come out on top.

“Why only one pint?” Iwaizumi asked.

“Because if I’d asked for more, you would have said no, but once we get started, you’re going to beg me not to stop.”

They moved forward in tandem, closing on each other but still not touching, and Iwaizumi found himself smiling. Oikawa was good. If he hadn’t known better, he could have easily mistaken him for a wolf, and the beast inside him did – he could feel it swelling beneath his skin, reaching out and expecting an answer, eager to test itself. “You must spend a lot of time around wolves.”

“I like to watch,” Oikawa said, his smile like a knife.

They lunged at each other, grappling, a brief locking of arms before they both turned and danced back and away. Oikawa was cool to the touch and more muscular than he looked. More importantly, he was strong, strong enough to send a little thrill up Iwaizumi’s spine. “Why not go to your pack for blood?” he asked, his voice gone rough and gravely as he and Oikawa moved in tight circles around each other, drawing ever closer together. There weren’t many shifters who dared to dance with him at all, and fewer that stood their ground even half as well as Oikawa did.

“I’m sure you’ll be surprised to hear they're not very happy with me right now,” Oikawa said. He closed the last of the distance between them and pressed his hand flat against Iwaizumi’s chest, deftly undoing the top button on his shirt. This time, he didn’t dance away.

Iwaizumi let out a low, rumbling sound that was too contented to be a growl, and it vibrated through his voice, “But are they too stupid to have noticed, or are you hiding it because you’re afraid they’ll attack you?” He pressed his hand to Oikawa’s chest, mirroring his touch, but instead of bothering with his buttons, he dug his fingertips into the spot where Oikawa’s shirt didn’t sit quite right.

His aim was good. Oikawa hissed in pain as Iwaziumi’s fingers pressed into nothing where there should have been muscle. A second later Iwaizumi was on his back on the floor, Oikawa on top of him, pinning him down, fangs fully extended, the front of his shirt darkened and damp with ichor where Iwaizumi had touched him.

Iwaizumi didn’t fight, didn’t even attempt to defend himself. He just said, “They say werewolf blood has healing properties.”

“They should learn when to stop talking,” Oikawa said, sharp teeth turning his voice sibilant.

“I want a token of yours to grant me safe passage through the state,” he said, “and to meet with your pack on the next new moon.  For that you get my silence, and enough of my blood – one pint at a time, at my discretion – to heal yourself.”

Oikawa let out a hollow, humorless laugh. “Then you’re going to be in my service a long, long time, puppy.”

“Show me,” he said.

“I could kill you,” Oikawa said, cupping his hand around the side of Iwaizumi’s neck, pressing his thumb down, gently, on his Adam’s apple.

“Are you sure?” he asked, a little prickling thrill racing through him. He had to fight the urge to put Oikawa on his back and pin him down.

Oikawa forced Iwaizumi’s face to one side, baring his neck, and Iwaizumi let him. “Let me drink and I’ll show you.” His voice was tight with restraint – with hunger.

“Show me and I’ll let you drink.”

Oikawa shifted his grip up so his thumb and forefinger dug into the soft spots beneath Iwaizumi’s jaw, forcing his head back, then leaned over him, pinning him to the floor. He smoothed his free hand blindly down his chest, keeping his eyes on Iwaizumi as he searched for the buttons on his shirt and plucked them open. Four buttons down, he pulled his shirt out of the way and showed him. He had a hole in his chest. It was maybe the size a pool cue would have left if it had been run right through him, but diamond-shaped and puckered instead of round, just barely off the mark from his heart. The wound was discolored around the edges and seeping a thick, dark liquid. “Another gift,” he said, “from the Bishop.”

“Silver?” Iwaizumi asked, reaching up to touch and framing the wound with his hand.

Oikawa gave a small, tight nod. “Barbed arrowhead, right next to my heart.” Iwaizumi recoiled. There wasn’t much that could leave a lasting wound on a vampire, but even a small piece of silver would burn up as much as blood as Oikawa could drink until his body ran dry. In such a sensitive place, it would be almost impossible to get out himself without running the risk of piercing his own heart. Someone else could probably remove it, but someone else could just as easily give it that last little nudge into his heart, too. “Turns out it’s a surprisingly practical and efficient way to put down a rival.”

“Fucking politics,” Iwaizumi said.

Oikawa hummed, both halfhearted agreement and dismissal, but it turned into something more contented when Iwaizumi turned his head to one side, good to his word, and offered up his neck. Oikawa leaned down over him, close enough to brush the tip of his nose along the prominent vein in Iwaizumi’s neck, inhaling deeply. “You smell like rain,” Oikawa said, the movement of his lips the barest ghost of a kiss. Iwaizumi gasped and reached up to thread his fingers in Oikawa’s hair.

Oikawa groaned and parted his lips, and Iwaizumi could feel the points of his fangs gliding along his neck as he opened his mouth wide. Before he could bite down, though, Iwaizumi tightened his grip on Oikawa’s hair and pulled his head back. Oikawa made a curt, angry noise, but Iwaizumi held him in place and asked, “How long will the marks last?”

“It’s too bad you asked,” Oikawa said, resisting Iwaizumi’s grip by running the tip of his tongue along the side of his neck. Iwaizumi grunted, low and hot, and Oikawa snapped his teeth at him. “If you were human, they’d be gone by morning. For you, maybe a few months, depending on how rough you like it.”

“Not on the neck.”

“Unless you want a bruise that’ll last twice as long, I need an artery.” He slid a hand between them, smoothly popping the second button on Iwaizumi’s shirt. “Your wrist will work, or your elbow.” He made quick work of the rest of the buttons, then slipped his hand under the shirt, pushing it down off one shoulder and murmuring against the curve of Iwaizumi’s neck. “Or if you really want to make sure no one sees it…” His hand slid down, fingertips toying with the buckle on Iwaizumi’s belt.

“Nice try,” Iwaizumi said, catching Oikawa’s wrist and pulling his hand away.

“I was only trying to be discreet.”

“I’m sure,” Iwaizumi said.

He pushed Oikawa back and sat up, shrugging the rest the rest of the way out of his shirt. He did it quickly, so he wouldn’t get caught with his hands tied up in the sleeves, then tossed the shirt aside. He reached back over his head and hooked his thumbs in the neck of his black tanktop, but before he could start to pull it off, Oikawa said, “Stop.”

He grunted. “I don’t want to get blood on my-”

“Shut up.” Iwaizumi’s gaze jumped to Oikawa’s face before he could check the instinct. His eyes were dilated inhumanly wide, brown irises swallowed up almost completely by his pupils, and he’d gone dangerously still. “Don’t move.”

Iwaizumi froze. He’d mistaken Oikawa’s easy, graceful movement for catlike, but he was more like a snake in tall grass, so fluid he seemed boneless. The inky voids of his eyes looked hypnotized. He slid a hand along the underside of Iwaizumi’s left bicep, cool fingertips angling his arm. Iwaizumi dropped his weight back on his right arm as Oikawa leaned into him and started working slow, wet kisses to the inside of his bicep, sucking on the muscle until he found the pulse thudding beneath the skin. Oikawa closed his eyes and groaned, opening his mouth again, and this time when Iwaizumi felt the press of fangs against his flesh, he didn’t protest. He flexed his arm, and Oikawa made a rough, hungry sound and bit down, hard.

Iwaizumi had been bitten before, but not like this. Being bitten hard enough to draw blood hurt, but after the first sharp stab of teeth breaking skin, the pain quickly gave way a slow, burning ache – the skin-tinglingly familiar sensation of being penetrated – and then to heady, dizzying pleasure as Oikawa started to drink. Iwaizumi curled his captive arm around Oikawa’s head and lowered himself back to the floor, closing his eyes. He’d never felt anything like this, like Oikawa’s mouth was sending a current through his veins, electrifying him between every heartbeat. His pulse throbbed and Oikawa swallowed, and it was like a tug that ran through his whole body, an insistent pull at something deep inside him. He didn’t realize what it was until it was too late, and only had time to grunt out a harsh fuck before Oikawa pulled and it unraveled him – a knot coming undone, a cage coming unbarred – and his wolf flooded through him, prematurely unchained.

He arched his back and moaned, feet scrabbling for purchase on the floor as it started to take him, teeth going sharp in his mouth, nails hardening, hair starting to grow thicker on his body. It wasn’t like moonrise, though, he realized – his wolf hadn’t been set completely free; more like the lead was being lengthened, one chain link at a time. It was intoxicating; his senses heightened as his natures mingled, but his transformation still held at bay. Oikawa had been right – Iwaizumi had no idea how much blood he’d lost already, and he didn’t care. He didn’t want him to stop.

As Oikawa continued to drink, Iwaizumi started to feel his own blood moving beneath the vampire’s skin. At first, it was bizarrely like butting up against another shifter, touch accompanied by a heightened awareness and deeper, more fundamental understanding, but instead of dipping into Oikawa’s mind, it was like he was seeing himself mirrored back in another body, his wolf staring at him from underneath someone else’s skin. He jerked, revolting against the alien feeling and trying to recoil from it, but Oikawa held him firm until they reached a tipping point. Until his body started to absorb the blood and make it his own, until Iwaizumi stopped seeing a mirror and started seeing Oikawa.

He didn’t feel like another shifter, now – there was nothing lurking inside him to answer Iwaizumi’s call – no warmth of life or familiar connection. Instead, he was like a still, glassy pool, infinitely deep and dark, in the shelter of a cool, empty cave, and Iwaizumi was filling him with life, lighting a fire and dipping toes in the water, letting warm laughter echo down hollow tunnels.

It was almost like wearing a second set of skin, like it was him bringing strength to Oikawa’s limbs, filling him up and reviving him, warming his skin and making his heart beat and heat pool at delicious points on his lean, muscular body. He could feel himself being drawn, inexorably, to a hungry point in the center of Oikawa’s chest where the arrowhead sizzled and burned, the shape of it becoming clearer with each throbbing pulse of blood. He hated that sharp piece of silver, blindly and furiously, hated the way it grazed against their heart every time they drew in a breath.

He curled his hand in the front of Oikawa’s shirt and tugged, pulling it tight across his back. Then he twisted his hand, wrapping the fabric around it, and pulled until the seams gave out and the cloth shredded. Oikawa made a low sound that was not, precisely, a protest, surprised enough to relax his jaw and lose his grip on Iwaizumi’s arm, and that was all the opportunity Iwaizumi needed. He flipped Oikawa onto his back and pinned him to the floor, pushing one bloody arm across his throat, knees at his hips, shins pressed down hard on his thighs. Then he pushed his thumb and forefinger into the hole in Oikawa’s chest.

Oikawa screamed, choking on the blood still thick in his mouth and clawing at Iwaizumi’s arms.

“I’m not trying to kill you,” Iwaizumi said, his voice hardly human as he pushed deeper into the wound, “but I might if you keep moving.” Oikawa went breathlessly still beneath him, and Iwaizumi let up his grip on his throat, just a little, as he continued to probe the wound with his fingertips. He expected to find at least a little bit of the arrow’s shaft to grab onto but found the threaded base of the arrowhead instead. It wasn’t attached to anything – like the shaft had been precisely removed, or the arrowhead had been driven into place by force. It wasn’t an accident that it was wedged in such a treacherous spot. “Don’t move,” he said, trying to get a grip on the small piece of metal. It was like pinching the tip of a hot soldering iron. When he was pretty sure he had it, he pressed his wrist to Oikawa’s mouth and growled, “Drink.”

Oikawa sunk his teeth into Iwaizumi’s wrist, and Iwaizumi pulled.

The base of the arrowhead was small and slick with blood, but the threading was enough to give him purchase, and he held onto it tightly, not letting it slip from his grip as he drew it out. He could feel the barbs like they were pulling out of his own body, shredding everything they touched and, inevitably, dragging like claws along the vital muscle of Oikawa’s heart. But the silver was already pulling blood to the wound, and Iwaizumi’s blood was potent, flooding in to seal the cuts as soon as the poisonous metal was removed. Oikawa gasped as Iwaizumi ripped the arrowhead free, his eyes wide and dazed and his jaw going slack, freeing Iwaizumi’s wrist.

Iwaizumi held the arrowhead up, blood and flesh sizzling and smoking, and growled out, “This is my token.” He held it in front of Oikawa’s face until his eyes registered it, until he nodded, then he flung it across the room and swore, looking down at his burned fingertips. The silver had all but melted his skin, leaving deep, ridged indentations where he’d gripped onto the threaded base of the arrowhead. The wounds would be slow to heal, and they were on his dominant hand, but at least he couldn’t feel the phantom barbs digging into his chest anymore. That thought made him realize that the intense feeling of connectedness between them was starting to subside. His blood had become Oikawa’s blood and was beginning to burn away as it repaired the wound in his chest. He was surprised by the feeling of loss as the fading connection pushed him back into his own body, his own mind, leaving Oikawa closed to him.

“Is this how you always make friends?” Oikawa gasped out. His voice was steady, almost teasing, but he was trembling. The blood smeared across his mouth made him look wide-eyed and pale. “Random acts of heroism?”

“I keep my promises.”

Oikawa laughed, abrupt and edging on hysterical. “Who are you?”

He made a gruff, irritated noise and said, “You could at least try to remember my n-”

Oikawa pulled him down and kissed him. Iwaizumi groaned, hard, and leaned into him, letting out a low, contented rumble deep in his chest. Oikawa’s mouth was still thick with blood, but Iwaizumi didn’t care; Oikawa knew what he was doing. It was immediately obvious that he was more practiced at navigating two mouths filled with sharp, pointed teeth; he knew how to bite gently enough not to break the skin, how to angle his head to keep their fangs from clacking together, how to lick and tease without bloodying his tongue on their teeth. Iwaizumi shifted on top of him, putting his weight on his forearms to either side of Oikawa’s head so he could lean down into him, and when he did, Oikawa coiled his legs around his waist and rutted up against him. Apparently now that his blood wasn’t racing frantically to heal him, it had had a chance to relocate. Iwaizumi groaned and thrust down against him instinctively, but it made his focus slip, and he sliced the tip of his tongue on the sharp edge of Oikawa’s fang. Oikawa moaned in answer, drawing Iwaizumi’s tongue into his mouth and sucking on it greedily.

The next thing he knew, he was on his back on the floor and Oikawa was straddling his thighs and tugging at his undershirt. He sat up, settling Oikawa in his lap and raising his arms, but Oikawa only got as far as tugging the shirt over his head before his hands fell to Iwaizumi’s belt, undoing the buckle and then the button on his jeans. Iwaizumi tugged his shirt the rest of the way off and tossed it aside. “You could at least buy me dinner first,” Iwaizumi said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that kept it from sounding as teasing as he meant.

Oikawa showed just a moment of surprise before a slow, lazy smile spread across his features and he started to laugh, low and sultry. Then he closed his eyes and tipped his head back and to the side, baring his pale, pristine neck – perfectly submissive, perfectly prey-like – his voice smooth and velvety. “Help yourself.”

Iwaizumi lunged. Before even he had time to process Oikawa’s offer, he had an arm around his waist, a hand in his hair, and his teeth in Oikawa’s neck. Oikawa made a soft, heady little sound that wasn’t quite pained as the sharp points of Iwaizumi’s fangs broke through his skin. Blood welled into his mouth, thick and slightly sweet on his tongue, and when he swallowed, his wolf flared to life, surging through him hard enough to make him sway.

Oikawa gasped. “What was that?”

Iwaizumi growled and bit harder, gripped tighter, and shuddered against him, because his wolf hadn’t just stirred beneath his skin, it had pushed through him and flowed into Oikawa, and Oikawa had felt it. He whined, a low, animal sound, each swallow of Oikawa’s blood expanding his awareness and fortifying his wolf, until it stretched between them like pulled taffy. It was breathtakingly intimate – something that shouldn’t have even been possible, something that was rare even among shifters – his most private self rubbing contentedly against a still, glowing ember in the center of Oikawa’s chest. It wasn’t a wolf, but it was something like it – something more than the lifeless, graveyard chill he felt before; something essentially him. He whimpered, soft and needy, and Oikawa loosened his arms from around Iwaizumi’s head, leaned down over him, and sunk his teeth into his shoulder.

His blood pulsed into Oikawa’s mouth, and when he swallowed it down, something more than blood moved between them – the ember burning bright and igniting, sending a rippling rush of warm air racing through Iwaizumi, the sultry heat of a pleasured sigh. It was an echo of Oikawa’s failed mind control, but – it hadn’t failed. It had showed him exactly what he wanted – not Oikawa the desperate, starving vampire, but Oikawa as he really was: that cool, fathomlessly deep pool turned scalding hot, a subterranean spring that filled the air with thick, velvety steam; the slide of wet skin and slow, breathless kisses; the embrace of hot water and strong hands, every sound echoing off the high stone ceilings.

It flowed into him, an answer to the part of himself he’d given over to Oikawa, each swallow of blood laying Oikawa bare, peeling back his layers and exposing the hidden corners of him. Iwaizumi didn’t know what Oikawa was seeing in return, didn’t know the price of this exchange, but he didn’t care. Oikawa was letting it happen, was letting him see, and that alone was enough to be dizzying even without the electric hum of Oikawa sucking on his shoulder, keeping the wound from closing, keeping the blood flowing, keeping the connection open between them. Memories that weren’t his own flickered at the edge of his awareness – faces and smells and half-forgotten moments – and beneath them the faintest whispers of Oikawa’s thoughts – gratitude, awe, hunger that was only partially for blood, and a soft, hushed murmur of his name, Hajime, Hajime, looping in the back of his mind, a tug that pulled at the core of Iwaizumi’s chest, calling his wolf and coaxing it loose with every repetition. His change was so close his skin was tight with it.

They drew back at the same moment. Oikawa gasped, “We have to stop,” just as Iwaizumi groaned, “Do it.”

Oikawa threaded his hands in Iwaizumi’s hair and pulled, holding his mouth away from the pulsing wound on his throat and murmuring, “You don’t know what you’re asking.” Iwaizumi looked over at him, dazed and bewildered, and when Oikawa realized he wasn’t going to bite him again, he started rubbing gentle circles against Iwaizumi’s scalp with his fingertips. “If you keep drinking, you’re going to become my thrall.”

Iwaizumi let out a raspy laugh, because that wasn’t what he’d meant – was the last thing on his mind, though he could feel it at the forefront of Oikawa’s. “Don’t pretend that’s not what you want,” he said, Oikawa’s thick, dark blood dripping from his open mouth. “I know how badly you want to chain me up and point me at your enemies.”

“I don’t think you’d take well to a leash,” Oikawa said a little murmur of amusement in his voice. He turned his face into Iwaizumi’s hair and lowered his voice, soft and serious. “I want you willing or not at all.”

They were miles beyond concepts like “willing” and “unwilling,” but that wasn’t something a vampire would understand. He liked the idea of a blood bond even less than most other kinds of obligation, but it didn’t really matter anymore; in decades of searching and dozens of packs, this was the first time he’d ever had his wolf slide under someone else’s skin like it belonged there. And he didn’t think it was a trick of the blood, because when he pulled Oikawa into another kiss, slow and hard, the boundaries still blurred between them. With his eyes closed, it was hard to tell where he ended and Oikawa began, a tangle of lips and hands and sensations that made it easy to forget they were two instead of one. When he drew back, he was breathless. “My wolf is already yours to call,” he said, pressing their foreheads together, “and if you don’t realize it, you’re a fucking idiot.”

“Hajime,” Oikawa breathed, but it was more than enough to make Iwaizumi let out an abrupt, startled moan, his back arching and something important straining and popping in his chest, his hands shifting to claws and the color draining from his vision as his eyes turned golden and lupine.

“Fuck,” he said, scrabbling at the concrete and twisting beneath Oikawa, “fuck, please.” He saw the smile slide across Oikawa’s face, but before he could test this newfound power and say his name again, Iwaizumi flexed his misshapen hands and barked, “I don’t care how pretty you are, if you say it again before you take my pants off, I’ll claw you in your smug, shitty face.”

Oikawa smoothed his hand up the center of Iwaizumi’s chest, laying him out on his back, then slid down between his legs, murmuring teasingly, “You think I’m pretty, Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi growled, slamming a fist down hard enough to crack concrete, but Oikawa was already making quick work of the last of Iwaizumi’s clothing, tugging off his shoes and socks, then pulling his jeans and underwear down and off in a single fluid motion. “Please,” he said again, rough and harsh, because moonrise still hadn’t come, and with his wolf curled at Oikawa’s ankle like an obedient dog, he couldn’t force the turn himself, no matter how achingly close it was. “Please.”

But instead of saying his name again, Oikawa smoothed his hands up Iwaizumi’s thighs, then leaned down over him and licked a slow line along his cock. Iwaizumi’s hips jerked and he had to resist the urge to curl a hand in Oikawa’s hair as he closed his mouth around the tip.

“Mother fuck,” Iwaizumi growled. “I swear to god, if you bite my dick, I-”

Oikawa’s lips curled, the promise of a smile, and he hummed before plunging down, taking Iwaizumi all the way into his mouth.

It was too much, the mounting pressure of the wolf inside him, the pull of Oikawa’s mouth (just slightly cooler than it should have been), the muddied boundaries of his awareness. It overloaded his senses, blurring the line between pleasure and pain. It was the first time his impending shift had ever felt good, the first time it had been something he was eager for, rather than the particular, chronic pain that he was so accustomed to.

Oikawa proved as deft with his mouth and careful with his teeth as he had been when they were kissing, and Iwaizumi found himself mesmerized, watching Oikawa as he moved. This time, though, it wasn’t magic or mind tricks that held his gaze – it was the new and different kind of hunger he saw in Oikawa’s dark eyes. It wasn’t long before Iwaizumi was drawn bowstring tight, trembling with the effort to keep himself together – balanced on the cusp of too many sensations. A heartbeat before he tumbled over the edge, Oikawa drew back, mouth pink and wet, then struck, snake-fast, sinking his teeth down into the hollow of Iwaizumi’s thigh.

He moaned, loud and sharp, as his orgasm tore through him and his wolf broke free of its chain.

Nothing had ever felt so good, the surge of pleasure and relief darkening over his vision as his muscles started to tear, fur flooding over his skin and his joints dislocating as his limbs reshaped and remade themselves. He only noticed Oikawa was still drinking when his pelvis shifted and his leg didn’t slide into place at his hip because Oikawa had a death grip on it. Iwaizumi let out a sharp, pained yip and kicked, and though it felt feeble – like he was moving underwater, half drunk and hardly himself – it sent Oikawa flying across the cell, blood blossoming on his arm where claws had struck flesh.

As soon as Oikawa was gone, pain flooded over him, but with one last wrench of his spine, Iwaizumi’s shoulder blades slid into place and his tail twitched to life, his body settling the rest of the way into its new shape. Iwaizumi closed his eyes and panted, staying spread eagle on his back on the floor. He ached exactly as much as he always did after he turned, his limbs loose and useless, but he could still feel the whisper of Oikawa’s presence in his mind like silk, and he was dizzy with blood loss, his heart beating just a little too fast in his chest.

He opened his eyes as Oikawa knelt down beside him and started running cool fingertips through the shaggy, deep brown fur on his belly. Iwaizumi let out a soft huff, but stretched under the attention, letting Oikawa pet him. “You’re a big boy,” Oikawa cooed. Iwaizumi snapped his teeth at him, but made no genuine move to stop him, and when Oikawa stilled, looking down at him pensively, Iwaizumi leaned in and gave the wound on his arm an apologetic lick. Oikawa curled his fingers under Iwaizumi’s chin, stroking the soft fur there, and murmured, “I’ve never seen anyone so calm after a turn.”

Iwaizumi chuffed, then leaned in and bumped his cheek against Oikawa’s before tucking his head gently under his chin. He didn’t know if Oikawa understood the gesture, if it meant anything more to him than just a touch, but it was enough that Oikawa coiled his arms around his neck and rested his cheek against the top of his head.

“Where did you come from?” he asked no one in particular, and Iwaizumi huffed again, butting his head against Oikawa’s chest, then yawned and flopped onto his side, stretching and kicking his legs out in front and behind him before curling up next to him. When Oikawa didn’t get the point, Iwaizumi let out a soft little bark to draw his attention, then rested his face between his paws and sighed. Oikawa laughed. “Okay, okay, I’ll let you sleep,” he said, starting to push himself to his feet.

Iwaizumi grabbed the hem of Oikawa’s pants with his teeth and let out a little grumble of displeasure.

“Or not?”

Iwaizumi shifted on the floor again, uncurling and rolling, just slightly, onto his back, showing his belly.

Oikawa’s face went placid for a moment, picking at a puzzle behind an impassive expression. Then, just as abruptly, he started to laugh. “Oh my god, you want to cuddle.”

Iwaizumi growled, rolling back onto his stomach defensively, but when Oikawa dropped back down to the floor, he stilled. Oikawa wrapped his arms loosely around Iwaizumi, one draped over his side, the other around his neck, and nuzzled his face down into the thick, soft fur on his flank. Iwaizumi rested his head gently on top of Oikawa’s and huffed out a little sigh, closing his eyes.

***

When Iwaizumi woke, he was alone and naked, but his cell was no longer empty. There was a chair by the door with folded clothes and towels, his cell phone, two protein bars, and a small bag of cookies set neatly on the seat. There was a piece of paper tented over the back of the chair, and a big bottle of apple juice and large metal basin sitting on the floor next to it.

Iwaizumi pushed himself to his feet and found that he was still sore and a little lightheaded from the night before. He braced himself against the wall and took stock of himself. He hadn’t quite managed to shed all the dried blood and other bodily fluids between his transformations, but the bite marks were far more healed than he expected them to be – like they were weeks old rather than hours. Oikawa’s blood had probably expedited the process, but he couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of himself. He looked like a vampire junkie – like he’d been bitten too many times for even a vampire’s saliva to heal the marks, like he’d given himself over to a whole nest of vampires at once for the thrill of it.

…But the burns on his fingertips were almost healed, too, and other than being a little, well, drained, he felt surprisingly good. Strong. Really hungry. He staggered across the length of the cell and grabbed one of the protein bars and the note off the back of the chair and read while he ate.

Iwa-chan:

As promised, your truck made it to Houston this morning before the dealership opened, and no one is the wiser. The pickup in the parking lot is all yours for the day; the keys are under the visor, just park it outside your dealership when you’re done with it and someone will pick it up. The token you requested of me is in the right front pocket of your jeans, which I believe resolves both of our debts to one another.

Oikawa Tooru

P.S. My apologies for the lackluster accommodations; while I was indisposed, the water heater broke and I haven’t had an opportunity to have it repaired; the only running water in the building is currently in the kitchen, which incidentally has no food in it. Also, I’m unsure about the particulars of your physiology, but be cautious of your blood pressure and iron levels, refrain from operating any heavy machinery, etc. etc.

Iwaizumi read the letter over twice more and frowned. “Debts resolved” wasn’t quite what he’d been hoping for, though he shouldn’t have expected anything else. He was a means to an end, and lucky to be that rather than a meal, or an example. Maybe what they’d shared the night before had been a trick of the blood after all, or maybe Oikawa just hadn’t felt it, or wasn’t able to. It wasn’t like he had much point of reference. He crumpled the paper and dropped it on the floor, then squatted down next to the big metal basin, which was filled with water that had probably been piping hot some time around dawn, but was now just a degree or two warmer than room temperature. It felt good anyway when he splashed it on his face and arms, washing away the sweat and blood and other things. He dunked his head in the tub and scrubbed his hair. When he was about as clean as he thought he was going to get, he lifted the tub and carried it over to the drain in the center of the room and poured the whole thing over his head, rinsing himself off.

He shook off the excess water, toweled dry, and dressed. In the pocket of his jeans, he found the arrowhead affixed to a black leather cord, and he carefully slipped it over his head, making sure to leave it resting outside his clothing so the silver wouldn’t burn him. He turned his phone on while he was eating the second protein bar, and of course now – now – the fucking thing was working just fine, and from the look of it, he’d been bombarded by messages over the course of the morning:

BossMan: Great work tonight, Jimmy! Sorry about the short notice, but you really pulled through for us!

BossMan: Next round’s on me!

CatBreath: Yo, where are you? You’re missing brunch

CatBreath: Seriously man, we’re not waiting for you. You should see what Bo ordered

CatBreath: Dude, I just went by the storage facility and they said you didn’t show last night. Are you okay??? Message me back when you get this

BirdBrain: BEHOLD THE NEST:

That message came with a picture attached: a slightly blurry snapshot of a stack of Belgian waffles piled eight high, layered with bacon and whipped cream, set atop a massive pile of hashbrowns dotted with fried eggs.

It was the last set of messages that surprised him, because half of them he’d apparently sent himself, to a contact that hadn’t been in his phone the night before.

Me: Had a great time last night. Wanna do it again?

⋆*♡Tooru-chan♡*⋆: You’ll have to ask nicely, Iwa-chan~ My time is very valuable, after all.

Me: Well, I know you said that we’ve fulfilled our debts to each other, but I can’t help but feel like it would be cosmically unfair of me to give you one little taste of my (frankly magnificent) cock and NOT spend at least ten consecutive hours showing you what I can do with it.

⋆*♡Tooru-chan♡*⋆: You make a very compelling point. Dinner and a movie, next week?

Me: I’ll be dinner, you can pick the movie ৲( ᵒ ૩ᵒ)৴♡*৹

⋆*♡Tooru-chan♡*⋆: Hmm, sounds delish (ᵒᴗ-)b

⋆*♡Tooru-chan♡*⋆: Zoltan: Hound of Dracula, or The Forsaken?

Iwaizumi snorted. Apparently Oikawa wasn’t ready to let him slip away after all, if not quite for the reasons he’d hoped. He scrolled through his contacts and changed “Tooru-chan” to “Booty Call,” then stopped, hesitated, and changed it to “Oikawa” instead. He bit his lip, chewed it, then swore softly and changed it back to a simple “Tooru” before pulling up his messages and typing out a reply.

Me: How about From Dusk Till Dawn or An American Werewolf In London?

Me: I’ll bring some popcorn for you to smell

Me: And get your hot water fixed. I’m not actually a dog.

He pocketed his phone before he could think too long about it, then ate the cookies Oikawa had set out for him and drank half the apple juice straight from the bottle while he wiggled his feet into his shoes. He double checked the room for any stray belongings, then fished the key to the cell out of his pocket, only to realize the door was unlocked. He shook off his surprise. Of course the door was unlocked – he had the only key. Still, he hesitated with his hand on the knob. Deep down, he expected to find the hotel empty. Even if Oikawa was genuine in his desire to see him again, a secret hideout that wasn’t a secret wasn’t much good as a hideout, and for a vampire a resting place that was known to others wasn’t a safe place to rest.

But when he pushed the door open, he found Oikawa’s room exactly as it had been the night before… and Oikawa fast asleep on one of the low sofas. He was stretched out on his stomach, arms curled around an overstuffed pillow, face turned to one side, evidently completely nude except for a red satin sheet draped low on his hips that spilled over onto the floor.

Iwaizumi stilled in the doorway, breath caught in his throat and heart squeezing off-time in his chest, because Oikawa had left himself defenseless as a newborn - not just where Iwaizumi could find him, but directly in his path to leave. With an unlocked door between him and an unfed werewolf. Oikawa was too smart and too careful to do that for someone he only counted as a booty call.

Iwaizumi approached cautiously, not wanting to wake Oikawa and wanting less to startle him, but he hardly stirred as Iwaizumi knelt beside him. In sleep, he was changed, and not merely softened in repose. In the dim light of the room, Iwaizumi could see what he hadn’t the night before: the old, mottled tissue of a bullet wound on the back of Oikawa’s shoulder and a small hooked scar to one side of his chin, both obviously from before he’d been turned. The more he looked, the more subtle differences he found – there was a smattering of freckles across the bridge of Oikawa’s nose and the broad span of his shoulders, more faint, pale lines of scar tissue etched into his skin, and the littlest finger was missing on his left hand – all visible only because he wasn’t awake to conceal them. The gouge he’d left on Oikawa’s arm the night before had mostly healed, as had the neat lines of claw-sized puncture wounds framing his spine that Iwaizumi didn’t remember putting there, but the bite on his neck looked just short of fresh, and that made something primal and possessive bubble up inside him and come out as a low, pleased rumble.

Oikawa made a soft, sleepy sound and shifted subtly, murmuring, “Hajime?” The sun was still up, so Oikawa couldn’t wake up short of someone smashing open a window or setting him on fire, but he made a good effort of it, propping himself on one elbow and reaching up to card his fingers through Iwaizumi’s damp hair, a lazy smile on his lips. “You’re all wet.”

Iwaizumi breathed out a laugh. “Go back to sleep.”

A small furrow of thought – of worry – marred Oikawa’s forehead, and the unguarded openness of his expression made him look terribly young. “You’re coming back, right?” he asked, settling onto his back and brushing the pad of his thumb along Iwaizumi’s cheekbone.

“Apparently I have a cosmic injustice to right,” he murmured, grinning at the slow flush and lazy, satisfied smile that spread across Oikawa’s face. After a moment, he let his gaze drop to Oikawa’s chest. The wound there had closed, but the cross-shaped scar was fresh and puckered, the skin around it still faintly discolored. He reached up and touched the mark, gently, and asked, “How’re you feeling?”

Oikawa breathed out a chuckle, just a low rumble in his chest, and stretched out on the sofa. “Like I’m not dying for the first time in six months.”

Iwaizumi recoiled. “Six months?”

His reaction made something change in Oikawa’s expression – the drowsiness disappearing and the small scar on his chin vanishing with it. Oikawa waved a hand dismissively, the sleep-heaviness of his voice becoming affected. “An exaggeration, Iwa-chan. No one could survive-”

“Liar.” Oikawa stilled, gaze leveled at him like an expectant cat. “Don’t lie to me,” he said. When Oikawa shifted his eyes away, a little petulant, Iwaizumi leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Oikawa’s chin where his scar wasn’t anymore. Oikawa drew in a soft breath, relaxing into him by inches and closing his eyes. “Don’t hide from me,” he said, letting his voice drop low as he moved to kiss Oikawa’s lips. Oikawa moaned softly, reaching up to curl his hands in Iwaizumi’s hair, but he didn’t pull him away. Iwaizumi pressed his hand to the base of Oikawa’s throat, pushing him back down against the couch and looking him in the eye. “I’ve seen you. I know you, and unless I’m very mistaken, I think you know me, too. So let’s make a point to be honest with each other, okay?”

Oikawa looked up at him, his gaze unfocused, then allowed himself a long blink, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “When you realized what I was, the first thing you did was turn your back on me. I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on in my life.”

The haze of sleep was settling over him again, unconsciousness tugging him under, his scar and freckles just a suggestion on his skin but slowly becoming more visible. Iwaizumi leaned down and pressed a kiss to the corner of Oikawa’s mouth, murmuring, “No one’s ever been able to call my wolf before.” He rested his forehead against Oikawa’s temple, voice dropping to a low breath. “You’re the only person it’s acknowledged as an equal.” It was a confession Oikawa wouldn’t understand, but one that weighed in his chest and left him feeling winded when he said it out loud.

Oikawa reached up and pressed his hand, deliberately, to the base of Iwaizumi’s sternum, and Iwaizumi shuddered and closed his eyes. That simple touch was enough to draw his wolf to the surface, to make it butt affectionately against Oikawa’s palm.

“Please tell me you can feel this, too,” Iwaizumi gasped, bracing his arm on the back of the sofa and leaning on it heavily.

By way of an answer, Oikawa gave a small curl of his fingers, carding them through the invisible strands that stretched between them. It was like being stroked on the chin, and Iwaizumi let out a soft, involuntary little croon.

“I can call all the wolves in my pack,” Oikawa murmured, winding and twirling the tendrils of Iwaizumi’s wolf around his fingers, “but this is new.”

Iwaizumi let out a low grunt. “What about this?” he asked, pressing his hand to the center of Oikawa’s chest and reaching for what he knew was hidden beneath the surface. It answered his call, like a puff of steam released from an opened door.

Oikawa gasped, arching up into the touch. “New,” he panted, “very new.” Iwaizumi couldn’t help but smile. Not a trick of the blood, then, and something appreciably different than what Oikawa shared with the wolves that were bound to him. “I thought I was hallucinating last night,” he said between heavy breaths, “but this…”

“Let me show you,” Iwaizumi murmured, drawing Oikawa’s hand away from his chest and leaning down over him, letting the reaching parts of both of them find each other and grab hold. Iwaizumi let out a shuddering sigh. It felt like belonging. It felt like being whole. And when Oikawa pulled him down into a kiss, he was drawn in by more than just lips and hands.

He kissed Oikawa slow and languid, leaning over him so their chests pressed together and slowly losing himself in the sweet softness of Oikawa’s mouth and the inexplicable sensation of being joined. It was only the sharp, unexpected taste of blood welling up in his mouth that reminded him that Oikawa wasn’t in full possession of his faculties. When he drew back, nursing the cut on his tongue, Oikawa curled a hand in the front of Iwaizumi’s shirt, eyes closed and breathing hard, and panted, “You should probably take your pants off immediately.”

It was more than tempting, but Iwaizumi shook his head. “You’re half asleep. I don’t even know how you’re awake at all.”

“No rest for the wicked?” Oikawa breathed, eyes heavy-lidded.

“You must not be so bad, then,” he said, brushing Oikawa’s bangs back and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Oikawa whined. Iwaizumi smiled and murmured against his skin, “You wouldn’t want to fall asleep while I’m fucking you, would you Tooru-chan?”

Oikawa moaned, but it was hard to tell if it was the promise or the endearment that brought the flush to his cheeks. “Not fair.”

“Get some sleep,” he said, brushing his fingertips along Oikawa’s jawline. “I’ll call you the next time I’m going to be in town.”

“You could stay,” Oikawa said, leaning into his touch. “Until sunset.”

Iwaizumi shook his head again. “If I don’t get back to Houston soon, a lot of people are going to start scouring the road looking for my body, and I don’t want to bring them to your doorstep. Not until I’ve had a chance to explain in person.” He grunted. “And as much as I appreciated the cookies, if I don’t eat some real food soon, my muscles are going to start to atrophy.”

Oikawa groaned, long and low, reaching up to press a hand to Iwaizumi’s mouth. “There’s nothing less sexy than logic, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi kissed the palm of his hand and murmured, “You look cute with freckles.”

Oikawa blinked up at him, and Iwaizumi forced himself to stand. Oikawa dropped his hand, but it still felt like they were anchored to each other, rooted as firmly as though they were clasping arms. “You’re going to come back?” Oikawa asked again.

“I’m going to come back,” Iwaizumi said, then grinned. “As long as you promise not to put any more shitty emojis on my phone.”

“There’s no purer form of expression than kaomoji,” Oikawa said, but the end trailed off in a yawn. He stretched out on the sofa, closing his eyes, and was asleep again before Iwaizumi could muster a comeback.

It was a damn shame all the arguments he’d made against staying were true, because on his back, Oikawa was a portrait of muscles and pale skin against blood red fabric. One long leg peeked out from beneath the silk sheet, which looked like it might slide to the floor if he stared at it hard enough. He would almost have accused Oikawa of posing himself intentionally if it weren’t for the uncomfortable-looking way his arms had tumbled back around his head and the fact that he was snoring. Even so, he was absolutely stunning.

Iwaizumi sighed. There’d be time to stare later. He slipped out into the hall and pulled the door shut behind him. The hotel was deserted and eerily quiet, but he retraced his steps back to the lobby and headed out into the parking lot. There was a vintage baby blue Chevy pickup parked right in front of the door, and as promised, it was unlocked. He slid into the seat, ran his hands over the steering wheel, and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the artificial vanilla scent of an air freshener. Then he fished his phone out of his pocket, pulled up his missed messages, and started typing a reply.

Me: Hey TK, call off the search party, I’m fine.

The response was almost immediate.

CatBreath: WTF HAPPENED MAN? WHERE ARE YOU?

Me: Long story. Face-to-face long. You free tonight?

CatBreath: I’ll make time. But seriously, wtf? Some people at your work said they saw you this morning after moonrise.

Iwaizumi sighed, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

Me: Wasn’t me.

Me: I got stranded in Louisiana last night. Blowout.

He chewed his lip, then let out a slow breath. If anyone would be able to help him figure this out, it was TK. Before he could decide out how to phrase what he had to say, though, a new message popped up.

CatBreath: Holy fuck. You’ve been hiding out?

Me: No. I walked right into a vamp den. I thought I talked my way out of it, but…

Me: Fuck

Me: I’m like 98% sure I just pair bonded with the Deacon of Baton Rouge.  

This time, there was a long pause.

CatBreath: Is that even possible?

Me: Beats the fuck out of me. I was hoping you would know

CatBreath: Shit.

CatBreath: I’ll ask around.

CatBreath: Did he bind you?

Me: No. He made a point not to.

CatBreath: Weird.

CatBreath: …is he hot?

Me: He’s fucking perfect

Me: And it scares the shit out of me

[justsportsgalore]

The Houston Rockets fought through adversity tonight, as they battled injuries, poor officiating and tired shooting legs, but they used top performances from both James Harden and Chris Paul to put away the Milwaukee Bucks and win their thirteenth straight game, 115-111.

Harden finished with 31 points, 6 rebounds, and 5 assists, and Paul finished with 25 points, 5 rebounds, and 6 assists, including three consecutive three pointers in the second half and two straight vintage CP3 mid-range jumpers with under a minute to go to seal up the Houston victory.

The Rockets won despite being without Luc Mbah a Moute and Clint Capela, who were both out with injuries, and with The Beard playing through a sore knee. They also shot just 11-35 from beyond the arc, a function of some tight Milwaukee close outs and the second night of a back-to-back, but the Rockets were able to get to the hoop when the threes weren’t falling.

In addition to The Beard and CP3, Houston also got a strong performance from Nene, who finished with 16 points on 7-9 shooting, including several thunderous dunks, to go along with 4 rebounds. The big man from Brazil was helping to fill in for Capela, despite it being the Rockets’ second game in as many nights.

Houston also got 16 points from Eric Gordon, 13 from Trevor Ariza, and P.J. Tucker had a 10-point, 10-rebound double double and played his usual rugged defense. Tucker helped hold Giannis Antetokounmpo to under .500 shooting (10-22) and had several key box outs of the Greek Freak, including a key one down the stretch.

Antetokounmpo did lead the Bucks with 28 points, however, and he also added 9 rebounds, 5 assists, and 4 steals.

Milwaukee also got 23 points from Kris Middleton, 20 from Malcolm Brogdon and 19 Eric Bledsoe, but they too were on the second night of a back-to-back, and couldn’t take advantage of a shorthanded and tired Houston team.

With the win, the Rockets are now 24-4 and still haven’t lost with Paul on the court. They lead the Western Conference standings by a game and a half over the Golden State Warriors.

The Bucks fall to 15-13 and hold a half-game lead over the Miami Heat for the eighth spot in the Eastern Conference standings.

The Rockets now have Sunday night off and continue their home stand on Monday night against the Utah Jazz, where Houston will be looking for their fourteenth consecutive victory.

There’s a little way to go yet, but snag a few more straight in the win the column, and we can start wondering if this team can match the 22-game streak of the 2008 squad. The Rockets play their next three in a row at home, all against teams with losing records.

[tsgfortworth]

TSG Fort Worth 2019 Holiday Gift Guide

We are so excited to present our 2019 Holiday Gift Guide!  We have scouted high and low for some fabulous finds for you to SHOP LOCAL right here in Fort Worth! 

The holiday season is the most important time of year to support small businesses, so be sure to spread the local love by sharing this gift guide with friends and family and tell them SCOUT sent you!  

FOR HER

Red Petal Earrings // Lola + Lina // $285

Python Belt // Birdie // $115

Bogg Bag // b kids // $74.95

Hooded Blazer // Birdie // $102

Stretch Bangle Bracelet // Birdie // From $30-$36

Links Necklace // Kori Green Designs // $110

Black Booties // Esther Penn // $198

Voluspa Candle // Hale House // $42

Faux Fur // Esther Penn // $138

Krewe Sunglasses // You Are Here // $395

Clear Bag + Strap // Clearly Handbags or Hale House // $60 bag, $45 strap

Leopard Cashmere Scarf/Stole // You Are Here // $885

SOMETHING SPARKLY

Gigi Clozeau Necklace // You Are Here // $200-$245

Gold Ring Holder // PS The Letter // $105

Pave Yellow Crystal Picture Frame // PS The Letter // $240

Glitter Gold Acrylic Clutch // Lola + Lina // $66

Expand Earrings // Amon Carter Museum Shop // $62

Butterfly Ring // PS The Letter // $575

Hoop Earrings // Lola + Lina // $198

Sorellina Blue Sapphire Ring // You Are Here // $4500

BuDhaGirl Bracelets // Hale House // $120

Sparkley Sweater // Esther Penn // $88

Deco Burst Earrings // Birdie // $46

Mid Century Vintage Glassware // Park + Eighth // $185 for 4

FOR THE LITTLE ONES

Paper Pinhole Camera Kit // Amon Carter Museum Shop // $12

Footed Pajamas // Babies on the Blvd or Lila & Hayes // $46

Benedict the Chicken Blabla Doll // Babies on the Boulevard // $62.95

Herend Bootie Collectible // PS The Letter // $75

Jellycat Reindeer // Hale House // $15

Babiators // b kids // $36

Cross Picture Frame // Babies on the Blvd // $89.95

‘L is for Lemonade’ by Michelle Marlow // $14.95

Teleties Hair Ties // b kids // $7.99

Native Rain Boots // b kids // $40

Black Watch Plaid Belt & Bow // The Bow Next Door // Bow $18-$29, Belt $52

Marker Set // Amon Carter Museum Shop // $22

FOR HIM

Luggage Tag // PS The Letter // $35

Necktie Travel Roll // PS The Letter // $48

Washing Machine Parts, Fort Worth, TX – by William Greiner  // Artspace 111 // $650

Canvas Cooler // PS The Letter // $149

Exclusive Blue Remington Cowboy Tie // Amon Carter Museum Shop // $58

Insulated Cup/Koozie // Hale House // $25.95

Dueling Pistols Red Blend Wine // Ellerbe Fine Foods // $80

Jon Bonnell’s Cookbook // Amon Carter Museum Shop // $40

Watercolor Playing Cards, additional cities now available Dallas, Houston, Midland, San Antonio and Tyler // Wabash Road // $30

Get $#@! Done Coffee Mug // Righteous Foods // $25

FOR THE HOME

Table Lamp // Jessica McIntyre Interiors // $375

Jan Barboglio Cutting Board // PS The Letter // $470

Reflections, Art by Betsy Edwards 40 x 48 // Park + Eighth // $4,400

Outdoor Throw Pillow by Nancy Lamb 16 x 16 // Artspace 111 // $78

‘Beige is Not a Color’ Coffee Table Book, by Carlos Mota // Simple Things // $75

Pair of Cathay Ku Turquoise Vases // Jessica McIntyre Interiors // $215 each

Vintage Ming Jar // Jessica McIntyre Interiors // $150

Botanic Soaps // Amon Carter Museum Shop // $2 each

Vintage Rug 4’7” x 2’6” // Simple Things // $590

Simon Pearce Pitcher // PS The Letter // $160

Anecdote Candle // Simple Things // $24

[turkishrugarts]

Excited to share the latest addition to my #etsy shop: 2'8x12'9 ft, TURKISH RUNNER RUG, Farmhouse Rug, Rug 3x12, Vintage Rug, Handmade Rug, Wool Rug, Christmas Decor, Wool Rug, Rustic Rug, Runner . #designer #home #interior #architecture #interiordesigner #design #furniture #room #southernliving #texas #Austin #Houston #Dallas #SanAntonio #dejavudesigns #gardener #artistry #artist #inspiration #inspire #animals #cottage #home #magnolia #chic #kitchen #bathroom #garden bedroom #livingroom https://etsy.me/2XQCBV8 (New York, New York) https://www.instagram.com/p/B5XLJ0sJt3E/?igshid=127ibbw2exjmc