#all roads lead to turnabout

[star-light-shadows]

[mellowfilmmaker]

Ace Attorney Bonds of Fate: Turnabout Forgiveness Day 4 Trial (Part 1)

The fifth chapter of Turnabout Forgiveness has been posted on Ao3. 

Here’s a link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40703037/chapters/114179242

What Happens in this Chapter: 

Trucy’s Secret is revealed 

A bet is settled 

Klavier finds a new lead singer

The Culprit is revealed 

Turnabout Forgiveness Summary:

During the last few years, Franziska Von Karma has been trying to improve herself. She took a sabbatical from prosecuting and has been going to counseling for her many issues. During this time she has became a more calm and approachable person, but is now riddled with guilt at her past misdeeds. She started her road to redemption by confessing to using falsified evidence in multiple trials so they can all get a fair retrial, resulting in her own disbarment. Her next step in the road to redemption is to host a gathering where she invites many of the people she has wronged in the past in order to apologize and make amends. This includes Phoenix Wright and many of his old friends. At the gathering, Phoenix actually gets along with and befriends the new Franziska. Unfortunately, things take a dark turn. Phoenix and  are both shot. Phoenix miraculously survives. When the lights turn on, Franziska is holding a gun, but she tearfully insists that she didn’t do it. Now Phoenix is defending his former rival/new friend in court against the surprisingly adept rookie Prosecutor Heal Yur Payne. This is despite Phoenix being one of the people Franziska is accused of shooting, and the fact that if Franziska is innocent, then the true killer is likely one of his friends.

[browniefox]

Railway Wires

Underground au. Elesa's first time in the Battle Subway.

The only light was provided by Elesa's flashlight. The rails on the old abandoned subway line lead the way forward, but Elesa's ears were constantly warning her of sounds that weren't even there, the fear of being run over by a subway train a constant pressure. What if this line wasn't as abandoned as she thought? What if she'd heard the whispers of her gym trainers incorrectly? They had been fairly quiet.

You would think, given the circumstances of battling in Unova, that gym trainers, allowed to battle and train against each other, wouldn't feel the tight restriction of pokemon battles as sharply as the rest of the citizens. Well, Elesa had once been a gym trainer herself and now looked over many, and she was of the opinion that it was the exactly opposite. Gym trainers were locked in to a typing, were locked in a place, knew the thrill of the battle but so rarely were able to actually put that knowledge to use. 

Elesa had accepted the battle system of Unova for years. She'd played the game, she'd become a gym leader. But she couldn't deny that she'd felt the chafe of the rules for years and years now. They say it used to be different, that battling with others used to be done in the streets and the roads, and it gave such freedom and understanding, and a sort of adrenaline that a moderated and watched and carefully logged battle couldn't create. Of course, they also said that it was dangerous to put that kind of power into the hands of the people, that roads and sidewalks and buidlings had been ruined far too often. Things are better like this, safer like this, they insist. 

But really, it was sort of inevitable that she would be brought here, at least the once. 

The trio of pokeballs hanging from her hip felt odd, a weird shape and heaviness. They shouldn't, but knowing that the contents weren't her normal team somehow made the pokeballs entirely alien elements as they gently bumped against her in time with her footsteps.

Elesa could still turn around. It wasn't too late. She hadn't done anything illegal yet, aside from perhaps walking down a closed subway track.

She continued.

Like a distant rumble, or the sound of the wind as it rushes towards you through the treetops, a din began to reach Elesa. Music, she eventually realized, there was music.

An abandoned subway station crowded with trainers, lit with blacklights that served to create a strange and almost confusing atmosphere, mystifying the people illuminated from it. Elesa was glad she'd worn mostly black, but the little red and blue details on her outfit she'd allowed popped out.

There was an absol standing at the edge of the tunnel, valiantly watching, and it just gave her a nod, allowing her to pass and to join the group proper. There were people loudly singing along to the blasting music, dancing, and pokemon everywhere out of their pokeballs, mixed in with the crowd as if well and truly a part of it. Elesa didn't know what to make of it, only standing and staring with wide eyes.

"You look new."

Somehow, the man's voice was audible over all the noise, and it surprised Elesa enough that she jumped. Her hand slid over her pokemon and then her fingers yanked back as if burned. No, it was illegal to release a high-level pokemon in a public space. And then she remembered where she was. The man laughed at her, though it didn't sound capricious. It wasn't exactly warm either. In fact, the man's voice was exactly middle-of-the-road as far as positive or negative inflection went.

He was wearing a white beanie that practically glowed under the blacklight, so low only his eyes barely peeked out from beneath it. He was dressed in plain street clothes, but little spots of yellow designs jumped out. There was a strange and fixed smile on his face that was somewhat off-putting. Then Elesa realized that one of the yellow spots was moving, and she looked closer to see a joltik running freely along the man's clothes. It was frankly adorable, and endeared him to the man a little more. 

"You have yet to sign up." The man then said, and despite how it was phrased, it was plain it was actually a question in disguise, especially by how he quizzically tilted his head.

"I haven't." she admitted.

"Follow me!"

He walked into the crowd and Elesa followed behind him, weaving around and between people and pokemon alike. A big scolipede roared, but didn't move to strike anybody, instead just twisting and shuffling like it was dancing along with its trainer. Elesa had been through her fair share of crowds, but there was something about the new and strange atmosphere that made her more on edge, more careful, and she was thankful for the strange man to lead her.

Sure enough, there was a big whiteboard where people had written down pseudonyms that clearly weren't names. A woman was managing the board, and she nodded to the strange man.

"Signing up tonight?" she asked him but the man shook his head.

"I only observe. You know this." he said.

"One day we'll get you on the roster. I have a feeling you've got something good up your sleeve." The woman said. The man smiled and lifted his hand, where a second joltik peeked out of his sleeve.

"Just joltik." He said. The woman rolled her eyes but then turned her attention to Elesa.

"And you?"

"I would like to sign up." She nodded. The woman pulled out a whiteboard marker.

"Name?"

"Uh," Elesa hadn't thought that far. She'd been half convinced she would've turned around before even reaching here, and now here she was, signing up for an illegal tournament.

"What pokemon are you using?" she asked, and revealed she was chewing gum as she blew a big bubble that popped in a satisfying sound.

"Leavanny, Cinccino, and Gothitelle." Elesa listed off. The pokemon weren't very familiar yet and all had yet to battle pokemon that weren't one of the other two. Elesa'd had to train them up in secret, heal them with potions and revives when necessary. Bringing them to an official pokecenter could raise unwanted questions.

"Fashion Beauty." the smiling man said.

"Uh-" Elesa began to interrupt, but the woman was already writing the name down. It was a little too close to Elesa's whole modeling thing for comfort, but even though it was only dry erase marker, it looked so official written down that Elesa let it go. The woman produced a small white band from somewhere and held it out to Elesa. It was one of the kind that was created to be cut off when you were done wearing it, and Elesa dutifully put it on.

"You should get food," The smiling man suggested, "While you wait the official tournament to start."

"Thanks for your help." Elesa fidgeted with the band, looking at the man's bare wrist. 

"I like to help, Beauty." he said, easily slipping her new name in. It was only one night, so it wouldn't be a problem. She did her best to remind herself of that.

"Well, I'm at disadvantage here. You know my 'name' but I don’t know yours." The two of them made their way around the edge of the crowd, in the direction of food and drink.

"You can call me Conductor." His smile looked a bit more honest as his hand went up, miming gripping the edge of a hat and tipping it. 

"Really buckling down on the train theme here, huh?" She noted, and Conductor gave a laugh.

"Yes! Trains are great!"

"I guess it does make this the best 'train'-ing ground." Elesa mused. Conductor groaned, holding his head in his hands, and now Elesa laughed, smiling.

They'd only just reached the make-shift bar counter when a hush fell over the crowd, the music muting to only a vague hum.

From the subway tunnel, a man emerged. He was weaking a long coat, half of it white with bright blue strips and the other half black with bright red stripes. His hair was so pale gray that the blacklights lit it up, and even from a distance, Elesa could swear his eyes were glowing too. His mouth was covered by a yellow bandana that hid the bottom half of his face. He was flanked by a chandelure and a haxorus, both of which moved with an air of being aware of how much attention they were getting and very used to it, confident radiating from the trio. 

"Is the tournament ready, Bugspray?" His voice was loud, easily carrying over to the woman with the whiteboard.

"Nearly, just had a couple last minute entries." She told him. He nodded, and then with a wave of his hand, the noise rose again, though it was plain that people kept glancing over to him as he climbed onto the platform and then stood at the edge, looking over the abandoned train tracks.

Elesa had heard of him before.

The police hadn't managed to track him down. Sometimes, there'd be late-night discussions over his identities, where he was, why he was doing what he was doing.

The founder of the Battle Subway Tournament.

The Subway Master.

[sholiofic]

(can't send you an ask from my sideblog) I would love something where Sam and Bucky both have nightmares, like, both noticing it with the other (Gen, if that's okay) and whatever angst and/or comfort that entails. Totally fine if the prompt wont be filled tho :) Like your writing, sending good vibes! - anxiouswhumpyescapism

Also on AO3: Mediocre Waffles

--

When Bucky wakes up to a muffled yell, he's halfway out of bed and reaching for the gun tucked between the bedframe and the thin hotel mattress before he grasps that the only person in the room is Sam, the only person making noise is Sam, and Sam is tangled in scratchy motel bedsheets and definitely not being attacked by HYDRA or enemy agents crashing through the neon glow of the windows or anything else.

Sam sits up and they look at each other for a minute by the hazy neon light, and then Sam muzzily grumbles, "Fuck," and gets up and goes off to the bathroom.

Bucky flops back down on the thin, scratchy pillow in the slightly too-hot bed. There's the sound of splashing water from the bathroom; the light flicks on and off. Sam comes back out and rattles around a little, and then the door leading out to the motel stairs opens and closes.

Bucky lies there for a moment or two, then sighs and rolls his legs off the bed. He is, as usual on the road, sleeping in a T-shirt and jeans in case he has to get up in a hurry. He follows Sam outside.

It's a two-story roadside motel with an upstairs balcony, stairs leading down to street level and a row of cars in the parking lot. Sam is leaning on the railing. The acrid smell of cigarette smoke hits Bucky's hindbrain like a direct punch to the memories, the way smell sometimes can.

"I didn't even know people smoked these days," he says, and Sam looks around with a faint smile.

"Only sometimes," he says, and holds out the pack of cigarettes. "Bad habit from my military days. Did they really smoke all the time in the '40s?"

"Only when we could afford 'em." Bucky takes one and holds it between his fingers rather than asking for a light. He doesn't know whether it's the serum or that entire hazy seventy-plus years of his life, but he doesn't actually want them, these days. But holding it is familiar. Comfortable.

"You should go back to bed," Sam says. "Long day tomorrow." He's just holding his cigarette, too, though smoke curls up from the tip. It's mostly unsmoked. Like an echo of a time gone by, the same way it is for Bucky.

"I know," Bucky says. He transfers the cigarette to his metal hand and rubs his eyes with his fingertips. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam says, and then, with a short laugh, "Not really. Didn't mean to wake you up."

"I know." Bucky runs his fingertips lightly over the splintery, badly painted wood of the railing. Somehow it's occasionally comforting, or at least satisfying, to find things that are broken and badly repaired in the future. He says in a careful tone, "Turnabout is fair play. I wake you up sometimes?"

"Sometimes," Sam says neutrally.

Bucky was actually sort of hoping the answer would be no, but he was afraid it wouldn't be. He makes a neutral, acknowledging sound.

"You're pretty quiet," Sam says.

"Mmmm." He hadn't realized the habit of not screaming was that ingrained. Well, it explained why the neighbors back in his thin-walled New York apartment hadn't complained.

"I didn't ask any questions because I figured it was your thing to talk about."

"Mmm-hmm."

Sam glances back at the half-open door of their apartment and then he stubs out the cigarette, mostly unsmoked, on the railing. "You know what? It's gonna be dawn soon. What say we both put on some clothes—"

"I'm wearing pants," Bucky says with a judging look at Sam's boxers.

"—shut up, and find an all-night diner. I don't know about you, but I could really use a shitty 3 a.m. omelet right now."

"We're not exactly in a metropolis," Bucky says, casting a glance across the horizon of roofs and water towers before he follows Sam back into their room. "I don't know how many all-night diners there are at a freeway exit in Indiana."

"Every freeway exit has a Denny's or a Waffle House. It's a law."

It is in fact a Waffle House, and they take a corner booth and order breakfast food. Bucky rests his chin on his metal fist.

"You could actually be sleeping, you know," Sam says, sounding faintly guilty.

"Not really." He wouldn't fall back asleep after an adrenaline jolt like that, but he doesn't want Sam to feel bad about it. "You want to talk about it?" he asks after a moment.

"Fuck no. You?" Sam asks, in something that is less sympathy and more a kind of parrying response.

"No."

The waitress comes by with a warm-up on their coffee. After she's gone, Sam says, "You know, if you ever get the urge—you know, insomnia being what it is, to go out and get mediocre waffles at two in the morning—"

"You don't mind if I do? Thanks, Sam."

"I'll go with you," Sam says, glaring at him. "Asshole. Just give me a kick or something."

And Bucky doesn't say anything for a moment, because he's thinking of nights lying awake in motels like the one they just came from, staring at the slow cycling of the neon sign outside the window and waiting for dawn, trying not to wake up Sam.

Except Sam is way too perceptive not to be aware of at least some of that.

He's not used to people getting him. That, more than anything else, is what makes him draw a quick, shaking breath, and wish he had something to do with his hands. Luckily he still has the unlit cigarette from the balcony, and he just holds it, moves it between his fingers.

"No smoking in here," the waitress says, coming by, in a "what kind of idiot ARE you actually" sort of tone.

Sam laughs at the look on Bucky's face. "World's changed a little bit, huh?"

"You don't know the half of it," and before he knows it, they're swapping stories of late-night diners in Brooklyn and cheap breakfast cafés in Delacroix, and Sam is laughing and Bucky is feeling the tension in his shoulders unwind and thinks Sam might be feeling the same way.

Maybe he will wake Sam up next time, after all. He thinks Sam really wouldn't mind.

[lilyoffandoms]

Blades Drabble - Tyril x Maiele

For day sixteen of the March @choicesmonthlychallenge (architecture | panda | fairytale).

Warning & A/N: Worry and feeling sorry for oneself. Imagine this is one of the first nights back on the road after they return to shore having defeated the pirate captain or some other random time camping out between places haha.

Fairytale.

Say the word aloud. What images does it conjure for you? That word sounds so wonderful, does it not? It sounds like a story you would like to get lost in, doesn’t it? It holds the promise of adventure, excitement, love, friendship, magical beings, fierce opponents, and happy endings.

Now take the two words and separate them.

Fairy. Tale.

Fairies are magical, you’ve been told. But you’ve been tricked into believing that they are benevolent and all that is good in the world. But reality is not fantasy.

Tales are an escape, you’ve learned. But you’ve been tricked into believing that they won’t trap you in the weaving of their words. But reality is not fiction.

Adventure and excitement lead to trouble. Love and friendship leads to heartache. Fierce opponents lead to death and despair. And above all, fairytales don’t end in happily ever-afters.

—————

Maiele sat by the fire listening to the others sleeping. Mal and Imtura snoring in their respective tents and Threep purring loudly in Nia’s. This deep and late into the night and nothing else made a sound.

All his life he had longed for adventure for his own fairytale. Well maybe he should have been more carful what he wished for. Though what would that mean for him, for his family, for his friends, for the countless others that had, did, and would suffer all because he wanted a damn fairytale of legend?

He hunched over, elbows on his knees, head in his hands and he broke. Letting silent tears fall from his eyes to be caught and hidden by his palms. Jumping when he felt something brush up against his side. So startled that he slid off the log and onto his back.

“Oof!” he hissed rubbing his other side where it had scraped against the edge of a broken branch on the downed tree.

“Sorry,” Tyril exclaimed, reaching a hand down to Maiele.

Maiele took a moment to brush the tears from his eyes before taking Tyril’s hand and pulling the elf off balance and down into the damp grass with him.

“Oh!”

Maiele smiled, cheeks still glistening a bit with the spent tears. A soft chuckle escaping him at Tyril’s surprised cry, “Turnabouts fair play.”

“Are you-“

“The stars are pretty this late at night, aren’t they?”

“They are,” Tyril said without taking his eyes off Maiele. “But that does not answer my question.”

“I’m fine,” Maiele said dismissively. Pausing a few moments before saying, “Just thinking how sometimes life doesn’t turn out how you expect it to. That fairytales… well-“

“They don’t exist?” Tyril asked when Maiele struggled to find the words.

“They exist, I just didn’t realize that they sucked so much?” he gave a strained laugh.

“That is the whole point of fairytales, though, to show you how awful life truly is. How horrifying, dangerous, and traumatizing it can be.”

“Well no one informed me of that,” Maiele chuckled. “The stories Kade told, that our parents read, that they had in their library made it seem like a marvelous adventure where everything turns out in the end.”

“Elvish fairytales are the same but what happens in the middle of your fairytales?”

Maiele considered the question.

“Does the hero find friendship?” Tyril asked and waited until Maiele nodded. “And does the hero find an inner strength to endure the pain in their quest? A strength they always possessed but one that lay hidden.”

Again Maiele nodded, eyes still on the stars.

“And does that hero find warriors that assist them on their mission to save those that cannot save themselves?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And in the end do heroes and villains alike meet a justified end?”

“Sometimes,” Maiele said and turned to Tyril, “but not always.”

“No, not always,” Tyril smiled over at him. “But that chance remains. That hope remains. When all else is said and done in the story, despite the pain and suffering, what are you left with?”

Tyril waited for an answer and when he received none he said, “We are left with a promise. We are left with hope.”

“Sometimes I hate how right you are. And by sometimes I mean always,” Maiele giggled and elbowed Tyril playfully in the side as they both fell silent and watched the stars pass overhead.

[zeppelin-and-unicorns]

Fanfic recommendations part two: Stories that take place during season 8 (canon divergence)

This is a smaller category than the previous one, but I promise that those stories are amazing. I’ve read and reread every single one of them, and I love them all with all of my heart. I hope this post is useful to you. Lots of love ❤️

(And yes, they are in alphabetical order. I wish I’ve done that with the post season 8 post too, but it’s up for a while now and it would be just too much work to edit the whole thing)

All These Things That I’ve Done by c00kiefic

Story based on the sexual tension between Jackie and Hyde during season 8.

This story is complete.

26k words, 9 chapters.

Rated M.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

Don’t Stand so Close to Me by c00kiefic

A story when Eric came back way earlier than he planned to because his friends were being dumbasses and needed some direction. Gotta love Eric Forman.

This story is complete and it’s a super fun read, 10/10.

95k words, 24 chapters.

Rated M.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, Eric/Donna, Kelso/Brooke, background Red/Kitty

Fear and Loathing in Wisconsin by elphabacan

What if Jackie had decided enough was enough after the slumberparty with Donna and Sam and recruited Brooke to go to Vegas? And what if turnabout is fairplay when they run afoul a charming lounge singer named Jude?

Lots and lots of love for this story. It’s amazing and it’s complete.

42k words, 15 chapters.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, Brooke/Kelso

Get Away From The Edge by BlueZeppelin

Jackie has been down for a while and it leads her to the Water Tower, alone and depressed. She wants to jump but will Hyde let her?

This story is kind of sad, but it’s still good. I just wish it gave us more details. Don’t read it if you’re triggered by depressive thoughts. It’s complete.

5k words, 3 chapters.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

I Think it’s a Real Waste by Jaded

In which Fez and Donna are decent friends to Jackie, and Hyde knows he fucked up. There’s a lot of J/H, but the story also focuses on all the gang. This is a really good story, please read this.

This story is complete.

120k words, 13 chapters.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, Eric/Donna, Brooke/Kelso, Fez/OC

Into the Woods by c00kiefic

Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful princess with long raven hair and enchanting eyes, whose only desire was to be loved by the handsome, yet distant prince…

I absolutely adore this story, I really, really do. It reminds me of fairytales and it makes me want to cry at the same time. Also, both Hyde and Donna get an not so pleasant “wake up call”, that they rightfully deserved btw.

This story is complete.

41k words, 10 chapters.

Rated T

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde mainly, some background Eric/Donna angst

Pain Without Love by YouLivexYouDie

This story made me cry so hard. It has a happy ending though, so it was worth it.

Jackie Burkhart is about to experience something life changing. She will never be the same afterwards, nor will the people who love her.

This story is complete.

12k words, 3 chapters.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

Confession by heavinly-vixen

After the torture Hyde had been inflicting upon Jackie since the arrival of his 'wife', Jackie just needs to talk to someone who's on her side.

This story is complete and it has a sequel! It’s called Reconciliation and it’s also complete.

12k words, 9 chapters.

Rated T. The sequel is rated M.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

Made Bare by MistyMountainHop

A heartbroken Hyde considers his relationship with Jackie kaput. Too bad Jackie sees it differently. She intends to get a proper resolution with him, but breaking through his hostility — and getting past his wife — may well prove impossible.

This story is complete.

50k words, 8 chapters.

Rated M.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, background Eric/Donna

Also available on AO3

Someone To Love by Bunny1

Hyde comes back from his 3 month bender to the unexpected.

This story is complete.

6k words, 7 chapters.

Rated M.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

The Birds and The Bees by c00kiefic

Jackie’s pregnant and the father of her child is married to someone else. Amazing story, what I love the most about it is Jackie and Donna’s friendship.

This story is basically complete, the only thing missing is the epilogue.

22k words, 6 chapters.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, Eric/Donna

The Right Road Lost by zpplnchick

After a car accident, Hyde wakes up to a twisted version of reality he comes to find is actual hell and with no memory of how he got there, a hell that Jackie's been living in for the past few months. Set during Season 8, shortly after "Sweet Lady".

This story is complete.

43k words, 20 chapters.

Rated M.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

The Road to Redemption by Hyde’s Bride

Jackie leaves the group because of Hyde and Donna's behavior. Eric comes back early to find how things have changed. When he forms a new bond with Jackie, will it force Hyde and Donna to fight for them? Or will they lose their loves forever?

This story is complete.

33k words, 12 chapters.

Rated M.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, Jackie/Eric, Eric/Donna

When The Leeve Breaks by zeppelinandunicorns

What would've happened if Jackie and Donna left Point Place when Eric moved to Africa and Hyde married a stripper?

Donna and Jackie moved to Chicago once they realized that they've sacrificed themselves enough for the sake of their relationships with Eric and Hyde. Will it be too late to fix things once the boys realize what they're missing?

This story is a WIP.

So far, 125k words, 23 chapters. This story will be 54 chapters long so... yeah.

Trigger warning: Depression, past eating disorders, child abuse

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, Eric/Donna

Zen Vision by Ultrawoman

A series of one-shots turning each and every episode of the horrendous Season 8 into a happy Jackie and Hyde love affair!

This story is complete.

37k words, 22 chapters.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

One-shots during season 8:

Being Here by UnfitWriter

Set in season 8, after Sam's departure. Jackie and Hyde can't stand each other, but when something horrible happens to Hyde, Jackie will try to console him in only way she knows how.

5k words.

Rated M.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

Here Comes Goodbye by nannygirl

Sometimes you just have to say goodbye. Or not.

5k words.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde, background Red/Kitty

Reconnecting by SerenitySparrow

During the party at WB's house in season 8. Jackie and Hyde hook up in a coat closet during the party.

3k words.

Rated M. Very M.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

Tipping Point by janus_74 (tanner)

How a different Perfect Man list could change the end of Season 8.

4k words.

Rated T.

Pairings: Jackie/Hyde

So far, this is all.

I’ll repeat this at the end of every single post: speaking as someone who writes, it would be really cool if you guys decide to leave a review (or a comment, if the story is on AO3) in the stories you read, especially the unfinished ones. It really motivates the authors, and receiving a compliment is always a mood lifter. I’ve seen some authors updating stories after years because of nice reviews, so… yeah, this is just an idea.

If you think I left out a good story, feel free to reply to this post!

Next category: Season 7 fix-its.

[springmagpies]

Rain comes pouring down Falling from blue skies Words without a sound Coming from your eyes

Finally I figured out But it took a long, long time But now there's a turnabout Maybe cause I'm trying

There's been times, I'm so confused All my roads, They lead to you I just can't turn and walk away

It's hard to say what it is I see in you Wonder if I'll always be with you But words can't say, And I can't do Enough to prove, It's all for you

for @earnmysong as a part of Trick or Treat! 🎃

[asknarashikari]

Minific idea: Shiguru films a scene where he’s supposed to fling a large object at something... but he misses and somehow whacks Tametomo instead (Juru thinks it’s karma for all his teasing)

“Keep chasing him! I’ll cut him off!” he directed his partner as he ran into a narrow alleyway. 

The detective knew his city like the back of his hand, and he knew that this particular side street would lead back to the very end of the main road where he knew the culprit would come out of. He sped up his pace as he saw the gate that he knew would be blocking the path. Using his momentum, he leapt over the fence, landing fluidly on the other side. Without missing a beat he ran the last few meters out of the alley, arriving at the main road- just in time for the criminal to come into view.

He looked around, panting, wondering how to keep him from getting away before he got too far, and spotted a couple of kids playing around with a football. He ran over to them and grabbed the ball. “Sorry, but let me borrow this!” 

“Hey, mister, what are you doing...?!” one of the kids asked as he tossed it into the air. 

“Here we.... go!!!!” the detective kicked it with all his might, his foot slamming into the ball so hard it flattened for a moment, before it flew straight for the unaware criminal...

...And past him, beyond the camera, and into the face of Imizu Tametomo.

“CUUUT!” yelled the director, as the ball fell away from Tametomo’s face, leaving it entirely red from the impact. Miraculously, his nose somehow survived the onslaught. 

Tametomo’s eye twitched as Shiguru approached, looking quite apologetic. “Shiguru, what the hell! You weren’t supposed to kick it that hard!” He gestured at the improvised net that he was supposed to aim for, which was not at all anywhere near where Tametomo himself was. “How did it hit me when you’re trying to hit that?!”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it! I swear!” Shiguru apologized. 

Juuru snickered. “That’s what you get for making fun of us all the time,” he said as he laughed. “Turnabout’s fair play, Tame!” he chuckled, clutching his belly. 

The yellow warrior pouted. “I’m pretty sure the karma for teasing you two saps shouldn’t hurt this much,” he grumbled.

“Say that again and maybe I’ll send it flying into your face again on the next take,” Shiguru threatened with a smirk.

“Alright, alright, fine,” Tametomo said in surrender. “Now can someone get me some ice for my face already?” 

*Yes, the thing with the football is totally taken from Detective Conan. Because it’s awesome.

[bosspigeon]

it’s a thankless job

Pairing: Mason/m!Detective Words: 1709 Summary: Mason learns something pretty... unexpected about the detective.

Title from “Thankless Job” from, of course, Repo! The Genetic Opera.

Chase doesn’t greet him with more than a curt nod as he comes out of the station, but Mason doesn’t take it personally. Especially not when he gives the detective a very pointed up-and-down look, and he catches the corners of his mouth twitching upwards.

They start the walk to Chase’s car, and he glances sideways and up at Mason and raises his eyebrows. “I was heading to the warehouse already,” he says, glancing around. “Anything going on I need to know about?”

Mason fiddles with an unlit cigarette, twirling it between his fingers. “No. Just some whispers of trappers here and there. Got Agent Kingston a bit antsy, so I offered to look after you today.” The bone-dry side-eye Chase gives him makes him smirk. “Never took you for such an altruist,” he says.

It’s an easy one, really. Mason can’t resist. “Considering all that time I spend on my knees for you, that hurts a bit.”

“We both know you like that as much as I do.” Chase’s dark eyes are intent, bold brows quirked. He’s smiling too, just a hint of teeth showing. “Maybe more.”

Mason pauses for a split second, and Chase just laughs quietly to himself as he strides ahead. Mason shakes his head, and it only takes him a few long strides to catch up to the stocky detective again. “Walked right into that one,” he admits, snorting.

“You’re pretty easy,” Chase snickers. The double entendre is obvious enough neither of them need to comment. Mason’s long had his suspicions Chase finds it funny to set him up with innuendos and jokes, especially when they’re around the rest of Unit Bravo. Even Agent Kingston, more than once. The detective is damn lucky Mason’s got absolutely no shame.

They make it to Chase’s car, and Mason, of course, bitches about how tiny and beat-up it is. “How’s this thing even still running?” he demands, folding himself into the front seat. Chase, of course, has no trouble, short as he is, and he gets himself buckled in then entertains himself by watching Mason struggle to make himself comfortable with his much longer legs.

Chase huffs out a laugh and cranks the car easily. “Where there’s a will, some duct tape, and a mechanical engineering degree that would otherwise be collecting dust, there’s a way,” he says sagely. The car miraculously comes to life and Chase starts fiddling with the radio, raising his eyebrows at Mason as if to ask if he’s going to be a brat about it-- as he very bluntly did last time.

Mason huffs and crosses his arms, and Chase rolls his eyes, reaching over Mason’s lap to the glove compartment to pop it open and rifle through. “Oh, shit!” he blurts, eyebrows rising as he unearths something from underneath a stack of brown fast-food napkins, a battered leather CD book, and a little folder that likely has his registration and insurance papers. “That’s where that’s been!”

Mason doesn’t get much of a look at the jewel case, just a flash of bold red and black and yellow, before it’s flipped open and Chase is stuffing the disc into the CD player. He skips a few songs, so the vampire gets a few blurts of discordant guitar, some piano, perhaps whispering, but never enough to guess what genre the album might be. He grins at Mason as he tosses the case into the backseat and pulls out of the police station’s parking lot.

Mason’s face wrinkles up as what sounds like some sort of operatic chorus starts up, then… heavy guitar. “What the fuck is this?”

Chase just laughs and starts singing, well, more like talking, along with the vocalist.

“Out from the night from the mist steps a figure. No one really knows his name for sure. He stands at six foot six, head and shoulders, Pray he never comes knocking at your door. Say that you once bought a heart or new corneas, But somehow never managed to square away your debts. He won't bother to write or to phone you... He'll just rip your still-beating heart from your chest!”

Mason twists around to grab the case from the backseat. Repo! The Genetic Opera. He flicks open the case to try and figure out what they’re listening to. He punches the skip song button, seeing the CD player is on shuffle mode.

Chase is still laughing, tapping his fingers on the steering will along with whatever snatches of songs he can catch before Mason changes it again.

“Is this a fucking musical? You listen to musicals?”

Chase leans forward, almost wheezing as he tries to get himself under control without taking his eyes off the road. “I told you I got a full ride to uni, right?”

A bit bewildered by the sudden change of subject, and still trying to figure out what kind of musical has songs about organ harvesting of all things, he just says, “Yeah? What’s that got to do with anything?”

They stop at a red light and Chase turns to look at him, dark eyes shining. His face is more open than Mason’s ever seen it, his body relaxed. He pats his glove on the steering wheel again, gets distracted humming along to something about little glass vials. “Well, I dunno if you know, but you have to work your ass off to get those. You can’t just have good grades. You have to have near-perfect ones, along with shit like community service, and,” The light goes green, and he turns his attention back to the road, but he glances quickly at Mason again, one corner of his mouth twisting, “extracurricular activities.”

It dawns on Mason slowly, but when it does hit him, his jaw drops. He gawks at Chase, blurting out a disbelieving laugh. “No. Chase, you--” Another sharp laugh bubbles from his lips. “You were a fucking theatre kid?”

Chase’s half-grin is answer enough, and Mason completely dissolves, dragging a hand down his face and clutching the dashboard with the other. Chase reaches over and cranks the radio higher, and ordinarily Mason would be cringing away, but the detective’s laughter echoing his drowns it out, sits in his chest. Once he’s finally managed to calm down, he turns the music back down, and groans breathlessly. They’ve pulled off the main road and to the backroad leading through the forest to the warehouse by this point, and the dappled light through the trees finally allows Mason to relax into the seat without cringing away from the late-afternoon sun.

“How did you even manage that between your other extracurriculars?” Mason sneers, though there’s no venom to it.

Chase straightens up in the driver’s seat, shoulders back, and slyly says, “I’m very good at multitasking.” Another easy one. Mason gives a rough, low chuckle.

“Oh, I know that, at least.” He shifts in his seat, gesturing to the radio. “So did you ever do this one?”

Chase shakes his head. “Hm? Oh, no, this was from a movie that came out after I left for uni, and it’s way too gory and dark for most school productions. Plus, all the best roles are for baritones. I’m a tenor.” He rolls his eyes hard enough Mason can see it, even in profile. “But in secondary school, I was a contralto, because, y’know, bullshit gender roles.”

Mason scoffs. “Like I know what any of that means.”

“Keep following me around like a puppy begging for scraps, sunshine, and you’ll learn by osmosis. Don’t worry.”

Mason curls his lip at the nickname (and at the ‘begging for scraps’ comment), but supposes turnabout is fair play. “Bet Felix would have a field day knowing this, sweetheart,” he taunts back, already delighting in the idea of the other agent losing his mind. “Hell, Nate will probably be overjoyed, knowing you’re into the same nerdy shit he is.” He quirks a brow, listening to some of the lyrics still drifting from the radio. “Though I’m not sure he’d approve of this one.”

Chase is quiet as they pull up behind the warehouse proper, putting it in park. He turns slowly to Mason, who smirks, hoping this time he’s finally managed to get a rise out of the detective. He’s always so fun when he’s trying not to be flustered. But Chase just smirks right back, eyebrows raised challengingly. They just stare at each other for a long moment, before Chase unbuckles his seatbelt and leans over the center console. His hand slips over Mason’s, the leather of his glove warm and supple as he twists their fingers together. Mason’s heart rate spikes, his world narrowing down to those dark, sultry eyes framed by thick lashes, that little beauty mark that draws the gaze, the teasing curve of his plush lips that Mason dreams about biting when he should be focusing on work far too often. He laughs, soft and faintly wicked.

“It’s so cute that you think anyone will believe you.” He cuts off the car, ejects the CD, and pops it into the case he slipped from Mason’s lax hands before tucking it into his jacket and leaving Mason sitting in the front seat, stunned into silence for the second time in the span of an hour.

He snaps his seatbelt off once he regains himself, and hurries to follow the detective’s retreating back, laughing with breathless disbelief. “You son of a bitch!” he calls, somewhere between annoyed, impressed, and, well, obviously a little turned on.

Chase turns around to eye him, still smirking, walking backwards so he can taunt, “Oh, don’t let Rebecca hear you call me that, sunshine. You’re already on her shit list.” He whirls around and disappears into the warehouse.

Mason ambles along slowly, tilting his head back and looking up at the sky. He drags a hand down his face and huffs out another bemused laugh. There’s a niggling little voice at the back of his head that wonders, for a split second, what Chase sounds like when he really sings. But he brushes it off and hurries to catch up to him. Maybe if he distracts the detective with a bit of fondling in a dark corner, he can get that CD back from him.

[star-light-shadows]

Slight Dahlia Hawthorne redesign to explain the lack of fingerprints on the Cold-Killer X bottle.

[barbitone]

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

I was tagged by no one but I saw @displayheartcode​ doing it and it seemed neat :>

Tagging: open to anyone!

Ancel’s entire life had been leading up to this. (The Best Contract at Court)

Ancel jerked awake to the sound of shuffling footsteps and laughter, books slamming closed. (Higher Education)

Hubert’s role in his Lady’s Empire is twofold- he is the silent watcher in the shadows and the poisoned knife in the dark. (Find a Little Company)

“My lord, may I speak plainly?” Parsins asked from the driver’s seat of the town car. (Putting on a Show)

Ancel felt sick to his stomach as he stared past Berenger at the ornate cabinet behind him, trying to will back the hot impotent tears stinging at his eyes.  (The Road Not Taken)

Jean tried to think positively as he and the others were taken from Vere. (A Road of Our Own)

The messenger was wild-eyed and red-faced as he burst into the throne room, panting for breath as he ran forward and dropped to his knees before King Zarkon’s throne. (Running in the Night)

The cool night air on the patio was a relief after the bustle of the party inside. (A Pleasant Diversion)

“Fuck him, Red!” someone cries out from the audience and Ancel makes a point of looking up and grinning, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes. (One of a Kind)

The soldiers were drinking because the battle was over. (Forget-Me-Not)

“I’m going to fuck Berenger,” Ancel announced, setting his empty shot glass down on the bar with a decisive clink. (Giselle)

The first time is an accident. (Coping Mechanism)

Everything was mostly going to plan, right up until the Regent ordered his pet to be executed and his severed head to be sent to Prince Laurent. (The Great Escape) 

Ancel slipped his hands into the pockets of his tweed jacket as he leaned a little closer to the glass case containing the lavish diamond tiara. (Catch and Release)

“It’s dangerous for you to stay with me,” Berenger had said. (If He Wins)

After nearly a year of Ancel's careful maneuvering, the sixth annual Council retreat was scheduled to take place in Varenne. (Pet Games- Turnabout)

Varenne was an important province- in theory. (Sunset, Sunrise)

In retrospect Ancel couldn’t remember what it was that had sent him to storming out of the stables in a rage, still holding his riding crop in a tight grip. (Pet Games, Rope)

Eight months into chasing the jewel thief and forger they’d nicknamed Ruby, Berenger had finally managed to track him down not only to his hotel, but to his hotel room. (Catch Me If You Can)

“Our brother is dead,” Em said, her picture hazy over the viewscreen. (Original Work)

Not sure what I learned from this! Other than maybe my faves are the ones that just get right to it and start with dialogue. It’s a tie between 11 and 20 for me, although I’m also a particular fan of the beginning of Young, But For A Season- 

The first time Ancel found a gray hair he nearly screamed.

[bergencountytopdrivingschool]

Are Driving Lessons Necessary? How Many Lessons Should Someone Take?

Determining the number of driving lessons or hours needed for a student driver to successfully take their driver’s test is not a straightforward task. There are many factors that go into play when deciding if the driver is prepared and has learned not only proper technique but also the responsibilities that come with this privilege.

The Department of Motor Vehicles, sometimes called by a different name depending on the state, has made recommendations, while each individual state has different requirements. Arkansas does not require any lessons. Tennessee also does not require lessons but does require a student driver to log in a minimum of road time hours. Missouri, Wyoming, and Oklahoma have a specific amount of hours required, but drivers can be taught by a parent or legal guardian and the hours are to be submitted in good faith.

In contrast, Ohio requires a minimum of eight hours of on the road training through an institutionalized learning facility plus an additional 32 hours from any professional and ten from a parent or legal guardian. Some of the hours must be during nighttime situations.

Most states require additional driving time outside the class requirement. This is why professional instructions include what appears to be an excess of hours in their courses when in actuality they are helping student drivers to meet all the state requirements. In some cases, more lessons may be needed to meet those demands and different instructors can be hired at a lower rate. Checking with the DMV for the state’s regulations is a good idea before making a plan of action.

Also, don’t forget about the multiple-choice exam. Though it is sometimes called a test of theory, it must be passed before taking the practical test.

The Multiple-Choice Exam

Before even worrying about the on-road test, the multiple-choice exam must be taken first. States can also require classroom hours in addition to actual driving hours. In the classroom, students will learn the rules of the road, safety precautions, what to do in emergencies, and the meaning of road signs. A textbook filled with this information and diagrams of certain maneuvers like a turnabout or the correct time and place to do a u-turn will be provided. Though not as exciting as actually being behind the wheel, the information will help students get an idea of what to expect.

Passing the test has proven a challenge to some, but luckily it can be taken multiple times. If it fails normally a waiting period lasting at least 24 hours is required before the test can be taken again. States can also set a maximum number of times the test can be taken and failed. If the maximum is reached the student will be required to retake driver’s ed before attempting the test again. Consider the multiple-choice exam as equally important as the on-road test.

DMV Lessons and Hours Recommendations

The DMV encourages at least 40 hours of instructor lead road time and an additional 10 hours with a parent, guardian, or another eligible family member no matter what the state requirements are. An instructor’s lessons average two hours long which would mean that roughly 20-25 lessons total is ideal.

Just like learning new material in high school, some students excel immediately, while others need extra time to grasp the new concepts. This is another reason why putting a number on hours and lessons that will suffice is difficult. Instructors will gauge how the student has progressed and may suggest taking additional lessons to focus on areas that could use improvement.

Are the Lessons Beneficial?

Absolutely yes. They offer an opportunity for guidance while on the road that a book just can’t do alone. They will help new drivers learn how to handle an automobile and become confident and comfortable behind the wheel. Some insurances offer discounts for taking lessons and meeting certain conditions.

Other benefits of lessons include:

Learn to handle various situations that can occur

More likely to pass the exam the first time

Less likely to be involved in accidents

Know the laws and receive fewer citations

What will an Instructor Teach?

The instructor will always teach the basics plus more so a student is completely prepared for the test and what is to come after. Many will even gear the course to meet individual needs based on prior experience and knowledge. As the course moves on they will assess strengths and weaknesses to focus on.

Expect to learn the following:

How to perform a safety/maintenance check

How to adjust the car mirrors and use them properly

How to focus on surroundings while maintaining control of the vehicle at the proper speed

How to approach traffic signs/lights and how to handle them

Maintaining a safe distance from other drivers and why it is important

When and why turn signals should be used

Parallel parking, a turn-about, u-turns (if legal in the state) and other maneuvers

Driving in different weather conditions (if the opportunity presents itself)

How to enter/exit the interstate and safely maneuver, including switching lanes

Other topics may also be covered and the instructor will answer any questions asked to assist in understanding why certain tactics are taken.

After completing the course and meeting all state requirements the multiple-choice exam can be taken almost immediately or within a few days. The wait time for taking the practical test can vary. Some states may require that a learning permit be issued for a period of time before taking the test. The DMV sometimes requires an appointment to be made at least 60 days ahead of time. If still in high school, academic requirements may also affect when the test can be taken.

Check with the state government or local DMV office for how long the wait time will be. Use this extra time to continue to practice and prepare for the real thing.

Contact Us here: https://www.bergencountytopdrivingschool.com/contact-info/

[we-live-in-a--society]

Actiones secundum fidei

Love.

Once described as an act of deceiving, both the subject and its milieu, meant to be perceived as mysterious and romantic, and yet failing in that matter as for an offensively prosaic mechanism – concealing

Veracity,

Evident in the lacking ingenuity.

Much less than one is forced to consider after years of listening to chivalrous tales, sappy stories that shapes the social consciousness, leading one down the path of spiritual famine, down the path of everlasting disappointments that comes with defining oneself through the prism of romance.

Years required to wonder why the essence of life is brewed from failures, soaking up the vitality akin to some grotesque sponge, casted aside in face of pilling suppositions, acquiring a form of some make-believe creation, not to mention downright

Worthless.

All for the delight of crowd – inclination of inanity, complete downfall of logical approach, nourishment for idealistic beliefs.

Yearning that defines their existence.

* * *

Once upon a time there was a person who divided year into a quartette of seasons, subsequent in a continuous cycle – birth, bloom, ataraxia, and anesthesia – over and over, frequently associated with life, where each is bound to resemble another stage. Parallel? No, considering the former is ceaseless, eternal, while the latter – dainty, delicate, threatened to be crushed by the maladroit fingers, and so sent away with a one-way ticket clutched in its helpless hand.

There is something beautiful about fleetingness, the fact that each existence is approaching the inevitable end, day by day, hours upon hours of constant exploration – potentials that beg to be discovered, along with the range of possibilities and ephemeral images. In other words – the definition of summer, vacation before the freshman year of college, still idealized and so coexisting in twain of realms, drowning in the transitional serenity granted by the Mediterranean villa along with its elderly owner – both guarantees of two-months peace, preparation for the long, and approximately bumpy, way ahead. As for an ultimate stress reliever, designed to mitigate all discomfort – a matter of deception, phantom delusions that define her existence, built upon idealistic visions of both parents – a plan crafter for years ahead.

Named after the Lady with the Lamp, she was expected to evolve as the most sublime creature, world’s caretaker acquiring a form of a doctor or some other lawyer, evoking the need of youthful rebellion, first and presumably last attempt, although she would like to believe elsewise. It has been a fairly simple act, an act of poor ambitions and ever poorer potentiality, a meek gone mutinous – such an obsolete behavior, a reason to be derided.

Simply because her rebellion is a history of art course. Not medicine, not law but a subject from the bygone era, at least according to her father’s words, a subject of little importance in shaping up today’s world, a subject she could study on her own at any given time, in any given place. An assumption that even if logical, omits one distinctive aspect – stasis that bestows one with an opportunity to ponder upon which life path to choose, and furthermore explore the newfound possibility in hopes it might lead to a positive denouement after all – an action downright irrational if valued by the stern man, which is considered less than unimportant in the alternative dimension that is her aunt’s villa.

Downright wonderful.

Nevertheless, there is some eternal truth to it – ‘nothing lasts forever’, as some may put it, a maxim to indicate the ever-present fear – a factor that defines our existence.

The stasis.

Always trapped in between the stages where the former is well-accustomed-with, while the latter is simply a matter of personal perception, deceivable mind-prompting, uncertain of what lays ahead, left out for assumptions to feats upon. Ergo, in order to interrupt the favorable pass, a pair of scissors must step in, then cut through the continuous stagnation – a period beyond unaltered – with no more no less than an unfortunate turnabout.

A car engine slicing through the evening lull, cut short with a twist in the ignition, alerting her elderly relative, and so prompting to greet the visitor by the door who, even if scheduled, evokes some odd kind of agitation within the timid woman, enhanced by the fact that he will be living here for an unspecified amount of time. Vaguely aware why, she has spent a fair share of hours to ponder upon that aspect, confronted by a mere information that he is a genealogist of some sort, hired to reconstruct the ancestral correlations within the family, since aunt is claiming that her life is coming to an end, which indicates the indispensable clarification of all heritage matters.

And so, obliged to meet the basic social standards, she rises from more than convenient position on the mattress, and follows a path leading to the main entrance, less than keen on facing the visitor. Having overheard the various conversations about him, certain image is already branded underneath her skull, afraid of both the alteration and the approval that comes as an inherent part of visual validation, now that she is just mere steps from the final clarification.

(Time to face the music.)

First she catches a glimpse of hair – chestnut and flowing as he nods – a silhouette clad in flax shirt, shaking her aunt’s hand who, much to the woman’s misfortune, notices her as soon as she reaches the doorway, quick to formulate a request.

“Come here, darling, don’t be shy,” she motions the dainty girl with flick of her wrist, to which she complies, joining the pair on the ground floor. “So this young lady is my niece, Florence.”

“Harrison,” he holds up his hand for a shake – a nonverbal request to return the gesture, and so she follows, grasping it with the inborne gentleness – a brisk greeting, soon to depart as he backs away, albeit to leave a reverberating tingle on the way – a physical brand, capacity considered as more than plain unsettling.

“I’m sure you must be tired, Mr.-”

“It’s Harrison,” he interrupts almost at the spot, never the one to feel comfortable with being called by the full name – too professional, restricted, and so feigned.

“I don’t think it’ll be appropriate to-”

“Oh no, it’ll be more convenient this way, trust me,” he reassures with a polite smile lacing his lips, brisk to top it up with an inviting gesture – a nonverbal affirmation.

“If you insist…” she chuckles, shaking her head in amused disbelief, always the one to admire the younger generation for its carefree approach towards life, the quality she is someway keen on acquiring herself. “Oh, and before I forget, I’ve allowed myself to prepare you a bed in the west part of mansion, if that’s acceptable for you.”

“Yeah, totally acceptable, thank you,” he nods for a change, glancing at the navy blue car parked on the cobblestone driveway. “But I think I’d prefer to go for a drive tonight before I’ll be good to work.”

“Um, if that’s what you’d like…” she shrugs, visibly caught off guard by the alternative solution. “You know where to go?”

“Any recommendations for me?”

“Florence?” A query thrown towards the niece, a name reverberating in the air, enough to advert her attention to the conversation – a spectacle, as if designed especially for the dreamy woman.

“Um, I’m sorry what?” She frowns, glancing at her aunt as if in search for any support after the abrupt collision with reality.

“Any recommendations for our guest?” The elderly woman reiterates, patient as always, and much to the teen’s relief. “Since obviously, you spend more time outside than I do.”

“I’m not sure…”

“Oh, come on,” she hurries the pondering girl – an attempt of ignition, activation, and so further encouragement. “You could’ve accompany our guest, huh? Show him where to go?”

“Um, okay… I think I could’ve do that,” Florence agrees, glancing at the taller genealogist on her left, who responds with a brisk smile as if to demonstrate the acceptance of such turn of events.

“Bon voyage then,” she reciprocates with a twin gesture, crossing her arms on the chest. “But be back soon, since I doubt your parents would be pleased if they found out you’re tarrying around God knows where after dusk.”

“Sure, aunt,” having kissed her on the cheek, she is good to walk away, and so quick to join Harrison by the car, where she settles inside, right on the passenger seat.

The ignition itself requires nothing but a deft flick of his wrist – an indication of a long-term driver, soon to wrap both hands around the steering wheel, then drive through the ornamental gate and down the gravely road. Due to the open window, the wind is bound to mess with the chestnut hair as it glides through the side bangs obscuring his forehead just to further ruin the uneven parting in the middle, not that such contrast will be any drastic if juxtaposed with the prior appearance. Furthermore, it allows her to distinguish a twain of tiny hoops adorning his ear, encrusted with gold, shining on the tanned canvas of his skin, such a beautiful detail, a detail that has the girl pinching her own lobe, even if unconsciously.

“Where to?” A sudden slice through the evening silence, an exclamation that causes her to flinch in surprise, rapidly enough for the man to notice, which has him snorting for a change, much to her embarrassment.

“I don’t know,” she counters with a mere headshake, intent to brush the excess hair falling onto her face – stew-betrayer maybe? “Depends on what you wanna see.”

“Which depends on what you wanna show me,” he throws Florence a fleeting smile as one of his hands abandons the steering wheel on behalf of being stuck out of the window – a manner that unnerves her more than it is presumably healthy to.

“Um, let me think…” she draws on the syllable, fiddling with the sound as she ponders upon the most suitable proposition. “Is the town okay?”

“I think there’s only one way to tell for sure,” he chuckles – a heartwarming note that somehow settles her jerky attitude, even if partially. “Left or right?”

“Left,” she clarifies, leaning back on the car seat – a subconscious response to the affirmative manner he has displayed – eyelids fluttering as her nostrils flare to accommodate the leather scent.

“And the right?” A query punctuated by the upward tilt of his chin, indicating the established direction. “Where does it lead to?”

“Lake,” she bothers with yet another moderate reply, linking her fingers on the lap, as if to relieve the tension.

“Ever swum in there?” He nags further, silently hoping she will be able to determine what the water has to offer.

“No,” she contradicts, gaze glued to the field sprawling past the window, anything but to look him directly in the eye, “didn’t have the right person to swim with… I suppose.”

“Oh?” He cocks a teasing eyebrow at her, voice laced with a hint of inquiry.

“Huh?” She reciprocates with a correlating frown, visibly confused before the realization is casted upon her – shameful in its foolish nature, almost mortifying… Jesus. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to- it’s not like that, really, it’s not-”

“Hey,” he interrupts, gaze now focused solely on the young woman – calm façade that somehow smooths her jerky reaction, “it’s okay, I get it. No need to belabor the topic.”

“Okay,” she nods, hesitant at first as in an attempt to conceal the wave of discomfiture, afterwards intent to progress with an alternative subject, thus finds herself asking. “Did they hurt?”

“Did what hurt?” He frowns, once again adverting his eyes from the road – a manner she begins to consider more and more distressing as a parallel to its piling occurrences.

“The earrings,” she clarifies almost at the spot, despite the perturbation caused by his driving habits.

“You think about getting one, or what?”

“No,” she counters, nails scratching at her earlobe. “I’m just curious, that’s all.”

“Honestly, I was too stoned to remember,” he chuckles – a nostalgic laughter, each and every time perceived as charming by the young woman, oddly challenging to describe.

“Oh, okay…” she responds with a suchlike manner, carefree and endearing when less restrained. “So you were a hippie?”

“A hippie? No…” he denies, lacing it all up with a self-indicating headshake. “I think I was just a little bit of everything, which I believe is basically what college is all about.”

What college is all about…

Now that is interesting.

* * *

Once upon a time there was a person who divided twenty four hours into a twain of opposites – day and night – smoothing out the sharp edges with transitionary phases – dusk and dawn – together a quartette as a short-term response to the yearly cycle of seasons. Being a person of homely preferences (at least in accordance to her individual perspective), more specifically dictated by the inborne tendency to search for balance, for dreamy aesthetics and gentle experiences, leads each and every aspect to a single conclusion – her fondness towards the sunsets. Night, in turn, has always filled the young woman with some odd kind of perturbation, evoked by the gloominess that swallows acres of land, and so deprives her from the comfort of perceiving world with less disquietude.

At times such as now, when she is forced to go downstairs in search for a merest glass of water, feet aching from the cold floor – such a ridiculous contrast to the warm Italian air surrounding the thirsty visitor – which, paired with the restlessness acquired while wandering in the darkness, has the woman nearly jumping out of her skin when she catches a glimpse of an unspecified silhouette from the corner of her eye. The revelation that prompts her to advert the gaze in said direction, where she is greeted with a sight of their guest chugging down what must be a glass of milk – a personification of all her childhood traumas.

“Christ,” she inhales, having omitted the fact that she was holding her breath the whole time, “you freaked me out.”

“Oh, did I?” He retorts, still sipping on his drink, as he leans backwards on the kitchen counter, skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat, hair tousled from sleep – details that begin to flood her perception.

“Is that milk?” She ascertains, eyes adverting to the object held in his right hand.

“More or less,” he shrugs, focusing on the whitish liquor in his glass as a parallel to her interest.

“Huh?”

“Wanna try it?” He suggests, tilting the container in her direction, smirking at the disguised grimace manifesting itself on the feminine face, all to his amusement.

“Definitely not,” she refuses, accompanied by a surprisingly feisty headshake. “Plain milk is weird enough to drink, not to mention your unspecified creations… ‘cause that’s some kind of a mix, isn’t it?”

“Maybe it is,” he mimics the prior manner with some inborne carelessness that she finds oddly appealing, soon to step out of the kitchen, having decided that the topic is belabored.

Left alone now, she grabs a glass from the cupboard, quick to fill it with the tap water that she is obliged to down either in the gloomy area here, perchance upstairs, or in the living space occupied by the genealogist – both unnerving in their own nature. Aware of her limited tolerance when it comes to such circumstances, she is bound to opt for the latter, viewing the former as quite a jumpy denouement – not what she is striving for by any means – and so intent to join him there in a few hurried steps.

Already comfortable on the old-fashioned sofa, he throws her a fleeting glance as she settles down on the opposite armchair, crossing her legs on the expensive padding. While his mind is swimming, drifting beyond parallel realities, he is simply sitting on the plush cushions, yet to acknowledge the fact that his alias is transferring into a liquor depraver held in his hand, acquiring a mentality of a White Russian, whatever that mentality is. Well, certainly not what has him clutching at the more realistic dimension, where he is beginning to think that the whole glass might have been a mistake, not one of the disastrous consequences but still, enough to set it aside on the coffee table with a soft clink – an indication of a bygone phase.

“I’m off, so if you wanna finish, go ahead,” he proposes, inviting her with a subtle gesture, once again to lay back on the furniture as he awaits her response.

“What is it?”

“White Russian,” he clarifies, albeit bound to continue when faced with her confused expression. “Milk, vodka, and coffee liquor.”

“I don’t think I’m into that then,” she chuckles, shaking her head to emphasize the refusal.

“Then what are you into?” He teases, to which she responds with a bashful blush, not that it surprises him much, now that he is beginning to learn all her instinctive reactions.

“I don’t know, many things, I guess… it’s tough to specify…” she hesitates, as if intent to pick a suitable expression, “art for instance… I do like art, but I guess so do others so…”

“Well, your aunt told me you’re planning to study history of art,” he states, having dragged it out of the depths of his memory – a fleeting intercalation in between the working periods, spent in the company of the elderly woman. “Something beyond interests has led you there?”

“Well,” she shrugs, nails scratching at her cheek, gaze once again focused on the almost empty glass settled on the coffee table. “I guess I’m intent to find my own way, not the established lawyer path… a lawyer who is some other doctor, I don’t know… I hope you know where I’m coming from.”

“I think so, since well, I’ve been ‘round the block a couple of times,” he smiles, raking his fingers through the blowzy hair, as if only to tousle it even further, “which allows me to see how important it is to lead your life according to your own standards, for the benefit of your own vision.”

“Well, I know…” she sighs, weak and resigned, “but sometimes it’s quite difficult to synchronize all aspects and satisfy the meaningful people.”

“Meaningful?” He frowns, as if displeased with her answer, and yet able to gain a nod of confirmation from the blonde. “You think your ‘meaningful people’ should force you to succumb to their will?”

“You put it as if it was the simplest action to take,” she mimics his manner – an indication of disbelief – caught off guard by the stern comment. “But it’s not, and maybe it’s a mistake to see world in such colors, but I believe other people’s opinion matter. Tell me, what would I become if it wasn’t for them?”

“I can’t tell for sure,” he shrugs, having opted for an evasive answer, not intent to fall into any one of her dependent traps, “but I’ve always thought going my own way is far more satisfying… satisfying but harder, yes, although it’s not that important, quite simple actually, ‘cause all it takes is courage, courage to break the unspoken rule.”

“What kind of rule?”

“To be unhappy,” he clarifies – one of his lifelong maxims, “which I believe is connected with the fact that sometimes in order to please others, you decide to lead your life in accordance to their expectations. And it’s the beginning of the end.”

“Why?” She nags further, intent to share a seat on his personal train of thoughts. “Because you feel trapped?”

“That as well,” he agrees, albeit yet to complete her conclusion that appears to have omitted the very essence of his ponderations, “but what’s more important, you lose the sense of who you are, of what you want and aim for, which is not worth it, at least in my opinion.”

“Maybe it’s just… maybe I don’t have that courage,” she ponders, gaze fixated on a tiny spot marking the hardwood floor. “Maybe I’m afraid that if I pull another stunt like that, everyone will leave me.”

“Then fucking let them,” he shrugs, in the end opting for chugging down the remains of his drink, abandoned on the coffee table up to now. “Like why would they leave you anyway? For picking a different college, or what?”

“Okay fine,” she agrees after a few longer moments, glancing at his profile, as if in a passing. “It might be as illogical for you as it is for me sometimes, but when faced with the choice, I’ll fall into that trap once again.”

“And you’ll allow it?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, a hint of what must be a smile playing upon his lips. “Tell me, were the consequences even that disastrous?”

“Um, I mean- I don’t know,” she replies, having projected her father’s disapproved expression on the blank canvas – a mirror image branded within her mind – along with the frown marring the smooth forehead of the mother. “My parents were just displeased, I guess.”

“What else?”

“Um, nothing,” she shrugs – a careless gesture, designed to conceal the lifelong hesitancy to agree with his insights – no more no less than a mere bunch of words uttered by an almost stranger, a pseudo form of attitude-alteration.

“Well, if that’s all they had, then there’s no logical reason to be afraid of their reaction,” he concludes, leaning back on sofa – an evidence of his contentment.

“Maybe you’re right…” she sighs, brisk to wrap up their agreement with a smile, genuine even if fleeting, “and um, sorry for forcing you to listen to all of that.”

“Forcing?” He laughs at the odd apology, doubting she will ever cease to surprise him, with all the bashful encounters in mind. “I could’ve left any time. I don’t think you could actually force me to do anything.”

“Yeah,” she mimics his manner – a pearly chuckle reverberating in the nighttime lull, “I don’t think I can actually force anyone to do anything, since that requires some kind of a... I don’t know… charisma?”

“A charisma you don’t possess, is that it?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, voice laced with a hint of teasing amusement.

“Not at all,” she counters, accompanied by an oddly expressive headshake, “it’s just…I don’t consider my charisma as outstanding in any way.”

“Why?”

“Simply because I’ve met people more gifted in that field,” she explains, tucking one of her feet beneath the opposite thigh, quick to pull the oversized tee down as it has ridden up a little in process.

“I think it’s natural,” he remarks, forehead marred with a frown of disbelief, obliged to state the obvious. “You lead in one, lack in the other, so comparing yourself to others is neither sensible, nor self-developing.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she shrugs, intent to aim for a more diplomatic overlap – remedy for any bitter aftertaste.

“Maybe,” he hums, mimicking the prior comment, eyes falling shut, as his head leans back, having discerned that the conversation is over.

Or is it?

Either way, a part of her, the one that appears to be more sexually aware, considers it as an unrepeatable chance to satiate the leftover curiosity, lurking in the shadows for the past two weeks, and thus drink in the details that managed to evade her perceptivity on the number of prior occasions. Furthermore, the quaintest factor is the transition in her perception, correlating with the fact that sex has never been neither the main object of focus, nor the aim of her dreamy tendencies to commit all the overdramatic affections to paper. Oddly so, she is far from writing about the genealogist, or rather has been since the day of his arrival, instead decided to focus on the present aspects of his company – a tendency to be extended, now that the circumstances seem more favorable.

Facing up to the fact, she did fell for one or two boys in the past – affections not meant to be interpreted in terms of a further-developing relationship, since in accordance to what she remembers, excluding that single by-definition exception, they remained purely platonic. Thus it is safe to say that the situation she finds herself in, is a far more complicated one, extending beyond her experience in any form of social correlation – a subject of peculiar nature that she is intent to explore one way or another.

Therefore, she allows her gaze to trace a path down the exposed neck, and further to the firm planes of his chest, partly obscured by the crossed forearms. Despite the inborn flexibility with the verbal components of the language, she is caught in a genuine struggle to transfer the unspecified notions into one word – the most sublime message, crafted only to define him as a person in the eyes of all single-minded creatures.

As if it was necessary.

“You know, instead of staring at me like that, you can actually come and sit here,” he states all of sudden – a blunt comment reverberating in the air – causing the woman to choke on her own spit, caught hand in a cookie jar.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologizes, gaze adverting to the side, voice laced with a distinctive hint of embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to stare, really.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I’m quite flattered actually,” he chuckles – throaty and masculine – as his eyes fall open, allowing the hazel to interfere with green.

A transition to some distant part of his conscience, firmly indicating that he is not supposed to fuel anything that has been blossoming inside the teenager the moment their hands linked in a greeting mannerism. And yet, he opts for ignoring the unspoken rule, and thus has invited her to join him on the sofa – a proposal of pending nature, now that she appears to be tethering on the cusp between a twain of options. While his eyes remained glued to her figure, conspicuously fragile in structure, he cannot help but dwell upon whether she will come out as more earnest than evasive, hooked on progress thus threatened with possible misjudgments, albeit well-aware, even if only in the back of his mind, about the probable consequences of passing such threshold.

Nevertheless, he cannot fight the smug smirk that decorates his face the moment she caves in, and finally takes a sit beside him, eyes glued to her lap, swept away with a wave of insecurity. A part of him finds it endearing – the way she moves, graceful akin to a swan, pensive akin to Juliet – while the corresponding one – an aspect of carnal instinct – perceives the inborne innocence as an ultimate obstacle, bound to assume she will retreat as soon as the situation heats up.

Ergo, he opts against any rapid action, instead shifts to the side, with the very intention to face the female, outstretching an arm in her direction – an offer she gladly accepts, slipping a dainty hand into his, soon to be enveloped with the pleasant amount of warmth. The comforting notion prompts her to satiate the newfound curiosity and thus trace the pattern of his skin, quick to discern a protuberant line marring the flesh on the side part – presumably a scar, an imperfection that evokes the inherent query concerning its origin, a pursuit interrupted by a foreseen alternative.

“What was the furthest you’ve ever gone with someone?”

“A kiss,” she admits, shivering as he teases the inside of her wrist with the other hand, stroking the part of skin that she has never considered erogenous until now – a discovery so peculiar that she almost counters its veracity.

“Mm-hm,” he hums as his grip switches to the one of different pursuit, encircling her wrist and tugging suggestively – a nonverbal indication of an action that he is intent to take, albeit still in capacity of eliciting a choked gasp from the female, immediate to brace her weight on his shoulders. “And what else?”

“Nothing, it’s like- well, that’s all, I think,” she lets out a nervous laugh, stumbling over the words when distracted by a seemingly heavy weight of his hand placed atop the hip, earlier a whisper tickling the exposed flesh of her neck.

“Okay,” he chuckles – smoky and alluring, intent to lighten up the mood, now that she is twitching in his grasp, tensed with the nervous anticipation. “So tell me what you want to do for a change.”

“I don’t know, really,” she cannot help but advert her gaze to the side, unable to bare the intensity of his, and yet, he is brisk to grasp her by the chin, locking them together once again, as a part of him loathes the fact that she appears to be looking everywhere but his eyes.

“You don’t know, huh?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, smirking at the reddish hint of blush decorating her cheeks, which in turn gets Florence to wonder whether he finds her reactions that amusing, or simply ego-stroking. “Well, that’s a pity, ‘cause I don’t know what I want to do either.”

“Okay, fine,” she gives up, having decided to shove all her insecurities aside, or at least pretend that it lays within her capacity, which leads up to a surprisingly concrete response. “I want to… um… to kiss then.”

As if her wish was his command, he leans in, brushing her lips with some quaint delicacy that she struggles to associate with his manners, since he has never struck her as an exceptionally gentle person. What must have omitted her perceptivity though, is his virtual motivation – an intent to decipher how likely it is that she will shy away, and thus when the action is returned, he allows himself to tilt her head to the side, deepening the caress. Moreover, a change that appears as somehow aggressive in the eyes of an inexperienced woman, still not certain whether she enjoys the ravenous way he seems to be devouring her lips with, and yet willing to kiss him back, curious about the possible progress.

Nevertheless, some sizable section of her consciousness has devoted so deeply into the act that she fails to notice the subtle alteration – the hand that was previously cradling the side of her face, slides underneath the cotton tee, eliciting a surprised gasp from the woman, swallowed by his mouth, paralleled with the time his tongue slips inside her mouth – an action that has her tensing in his arms almost at the spot. Or a response of short-lived nature, where she is shaken out of the caught-off-guard state in almost no time, finally flowed with an idea of what to do with her hands, dismissing the awkward clutching of his shoulders, thus immediate to lay them atop his chest instead.

What is least expected though must to be the fact that he seems intent to mirror said concept, with his fingers stroking her flank, inching closer and closer to the breast area, and yet, before he completes the route, an instinctual thirst for air forces Florence to break the kiss, exposing his disheveled appearance to her eyes, with dilated pupils and shallow pants, palpable on the skin of her cheek. Even though she has been granted with a fair share of opportunities to see him in a less tidy state, the encounter is perceived as a separate one, because of the virtual nature of his perturbation – a dainty female settled on his lap, a female with enough confidence to break the silence.

“That was really nice, thank you,” she smiles, even further at the confused expression blossoming atop his features, albeit quick to fade away, replaced by a signature teasing smirk, now that the disappointment has been replaced with a transitional emotion.

“My pleasure,” he reciprocates, both hands back at her hips now, tilting his chin up towards the entrance as he speaks. “Didn’t your aunt mention she gets up at dawn?”

“Yeah, I think she- oh,” Florence chuckles, following his gaze sideways to the terrace, confronted with the sight of an early morning light seeping through the thin voile curtains, basking the living room in its fresh glow. “I must be going then, sorry.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” he pats her thigh, indicating that she is, indeed, supposed to rise from the oh-so-convenient position, to which she succumbs, quick to stand up and flash him one last smile, before she retreats towards the corridor – a rush up the stairs, halted only by the smooth baritone uttering her name once more in the almost expired nighttime lull.

“Florence?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell your aunt about this.”

* * *

Once upon a time there was a person who valued his own comfort over the nature’s one, having decided that his excuses are enough to justify the implementation of a fresh solution – the electric light, considered beyond functional, albeit cycle-disrupting as it violates the ancient ratio. When it comes to her personal opinion, she finds a distinctive solitude in the way it navigates through the darkness, mesmerized by the variety of illuminations, even though a fair share of bulbs appear to be lacking in the value possessed by their candle-like grandparents – a sort of romantic glow, soft and peaceful as it brightens up the garden area, along with the eight-seat table.

Unfortunately, she is not alone this time, granted with the opportunity to soak up the sustained quietude, but in a company of a few people, not by any means an unusual occurrence, since her aunt tends to invite the neighbors for dinner. What seems to bothering her though is the fact that Harrison has joined them as well, accompanied by one of the younger women – a daughter of an academic professor who is currently chatting with her relative.

Circumstances that drive her back in time to that idiotic incident, along with its consequences extending up until now, or more specifically the fact that he has been acting as if nothing happened, as if they remained solely on the chatting terms. After a while she has begun to think that it was a mistake in the first place not to tell her aunt about the aforementioned situation, especially now, when the genealogist appears to be flirting with the female seated on his right.

(Or maybe you’re just paranoid.)

(Yeah, if I’m ‘just’ paranoid, then they’re ‘just’ talking.)

Crossing her arms over the chest, she keeps on glancing over at the pair – a display of temporary obsession, with the strings of jealousy laced in its being – now that she is getting triggered by the smoothness of their conversation. A part of her feels betrayed by the act, abandoned by the table, hung in between a twain of dimensions: retired professors and their descendants, lacking in the profitable capacity to navigate her way through the topics and simply join the conversation. Instead, she opts for poking the cooling pasta with a silver fork, excluding a few occasional bites here and there, as her eyes remain glued to the villa’s entrance for a change, anticipating the time it will be appropriate to retreat into the room and sleep off the bitter aftertaste that comes with rejection.

Linear

Subsequent

Damnation.

“Rosaline?” A name uttered in the nighttime lull, piquing her aunt’s interest enough to advert the attention from the current conversation, and thus lift her eyes to the genealogist’s face. “I’ve promised Linda to drive her to town, so we must be going now, you know... but thank you for the dinner anyway.”

(Oh, so her name is Linda. How delightful.)

“Oh, it’s fine,” she smiles, kind as always. “Have a safe trip then.”

“Thank you again,” he addresses her one last time, before his attention switches to Florence, with his arm following the alteration, outstretched in an inviting gesture. “Wanna go with us?”

(No, piss off.)

“I’m not sure,” she hesitates, ever the diplomat of refusal, glancing at him from the seating position by the table. “It’s just- I don’t wanna disturb you or something.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Rosaline smiles, this time to encourage her, motioning towards the pair with a flick of her wrist. “I think you’ll have much more fun with Linda and Harrison than with a bunch of retirees.”

“Okay, fine,” she sighs, as if utterly resigned because of the concept, attempting to convince herself that it is not so unpleasant after all. “I’ll go.”

“Cool, c’mon then,” he motions her to get up, to which she succumbs, rising from the elegant chair, and following their steps towards the car with a quick, “goodnight,” thrown over her shoulder.

Nonetheless, the moment Florence reaches his navy car parked by the curb, she is surprised by the fact that Linda has settled on the back, as if to indicate her desired place, and thus she agrees on the established terms, soon to rest on the front, and with a flick of ignition, they drive down the gravely road, further through the gate, and the adjoining street. A part of infrastructure that Florence has always considered as picturesque, possessing some sort of a romantic glow, and the unparalleled vibe of a nighttime drive, with the endless route of possibilities sprawling in front of their eyes, now glued to the anthropocentric wonder.

Which is beautiful.

Which is fleeting.

Which is eternal.

Or which has her wishing the scale would tilt towards the latter.

At least until Linda’s interruption.

“Thanks again for driving me to Matteo.”

“Sure, no problem,” he shrugs, glancing at the woman in the rear-view mirror, before his eyes advert to the road once again.

“Who’s Matteo?” She finds herself asking, faced twisted in a frown of confusion, when confronted with the possible explanation.

“My boyfriend.”

(Oh.)

(So it turns out you were just paranoid.)

(Or were you?)

Almost deep enough in her thoughts to miss the following query. “And you? Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Um, I…” she hesitates, glancing over at Harrison in search for at least some partial support, although he appears to be ignoring her, with eyes glued to the road.

“Sorry if it was too personal,” she flashes her an apologetic smile through the rear-view mirror, barely acknowledged as an existent component.

“It’s okay,” she shrugs in response, gaze adverting to the passing trees outside the glass pane. “I don’t even have one, so…”

“Well, that was awkward,” Linda giggles, which in turn paints her as derisive in the blonde’s eyes, and thus retreats any will to continue the conversation.

“Pointing it out doesn’t make it less awkward,” the driver joins in, a voice that slices through the sweetened stasis, attracting the attention of both females in the car.

“Yeah, sure,” this time she huffs, offended and thus done with the whole concept of talking down to both of them, even the man who gave her such a congenial impression in the first place – calm and easy-going, with an interesting smile, and perceptive hazel irises.

Ergo, the rest of the drive is spent in partial silence, excluding the monotonous hum of engine and the whistling wind that envelopes the metallic frame – a set of circumstances considered rather unimportant, since they are relatively quick to reach the town. A place that imposes Linda to speak again, albeit solely to guide Harrison to the desired tenement, where she gets off the car, and with a quick, “goodbye,” thrown over her shoulder – an expression of concealed bitterness – she leaves them alone once again, and thus clears out the atmosphere as she appears to have taken some immerse emotional luggage with her, or tension that seemed to be enveloping the vehicle on the course of their trip.

“Wanna stay here and maybe go for a walk, or I don’t know… do whatever we find suitable?” He proposes, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at the female, with a ghost of an ephemeral smile playing upon his lips.

“Okay, why not,” she agrees, flashing him a mirroring expression, before she steps off the car, in accordance to the nonverbal gesture of the man who is soon to join her on the cobbled street. “Where are we going by the way?”

“The square maybe, ‘cause I want a drink,” he gestures towards the illuminated area, garnished with a bunch of outdoor tables, or a source of the resonating variety of conversation, “but then, we can just… I don’t know… wander around to see if something else piques our interest.”

“Okay,” she agrees, soon to follow him on the way to the bar, where he only purchases a bottle of wine – ‘specialità regionali’ – at least in accordance to the salesman’s words, although she suspects it might be a subject of little matter for Harrison, as he only throws him a polite smile, along with some cash placed on the counter, soon to retreat afterwards.

Back on the square again, they navigate their way through the maze of narrow streets, up to the point where they come across a relatively empty one, with a bunch of chairs pushed up to the brick wall. A resting spot that he considers suitable enough to flop down and uncork the bottle with some kind of a multi-tool, fished out from his pocket, soon to take an initial gulp of the reddish liquid.

“Isn’t it some kind of a heresy?” She frowns, gesturing towards the glass, currently held in a single hand and cradled upon his lap. “To drink it straight from the bottle?”

“Is there anyone stopping me?” He retorts, smiling as she shakes her head ‘no’. “Then I don’t care.”

“Seems like you don’t care about a lot of things,” she remarks, glancing at the man who is currently taking a few relatively huge gulps of wine, his Adam’s apple bobbing in time with each sip.

“’Cause I think it’s a fucking waste of time…” he replies after a short interval, required to finish the portion of drink, eyes now focused on the bottle’s label, “of time, and I don’t know… spirit maybe.”

“I’ve always wanted that capacity to just… you know… don’t care,” she admits, cracking her knuckles on the lap, as she stares at the opposite building, wondering about the current activities of its dwellers, even if only for a split second. “I mean it’s kind of complicated, ‘cause sometimes I really don’t care about things that others might consider important, decent grades for instance. And then when something pops out, something quite… um… significant, at least for me, all they say is: ‘take it easy, it’s not a big deal’, while for me it is a big deal.”

“I think it’s quite natural people tend to misunderstand others, since they rely on their own perspective,” he interrupts the explanation with yet another sip of alcohol, soon to cradle the bottle upon his lap once again. “And also, if you combine it with the reluctance to introspect the motivations of others, they’ll never come closer to the actual state of affairs, so it’s just… well, futile.”

“Okay, thanks,” she throws him a fleeting smile – a sympathetic gesture that prompts him to return it in a resembling manner.

“But these are just words, you know,” he continues – a matter of prevention. “In order to actually make it work you gotta experience it yourself.”

“Maybe you’re right…”

An agreement ensued by a relatively comfortable kind of silence, or an opportunity for the genealogist to retreat into his personal land of thoughts, where he is granted with an opportunity to ponder upon one distinctive subject that has been bothering him for these few days ensuing their short-lived moment of intimacy. What initiated as a rather innocent whim was never expected to blossom into a craving of entirely different nature – a carnal one – calling back to the manner his eyes were lingering on her figure merely two weeks ago.

Another important aspect – a conclusion from what he suspects might be a high school period – is that such form of interest cannot be a conscious decision, and thus he has never felt shameful due to developing any kind of affection towards a person, maybe because of the atheistic beliefs or the general reluctance towards the concept of strict morality. He has always considered it inhumane – a characteristic of incorporeal beings who must have forgotten what it is like to inhabit a body – or unrealistic – a form of spiritual disguise, meant to conceal all flaws from the eyes of others, fool them up to the point where they perceive one as an idealistic entity – incomprehensible mentor, he who leads them towards the land of redeemed.

Utopia.

A place that does not exist.

At least for any corporeal human, and he who is one, will gladly choose an alternative path.

“I was wondering...”

(Sure you were.)

“Maybe you want some?” He gestures towards the bottle held in his right hand. “I don’t think it’ll be sane to finish the whole one by myself.”

“And why is that?” She cocks an eyebrow at him, lips laced in an anticipatory smile.

“’Cause I’m driving.”

“Um, okay,” she chuckles, someway bound to accept the offer, “so I think I do want some then,” and thus takes a few sips of liquor, then hands the bottle back to its owner. For a little while they just switch in such manner, until half of its contents are emptied, albeit any alternation in the sobriety omits her recognition, considering the consumption has been rather meager, with him drinking a substantial amount.

As her mind switches from the nonsensible metaphor applying to the wine that is supposed to run through her bloodstream, overheard months ago during a spring break party, she cannot help but wonder about his prior conversation with Linda, once again invaded by a preposterous amount of jealousy. A feeling someway associated with the color green, venomous neon hue, as if due to variety of virulent substances required to manufacture one, seeping through the pores, thus bound to infect an organism, or rather its intellectual capacities.

Or a stimulus that prompts her to voice the following query.

“What were you talking about back home?” She blurts out – an exclamation ensued by a mental scold, yet way past the point of retreating in such circumstances. “With Linda, I mean.”

“About marihuana and college… in that order, I think,” he hesitates, drawing the sentences a little, as he attempts to recall the prior conversation. “Then some of her issues that weren’t very important to be honest… Something about that Matteo-guy, I think… Why are you asking?”

“I’m just… curious, you know.”

(Curious? Or jealous?)

A thought that laces his lips in a barely noticeable smirk – a gateway to the newfound opportunity, focused on the selfish aspects of his whims that correlate with the concept of perfectionism in any form, not only its pathological version. Even though he is well aware of his lifelong pursuit towards the aspects considered as natural, thus far from nonpareil, he would never suspect it to extend in the direction of an active attitude – a desire to mar, to drag the compass’ sharp end down the freshly bought blackboard just to watch people grimace at the sound.

Aversion or the commonplace odium – an aftermath of idealistically strict morality, or a paradox in its most sublime form – what is expected to define one as a human leads to an entirely different outcome – bringing up a society that loathes the scum. Furthermore, less and less people appear to aim for more organic behavior, only conventions, forced etiquettes, acquired to sketch the most sublime form of a humane being – an exemplary man with an exemplary wife and a group of children playing at their feet, exemplarily of course.

Fatiguing to the bone.

Perfection.

Merely a phantasy of civilization.

Model disguise of a modern man.

Missing out the nature’s intent.

Perfection or omission?

Futile to eradicate.

“C’mere,” he proposes, completely out of the blue, motioning her with a flick of his wrist, having settled the bottle aside on the cobbled pavement. Confronted with yet another offer that evening, she hesitates, glancing left, then right, despite the sensory awareness that their dead end is surely deprived of any company, excluding the possible voyeurs hiding behind the curtains. Come to think of it, the idea itself might be, indeed, a bit childish, since in such case the sensibility is rather dubious, and thus she chooses to terminate the state of shameful indecision, evident in the immediate rise from her chair in order to take a seat on his lap, sideways, supported by a pair of pleasantly warm hands: one gripping her thigh, while the other winds around the back.

(Fuck…)

“But we ain’t gonna…?” She asks – a query outlined by the distinctive hint of embarrassment.

“What? Fuck?” He chuckles, cocking a taunting eyebrow at Florence, taking special pleasure in the way her cheeks flash red. “Depends if you want to.”

“I’m not… I, um, I don’t,” she chuckles, stumbling over the words, although not repulsed, only caught off guard by the concept itself, accompanied by a jerking movement, as he nuzzles the blonde hair, mouth merely an inch away from her ear.

“That’s a shame then,” he purrs, smirking as another tremor runs down her spine. “Has anyone ever told you to try and seize the opportunity?”

“Um, actually… you might be the first one,” she flashes him a knowing smile, more and more relaxed as his fingers begin to draw calming circles over her rounded hip. “How do you feel about that?”

(Balance out facts and falsities.)

“Depends on what you’re referring to,” he retorts – a comment left hanging in the recurrent silence, having painted her cheeks with the reddish blush once again, albeit this time she is the one who gets their eyes to meet, even if only for a split second. Despite such fleeting expanse, she notices something distinctive, something that causes her thighs to clench on instinct – lascivious glint, inseparable from the pitch pools of black – the pupils, now dilated in an almost animalistic manner. A ravenous look that has the female squirming on his lap, unintentionally attempting to relieve the tension, until he taps her hip – a nonverbal signification to halt – which in turn captures her attention.

Clueless about what is bound to happen, she almost squeals when he leans in to brush her lips, intent to maneuver the dainty figure with a self-indicating tug, to which she complies, straddling his thighs as the kiss deepens. An initiation almost parallel to the one from a few days ago, if not for the fact that his actions seem to have gained an alternative pace, evident in a pair of hands slipping underneath her blouse: one settling on the waist, while the other snakes up her stomach, soon to rest upon the plump globe.

For a brief moment, a part of him expects her to jerk away from his grip in some nervous reflex, but nothing like this happens, and instead she only shivers, stomach tensing as his fingers skate over the fabric cup. Even though he suspects it might be more convenient to simply ask in order to clarify the issue, he opts for the nonverbal option, intent to focus on the bodily responses, thus relies on her assertiveness to halt him if required.

What surprises him though is the fact that the touch itself, no matter how subdued, appears to have evoked something within the woman – carnal instincts that prompt her to wrap the arms around his neck and rock a little into his body. Pleased with the progressing inflorescence, he responds with a more prominent gesture, hand slipping underneath the bra cup, which elicits a surprised gasp from Florence, and thus causes him to smirk against her now swollen lips. Not intent to overwhelm the woman, he opts for a milder pace, exploring the breast why tentative touches that get him to question the self-control aspect, now that she is pressing closer to his frame, weight braced on his chest as her free hand cradles the side of his face, stubbly in texture.

Nevertheless, it is safe to assume that the situation is bound to act to the detriment of all the reasonable prompts, signalizing him to postpone the event, at least until he drives them somewhere more… private? Or simply convenient, since the former is not an issue for him, although he has never identified as a person with exhibitionistic tendencies, considering his little concern for any possible audience, as the object of main focus is undoubtedly his partner – a woman of little tolerance of the voyeuristic factor.

Therefore, he departs from her lips, almost groaning at the whine of protest she utters, even if relatively quiet, as he leans towards her ear, obliged to adjourn the encounter with a common, yet disappointing, phrase – a performance in two acts.

“Wanna go further?”

“Maybe… but, um… not here,” she replies, voice laced with a hint of hesitation, guiding him to the final conclusion that the former assumptions were correct, furthermore prompting to voice yet another proposition.

“Well,” he chuckles, intentionally distracting himself with fixing the collar of her blouse, fingers smoothing out the material, “that I’ve had already figured out, but… how about we return to the car and drive away somewhere more… um… more…”

“Private?” She prompts, glancing at his hand on her cleavage, now covered with goosebumps.

“If that’s what you want,” he shrugs, dropping it to the side – a nonverbal indication for the woman to rise from her prior seat, furthermore accompany him on their way back to the vehicle.

Even though the pair remains silent throughout the walk, it is neither to be classified as sullen, nor awkward, rather pensive, as they dive deep within their thoughts, and while he is wondering about how to handle her inexperience, she dwells upon a concept of partially different nature.

When it comes to Harrison, or rather his genuine motives, she is bound to label them as someway enigmatic, of dubious intents, as a distinctive part of her displays an attitude that might be parallel to fear, or stress maybe, a sort of ambivalently nervous excitement, or a matter of insatiate curiosity. To explore but to evade – an ever present paradox, accompanying the process of exiting one’s comfort zone, bound to resolve into each and every shade dividing spectacular success from a dreadful disaster.

Nevertheless, she is willing to pursue with the former, resolute as never before in her life, maybe excluding the college situation, encouraged by the unignorable titillation oscillating around the factor of grey morality. A term she has encountered somewhere throughout her bookish escapades, and ever since considered as partially dangerous due to the lack of behavioral prediction, rules that determine one’s judgment. Despite the relative whiteness of her principles, she feels some odd kind of attraction towards him as a man of fluent, organic acts, neither identified with the villain, nor hero archetype, intent to explore the poorly investigated concept.

Or maybe the virtual issue is linked with the fact that he cares so little about the conventions, dedicated to lead his life the way he pleases – a characteristic admired by the woman, an alteration from her usual approach. Furthermore, he appears to be a little more… experienced, assuming it is a suitable expression, although she is unable to determine his real age, since he has a relatively youthful face – especially after shaving – a feature emphasized by the longish hair and light hazel eyes, warm in tone, or the subtle jewelry and the flax shirts that he seems to be so fond of – a compound of multiple factors. While a part of her wants to clarify the aforementioned doubt, she assumes it is better not to, leaving the case unresolved for the benefit of ravenous assumptions – a feast of uncertainty – hopefully meant for future discoveries, even though she does not find that knowledge essential, only a matter of curiosity.

A new road.

* * *

Once upon a time there was a person who valued the nature’s comfort over his own one – as for the yin of enlightened yang – having agreed to lead his life in accordance to the conditions dictated by pristine substance. Ergo, the electric system has been abandoned on the moon’s benefit – a guide to navigate one’s route through the darkness – or the stars that shine with inborn light, seeping through the leafy copula above the vehicle, as it illuminates their future way.

A transition to one peculiar notion that she is invaded by in such occasions, which might be considered as a form of paradox itself – a contrast for her prior statement concerning the so-called romantic glow of garden lightbulbs. Nevertheless, she perceives such organicism as an embodiment of any lacking artificialness, as well as an opportunity for the pristine forces to regain the desolate terrain.

The most picturesque spectacle.

Imperfection-defining.

Thus unflawed – an obsolete paradox.

Insatiate curiosity of their final destination – a relatively mysterious outcome for the young woman – that bestows her with an internal obligation to break the silence, directed by the instinctual intents, by the desire for denouement, as she is practically itching with the need to utter the final query. Therefore, she is finds herself complying to the subconscious request, voice oddly unfitting when compared to its usual tune, as if unable to be distinguished even by her very own ears.

“Harrison?”

“Huh?”

“I think this one is private enough,” she states, twitching on the seat once his eyes settle on her body, and his gaze follows its path further down, leaving a wave of tremors on the way, which evokes an oddly potent desire to reach out and touch him. A craving that extends beyond her comprehension, that prompts Florence to extend an arm, merely a breath away from leaning across the gear shift in order to fulfil the whim – a pursuit that he is quick to halt by pushing the car door open, intent to switch places in search for a more beneficial position.

“What are you-”

“Backseat,” he replies, leaning forward on the frame, as he carries on with the explanation. “It’ll be more convenient this way, trust me.”

“Okay...” she agrees, voice once again laced with a hint of hesitation – a signature manner that she appears to have grown accustomed with throughout the years, beyond the privilege of being omitted, especially when caught in a situation of such kind.

A situation when she is obliged to follow him there, not in accordance to an external pressure but personal eagerness, shivering once he steadies her with a single hand wrapped around the arm, tugging the woman closer, until her legs graze his, and with a soft gasp uttered in the confined space, he modifies their position, now hovering above the partner. However, instead of kissing her as per usual, he halts, settled between her legs, in order to get rid of his shirt with some distinctive nonchalance that she finds a bit unnerving, considering the contrasting nature of her attitude.

Despite the fact that it is, by any means, not her first time to see him topless, since the summer weather appears to be relatively unforgiving on this latitude, she perceives the given situation as entirely different, viewed through the prism of possible motives and intents. Impure as some would dare to assume – a term she distances from more and more as a parallel to the life length, carrying an alteration in the woman’s perception of her own persona, more specifically the query concerning which factors determine one’s value.

The quantity of sexual encounters?

Absurd.

Although the fact that it indeed does matter to some people, makes her feel a little… restrained by the conventions (akin to the college situation), or judged through the prism of poorly constructed morals. Patriarchal archaisms that have been influencing people’s perception for hundreds of years, generations upon generations adding the fuel to the ever-burning fire, pouring their harmful beliefs into the minds of their children.

Anticipating alteration.

Continuous cycle of conceptual conversion.

Everlasting?

Alas unachievable.

“God, I feel ridiculous,” she chuckles, awkwardly in her mind’s eyes, eliciting a huskier laugh from her partner. “It’s like… I heard so many facts, or myths maybe, about sex, and now…I just… I don’t know…”

“Changed your mind about this?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her – a matter of verification – sitting back to rest beside the curled legs of his lover. “Tell me.”

“No, no, I’m just… stressed, that’s all,” she admits, flashing him a telltale smile, as if to ascertain he gets the message, albeit quick to rectify, “but I want this, really.”

“In here?”

“In here,” she confirms with a single nod, hoisting up to a sitting position as well, intent to scoot closer to the man who is quick to reach out for her, hands clutching the rim of her blouse – a nonverbal exposé of his inclination. Despite the bashful attitude, she allows him to act upon that, raising her arms to facilitate the removal, greeted by the sight of his smirking face within a blink of an eye, gaze fixated on her newly revealed form. Unable to bare the intensity, she wraps her arms around the bra-clad chest, earning a disapproved tut from him, caught off guard when his hands grasp the dainty wrists, and tug them to his chest – an odd gesture, someway associated with intimacy, romantism-indicating, and by any means not corresponding with the chilled persona of the man beside, coexisting in her consciousness.

At least until the following comment is verbalized.

“C’mon, I’m not here to judge you, or anything,” he frowns, stroking the tendons with his thumbs – a gentle caress that turns out as influential enough to elicit a subtle shiver from the female. “It’s just… well, sex.”

(Just sex?)

(Ugh, sure.)

Unable to come up with a more suitable verbalization, she opts for a simple hum in response, attempting to alter the main subject of focus, and thus rests her hands on his shoulders, radiating with pleasant warmth. In order to test the waters, she runs her fingers over the protruding clavicle, tickling the flesh with the gentle, or maybe restrained, touch, tracing a tingling line to his face. Much to her relief, the reaction comes out as rather positive – a mirroring gesture of his own, albeit concentrated around her ribcage – a nonverbal message that he is intent to speed up the process.

Considered as opportunistically patient, he feels someway obliged to ensure the possibility of exploration at any given pace, but at the same time struggles to maintain the composure with her figure pressing closer to his body. Circumstances that call back to the ambivalent nature of their relationship, embodied by the current settlement with Florence perched atop his lap, and while a part of him relishes in such notion, the other one – both carnal – is craving to accelerate the process.

Said factors, combined with her obvious lack of initiator’s qualities, prompt him to reach back to the clasp of her bra and unfasten it with a deft flick of his wrist, which elicits a surprised gasp from the female, the one that is quick to be swallowed by a kiss, messier than usual, as he feels her nipples brush his chest – a subtle stroke that sends a jolt straight to his core. Much to his relief, she appears to be chasing something too – a denouement, a term of bookish nature, albeit descriptive enough to verbalize the attitude, fitting to the sort of romantic vibe she has been giving him since their hands linked for the very first time.

Nonetheless, intent to regain the essential control over the situation, he is bound to flip them over once again, supporting her weight with a single hand sprawled on her back, along with the ardent trace left behind as he chooses to settle it on the car seat, propping his body on both arms to prevent from crashing the dainty female. Now that they are lying down, he feels restricted by the lack of space, obviously mistaken about the size of his vehicle, muttering a curse, as his foot collides with the door.

“Okay, fine, let’s just switch to that fucking grass.”

“Sure,” she agrees, intent to remind him that it was her idea in the first place, although is quick to opt out of it, and instead flashes Harrison an encouraging smile, left to watch him struggling to open the door. It is sort of funny, with all the uttered curses, as he attempts to emerge from the confined space – a sight that carries a positive impact as it wipes away certain image from her consciousness – him as an absolute Sex God, and her as a bashful ingénue, awkward and inexperienced when it comes to the physical matter.

Also, she finds the grass aspect interesting – a link with nature that she has always been searching for in life, a call-back to her uncle anecdotes oscillating around the college days, along with the hippie period that she adores so much – honeyed tale of a bygone phase that corresponds with yet another ponderation.

If she was to associate herself with a decade, she would definitely opt for the sixties – a period she has gotten to taste but not relish – marked by the civil movement towards more humane qualities and the ensuing reunification with nature, or an idealized image that has been branded in her consciousness as a direct result of all those lucrative stories. Even though she is yet to be purified by such form of awareness, drowning deep in the idealistic realm, there are times when her hand someway grazes the surface – a fleeting touch, more like a suggestion than a stroke.

Which corresponds with the manner he brushes her arm with, having spread a dark blanket on the grass – a nonverbal invitation to lay down with him, to which she complies, allowing him to recreate the prior position. Circumstances that force her to look Harrison in the eye, now that he is hovering above her again, glazed with emotion that she cannot quite comprehend, pristine and potent, thus someway hypnotizing as it attracts her attention, infectious and intoxicating.

Drunk.

Appropriate synopsis for the notion consuming his mind, occurring as he stares at the woman below, clad in a simple white bralette – an embodiment of purity, thus a call-back to the prior concepts oscillating around the idealistic aspect, a scrape over the perfectionistic surface. Desire that finally prompts him to pursue with the fascination, and thus bow down to tease the sun-kissed skin of her cleavage with his lips, ensued by the tongue that draws a heated trace up to her mouth, where he nips at the plump flesh, eliciting a breathy gasp from the female.

An interesting sensation to say the least, bound to leave the tender flesh tingling afterwards – parallel to the multitude of needles grazing the surface – resonating through the body and causing Florence to squeeze her thighs together – an alteration that fails to evade his perceptibility. Therefore, his movements come to a halt, gaze drifting back to the flushed blonde, as her own escapes to the side – a self-preservation attempt, crafted on the go as a form of feigned unawareness, but still a hint that he is able to decipher, and thus opts for drifting with the flow by lying a single hand on the inner part of her legs – a silent prompt to pry them apart.

Somehow, the self-indicating manner catches her speechless, and thus for a brief moment she only stares at him, thigh muscles twitching once or twice, before she regains the capacity to formulate any response, and parts her legs a little – a nonverbal consent. Nearly an expert in this field, he takes it as an invitation, granting him with an opportunity to unbutton the high waisted shorts, then pull them down with a bit of help from the female as she lifts her hips and kicks the clothing the rest of the way.

Having propped herself up on the elbows, she flashes him an inquisitive look, goosebumps trailing down the exposed parts of her flesh in anticipation for what is about to follow, curious when it comes to his intents. Nonetheless, with her mind fogged by the carnal cravings, the waiting process seems to be extending towards some incomprehensible time units that paint her skin red with arousal, revealing the very essence of physical urges, as if their presence was not manifested before. Furthermore, the heated blush crawling up her neck elicits a husky chuckle from the male – a mannerism that only enhances the inborne response, much to his amusement – which actually prompts him to break the peaceful silence, despite the fact he prefers to talk less during sex, thus focus on the variety of other stimuluses.

“Want me to touch you?” He asks, fingers brushing the edge of her underwear in a self-indicating manner, dipping underneath the waistband just to tease the sensitive skin there.

“Mm-hm,” she hums in response, attempting to take steadier inhales as her insides are twisting with nervousness, partly intent to press her legs together, as she is dying to mitigate the dull throb between them.

And yet, when prompted by the soothing circles drawn on her hip, she opts for right the opposite, providing him with the essential space – a bone thrown at the dog as well as a bait taken by the man, who is actually yearning to get rid of the triggering remains of her clothing. Therefore, he drags the underwear down the slim legs, with the upper garment soon following – action preluded by a little help from the woman, back arching from the ground in process – a sight that tilts the corners of his lips in a smug smirk, that gets him to twitch in the confinement of his pants, and almost yank the jeans down his legs in search for a certain kind of relief, even if only for a brief moment.

What actually follows though is the slope in the woman’s direction, brushing her lips once again, before his hand skims down the chest, teasing the protruding nipples as he follows, up to the point where it settles on the crease between her legs.

“Mm… fuck,” he groans as a twain of fingers trace the wettish slit, introduced with quite significant, albeit not soaking, amount of slickness – a gesture that elicits a breathy gasp from the female, caught off guard by the newfound pleasure. The sensation interesting to say the least, an alteration from the softer pads of her own fingers gliding through the folds as a parallel to the current setting. A part of her is yearning for that – the discovery that comes with adding yet another person to the mix, a person that she has bestowed with unprecedented affection, in other words an addiction to the sexual aspect, or rather its determinant. Furthermore, he has managed to stir something within her – an itch existing throughout the lifetime, lurking unacknowledged in the depths of her soul, which might as well be an exaggeration, nonetheless for the benefit of visualizing her condition.

What else appears as self-descriptive though is the subtle tingling in between her legs, ensued by a wave of heat spreading through her body – a factor that causes the female to rock into his hand, prompted by the instinctual stimulus, kissing her temple from the inside. As if having sensed that, he leans down to brush her lips, gleaming with a thin layer of saliva from the constant manner of swiping her tongue over it – a subtle caress that is bound to evolve into a full-blown French, as his body is gradually beginning to spin out of control, invaded by the constant reminders of his physical state – a craving beyond mental consciousness. Or a whim that induces Harrison to rearrange the hold, and thus he is quick to slide the middle finger inside – an action that elicits a helpless squeal from the female, caught off guard by the offbeat stretch, stinging ache blossoming in between her legs.

Although her very first reaction, purely instinctual, is to cut the insertion short with an evasive drag of her hips, she is quick to discover that the notion might appear as someway pleasant, especially when the movement is initiated – a single digit brushing repeatedly against a spongy tissue inside, an element of dubious existence up until now. Therefore, she cannot help but gasp softly, wriggling her hips in an attempt to alleviate the newfound tension, rocking a little against the heel of his palm – extra friction added to the mix.

A sensation that gets her to utter a breathy, “Harrison…” as an indirect plead for more, slicing through the warm evening air, a whimper that sends a shiver down his spine, or a delightful contrast from the heated temperature. He hums something in response, an indistinct verbalization, nudging her nose by accident, as he leans in to brush the subtly parted lips, having sensed that the frequent kisses carry some positive influence over Florence – a will to unravel both in physical and mental realm.

As a matter of fact, there is a distinctive aspect to it all, an exploration that he has been aiming towards, intent to discover what else the world has to offer – a challenge to verify adaptational fluency, to enrich his collection of experiences, thus understand the variety of contrasting viewpoints, which is also one of the reasons justifying his pick. As a realistically thinking man, he is almost convinced that whatever connection they have, the relationship is still bound to resolve in a terminative way, considering her college entry and his professional obligations.

A twain of souls linked for a split of eternity, if he was to mimic his ex’s speech manners.

Such a misplaced composition.

Which might as well be perceived as a matter of distraction from the carnal fixation consuming his mind, a will to rock into her body, to engulf in the variety of sensations as he is straining the now compact space within his pants. An indication that his patience is indeed running thin, and thus a reason for the development towards far more onerous depths, effort-consuming when faced with the requirement to drag the activity, someway obliged to ensure she will not opt for granting him with the oh-so-desirable case of blue balls, when confronted with the denouement creeping closer and closer as a parallel to the amount of wetness leaking onto his palm.

(Fuck.)

“Fuck,” he groans into her neck, muscles straining with exertion from holding his body up in the same position for a little longer than usual, and thus he is bound to lean back a little, intent to switch their position.

Halting point.

A transition that elicits an outraged whine from the woman, a statement of discontent as well as a plead to pursue further with whatever conception he has in mind – a reminiscence of his college encounters when he would be guaranteed with an opportunity to explore the newfound dimension. And even though in the following years, the circumstances have someway switched, considering he has reached the place of terminal responsibilities, the place where he is obliged to grant them with essential comfort, where each contract of commission parallels with yet another teenage daughter, or some other niece, falling for him, which might as well make him a philander, but at this point he doubts whether he actually cares.

The circumstances that get him to wonder about the adulthood’s distinctive aspects, one of them being a tendency to belittle the subjects of once significant importance, now reduced to the mere windblow, turning the biographical pages, easy to be rearranged back in their prior order.

So why bother with the complicated vision, relationship conspectus, why opt out of the fleetingness, the pleasure of experiencing one unique moment carved from eternity’s timeline, of discovering that one very specific person, carrying on with the conversation until the viewpoints collide in one spot – the final comprehension.

Or a prompt to pursue with the hinted amount of time in mind.

And thus, he catches her off guard with an sudden tug upright, palms resting on his shoulders in search for balance, as he pulls the woman on his lap, sliding the hand back in between her legs, although this time he doubles the amount of fingers, stretching the constricted muscles a little. An action ensued by yet another breathy whimper from the woman, twitching as if to accommodate the girth, monstrous in comparison to her own digit, albeit someway pleasant as she rocks into his palm, rubbing the clit against the very hill of it.

“Fuck, that’s it, that’s it, good girl,” he mutters into her hair, teasing the earlobe with his lips, nearly as greedy for the denouement as the woman in his arms, who is currently clutching at the biceps, flexing due to extra pressure. “C’mon, Florence.”

A voicing that elicits a breathy moan from the female, thighs trembling as she struggles to comprehend the odd sensation blossoming in the pit of her stomach, an emphasis of pleasure, climbing higher and higher with each curling movement. Somehow, a part of her is dying to fall, to discover the joy of floating in the air, even if only for a split second, tingling as he explores the swollen folds, begging him with the rhythmical sways of her hips, with the cat-like arch of her back, and the desperate, “Harrison,” thrown in his direction.

“Mm-hm, that’s it,” he hums, warm breath tickling her forehead, lips brushing the flesh there as he speaks. “Just relax and let it happen.”

Which is exactly what she does, squeezing the pair of fingers, as if intent to pull them even further inside, balancing on the cusp in between the twain of states – desperation and delight – even if only for a brief moment – a transitional phase that ensures the satisfaction. With the last brush against her walls, the now unbearable coil snaps, leaving a wave of continuous tremors racing through her body, bound to spread all the way to the tingling nipples that he decides to pinch with the free hand, seemingly out of context, but pointedly enough to elicit a choked gasp from the woman.

And what a sight she is now, arched in his direction, with head thrown back, exposing the smooth column of her neck, or a place that he would love to mark, blemish with the purple bruise – a whim ensued by a sharp bite into the tender flesh, or an action bound to draw a surprised squeal from the female. Confronted with such notion, she cannot help but tilt her head to the side, granting him with more access, an opportunity chosen to be ignored, as he seems intent to leave a certain aftertaste – quite distinctive hunger variant, personal and thus only to be satiated by an equally specific person.

As if on the contrary, he pulls out the digits that have been nested inside the whole time, which allowed him to experience the rhythmical pulsing of her walls – an instinctual response to the brief moment of pleasure. Left empty once again, she utters a discontented moan, squeezing around physical nothing, parallel to the pair of hands clutching at his shoulders – a nonverbal indication of what she is expecting from him – and when her hips tilt towards his, probably with no peculiar ambition in mind, he almost snaps, ready to pin the woman to the blanket in one swift movement.

A matter of increasing frustrations, inborne fixations that have been defining his existence for all these years, driving him towards the ostensibly final attitude, where he has begun to perceive certain aspects as an organic part of human existence. Take for instance the sexuality, associated with a whole scale ranging from pridefulness to abashment, considered through the liberal and conservative prisms. And since his mindset is undoubtedly associated with the former, he often struggles to comprehend the reluctancy of certain people, along with their regard for outside opinions, their concern about self-image portraited in front of the eyes of others.

There are times when it gets him to wonder how stressful lives they are obliged to lead, restricted by the set of personal norms, how pathetic it must be to look at oneself in the mirror, valuating the possible judgments of society, how they abandon the quality of existence in the physical realm. Ergo, if he is to gift Florence with anything, it will most certainly be the respect for her own desires, the volition to explore the sexuality, or the preservation from all the embarrassment-related constructs, instead of any stable relationship.

(Tragic?)

(Well, not really.)

Therefore, he opts for granting her with an actual choice when it comes to the pace, thus ensure it will leave a pleasant memory, since all first times are bound to create an ever present impact on the whole field, determine the future attitude towards certain aspects. Even though she appears as willing to give him the reins, hiding her face in the crook of his neck, warm breaths palpable on the tender flesh there, ready to submit, dance to his tune, fulfill almost every of his whims, he chooses to interfere with said tendency, as mentioned.

Cradling the side of her face with his clean hand, he lifts the chin up to his level, hazel crossing with green once again that night, pupils blown wide with lust, neck painted with a reddish hue, as they gaze into each other’s eyes. Unable to bear the intensity, she attempts to evade the contact, but he holds it steady, skimming the side of her neck with the fingertips, causing the woman to lean further into his touch.

“You can do whatever you want,” he proposes – a simplification of the prior contemplations – to which she responds with a confused expression, thrown off-kilter by the fluent range of perspectives sprawling in front of her – a paradox of variable selection that actually disturbs the decision process. “I’m all yours for now.”

“Wh-what?” She stutters, frowning as for the evident lack of comprehension, determined by the privilege of open interpretation – a realm for blossoming doubts.

“Just do whatever feels good for you, and we’ll be good to go,” he reiterates, hands skimming down her sides only to settle on the waist – a nonverbal indication that she is allowed to touch him as well, an action of rather sparse occurrence, when caught off guard by the skillful caress centered around her persona. The movement itself allows her to feel the wettish trace left by the twain of digits that have been inside her merely moments prior, an indication of blatant primality, weaseling its way through the partial patience, thus manifesting itself through his actions, the trembling of his fingers atop her skin.

A physical evidence of the payment that comes with attraction towards such women – some peculiar form of torture, mainly regarding the carnal aspect, bodily frustrations ensuing the conditional patience – burdensome obligation. Caught in the circumstances where he is forced to succumb, considering the second option appears beyond unacceptable – a slave of their innocence, their inborne bashfulness, their reluctance of further pursuit. Them who lay their initial experience, affection maybe, in the hands of the man who is never to return the emotional aspect with equal commitment, bound to move on after the job is finalized – a lifelong cycle that he has chosen to participate in.

“Wanna touch me or not?” He rasps, voice an octave lower as he tethers on the cusp of impatience, frustrated to the point where he is ready to pin her to the ground, then fuck until she will lose the capacity to formulate any coherent sentence.

“Yes, yes, I… um… I’m sorry,” she stutters, shaking her head a little to wake up from the odd trance that she has been floating in for the past few minutes, required to comprehend the post-orgasmic circumstances, or rather the genealogist’s proposition – a matter of speechless contemplation.

“Christ, don’t apologize, just get on with it,” he huffs – an evidence of calmness deficits, not so intricate to surmise, considering the ragging hard-on inside his jeans. “It’s, well, just sex, no great philosophy behind it.”

“Um, okay,” she chuckles nervously, hands sliding down his shoulders to the chest area, ready to dive in the exploration process, thus verify what is awaiting her just around the corner, to experience the pain-sprinkled pleasure that she has heard so much about.

The postponement anticipating finalization.

Ironically though, there is yet another aspect to it all – an intuitive prompt of relatively disturbing nature, built upon the ‘just-sex’ statements, a doubt oscillating between a twain of scenarios. What if she is only a vent for his carnal phantasies, what if the crucial decision has already been made, what if their ways are bound to part in the aftermath, ensued by a mystical promise of a comeback on some unspecified day – an infantile belief of an equally ingenuous lass. But still, with the rhythmical throbbing between her legs, the sex-related denouement is inevitable – a form of bodily slavery that defines her terminal choice.

Ergo, ensued by the last peck – a fleeting brush against his lips – she gets off the prior spot on his lap, lying back on the blanket once again, quick to cross her legs in an instinctual attempt to cover the vulva, disturbed by the intensity of his gaze. From where Florence is propped on the elbows, she can see his shoulders jerking with each uneven breath, hands reaching down to unbuckle the leather belt, partially betraying his titillation. Lust-driven man, who is now obliged to stand up if intent to remove the last pair of barriers, both the pants and the underwear in one motion, somehow steady in spite of the conspicuous excitement, revealing the throbbing hard-on – a sight that gets her to question the stretching capacities of her own body.

Whilst such doubts are indeed someway illogical, they still invade her mindset, crawling in between the variety of sore stories either told by one of her friends, or overheard in the high school locker-room, unsettling especially when paired with the sight of penis in person, or a man who settles down beside her legs, lying his hands on the knees, intent to spread them apart. A shift to which she responds with a tensed twitch of her muscles, shutting the eyes tightly in time with yet another jerky inhale – a poor calming construct, awaiting its sensible substitute from Harrison.

A comforting speech accompanied by a heavy sigh – a display of impatience – further ensued by an actual verbalization, a compound of words that she has been dying to hear – a matter of illusionary comfort?

(Christ, no.)

“Hey, look at me,” he prompts, hands sliding up her thighs to massage the rigid flesh, eliciting a soft moan from the woman as they creep a little higher, applying the telltale pressure atop their inner parts. “It won’t hurt, I promise.”

“Really?” She frowns, spreading her legs a bit, at least enough to invite him in between them, twitching when his palms rest on the hips, the front of his thighs brushing against the back of hers.

“Well yes… unless you get tensed, obviously,” he chuckles, intent to relieve the hassle in the first place, although in the end the sound comes as more husky than lighthearted, arousal evident in the smoky tone.

“Well, I am tensed,” she mimics his manner, at least attempts to, considering the amount of stress currently consuming her mind.

(God, why couldn’t anyone tell me it’d be this hard?)

“Yeah, I suppose you are,” he agrees, muttering the words under his breath as he leans down to her, hand finding its way back in between her legs, intent to ensure she will be ready for their crucial denouement tonight. Sliding a pair of fingers inside, he elicits a breathy gasp from the partner, drawing them apart in order to scissor her open, as his thumb presses to the clit, stroking the nub in time with each thrust.

And fuck, does it send her flying…

Up to the altitude where she is struggling to comprehend the nature of her current situation, where her eyelids are falling shut, and her head is spinning, body arching towards him, hips rocking in a dreamy, moderate manner, craving more of his touch. As if on the contrary, he removes the fingers, in other words deprives the greedy woman from the subtle caress that she has been drinking in for the past few minutes, quick to rearrange the grip in order to pull her a little closer, thus find a convenient position to finally meet both of their needs.

Caught in such feverish state of mind, neither of them bother to take care of any form of protection, dying to cut straight to the point, to end the decadent suffering – a pursuit consuming his perception. Having smeared the remains of her wetness on his member, he is ready to line with her entrance, slip in between the parted folds, warm, luscious, and inviting, pulsing as he draws a one-way path down. With a final glance thrown in her direction, pupils dilated almost to the point where they swallow the hazel irises, he slides in – a gradual movement that still elicits an broken moan from the woman as well as a frustrated groan from him, engulfed by the heated cocoon, fluttering around his shape.

And fuck, does it send him flying…

“Mm… fuck…” he curses under his breath after a particularly tight contraction – an inborne response to the alien intrusion. “Tell me when you’ll want me to move.”

In the first place, she only hums in response, wrapping her arms around his frame, nails scratching the nape of his neck, hips wriggling to test the newfound position, voice a little breathy as she chooses to speak up after a brief interval, required to collect the final thought.

“I’m okay, really,” she ensures, fingers now playing with the shorter hairs at the back of his head, as she meets his gaze, obscured by a thin curtain of lust. “It wasn’t that painful.”

“Told you so,” he remarks with a brief eyeroll, but in the end throws her a fleeting smirk – a gesture that sweeps her with some odd wave of reassurance, a wave that prompts her to wrap the legs around his waist, lifting up a little higher to test the waters, which in the end earns a murmured praise from the genealogist. “Mm-hm, just like that… such a good girl…”

A broken sentence that nearly gets her to moan out loud, insides twitching around his member, which elicits a subdued hiss from the man, ensued by something else, an expression of entirely different nature – a smirk playing upon his lips, evoked by a newfound realization.

“Aren’t you a dirty little girl…”

“I’m not- I… no!” She denies, as if utterly outraged.

“No?” He banters, cocking an eyebrow at the abashed woman, before he sweeps his tongue up her cleavage, feeling the walls flutter around him, as if only to affirm the ever-present surmise. “And what about now?”

“I’m…” she hesitates, someway frustrated by the continuous stillness, perception centered around the pulsing shape inside her, begging to rock into it. “God, just get on with it, please.”

A plead that gets him to chuckle in response – a throaty noise that sends a shiver down her spine, thick with arousal – as if only to vex her even further, to watch her unravel in the emotional way – a spectacle of personal nature.

Therefore, he is determined to pursuit with said conception, withdrawing a little just to push back in once again – an action that elicits a breathy whine from her as well as a relieved sigh from him that is quick to transfer into a hiss, with her nails biting into his flesh, caught in the newfound sensation. Somehow pleasurable, there is no need to deny it, albeit alien at the same time, alternative in comparison with the one delivered by his fingers, now clasped around her thigh and the waist, keeping the woman in place for future reference.

Or maybe more flowing than forthcoming, with the gradual build-up of rhythm, hips rocking in repetitive motions, which forces a high-pitched squeal from her throat, as he nudges a peculiar spot inside, previously grazed by his fingers, no emphasis, or regularity, but now… that is a whole different story. The sensation seems to pierce through the slight discomfort that comes with the stretch, mingle in between the incessant discomfort, thus alleviate the unpleasant notion on the benefit of something that actually resembles the whole fuss about sex. Even though it is by any means queer, there is still a part of her that craves the constant stimulation, consumed by the thirst for whatever he is willing to deliver on the course of their developing act – a passive observer.

And she is dying to change that.

Therefore, with the following inhale, she tugs him down to her level, joining their lips in a caress that might as well be considered a kiss, if not for the fact that they are rather breathing into each other’s mouths, moving without any actual concept, noses bumping as he seeks for dominance, primal in its vicious nature, teeth nibbling on her bottom lip hard enough to draw a pained squeal from the woman. Even though the man is quick to soothe the sharp sting with his tongue, he bites back hers when she tries to seize the opportunity and dive in for the French manner, as if intent to pursue only on his very own conditions – a turnabout that she is less than satisfied with.

“Don’t tease me like that, please,” she complains, thrown off guard by the wicked smirk playing upon his lips, eyes glinting with some lascivious intent – a nourishment for all the ambivalent attitudes, distinctive when it comes to the odd man in front of her.

“Tease you?” He baits, halting the movements once he begins to speak, which elicits a displeased moan from the woman, hips lifting up as an innate reaction to the sudden stillness. “Like what exactly?”

“God, you’re so-”

“So… what?”

“So fru- ah-” he interrupts her answer with a particularly sharp thrust, tearing yet another moan from the woman, as if only to rile her up even further, “so frustrating.”

“Oh, thank you,” he retorts, lips still laced with the same teasing smirk that infuriates her more than anything else at the moment. “But I’ve been told that before.”

“Oh really?” A sarcastic query that only prompts him to elongate the exasperating experience. “I wouldn’t have told.”

“I bet you wouldn’t,” he teases, a response adorned with a brief chuckle.

“Okay, but move now, please,” she reiterates, gradually growing more and more impatient with the lack of friction.

“Now?” He mimics, a taunting manner that enhances the irritation, solely on purpose. “And what about you?”

“I don’t… what- ah-”

Seemingly out of nowhere, he is to interrupt her with yet another movement – an alteration from their usual position – flipping them over so that she is lying on the top instead, calves pressing to his thighs, as if in search for some illusionary balance. Confused with the sudden turn of events, she is only able to stare at him, loosening the hold around his shoulders, swept with the realization that the current settling is indeed quite steady, deprived of any excess swaying.

At least until he decides to disturb the physical stability with one of his random statements.

“I want you to ride me.”

A proposition pulled out of blue.

“You want me to do what?” She asks, forehead marked by an almost signature frown, visibly caught off guard.

“To ride me,” he repeats, hands swiping up and down her back in repetitive strokes – a gesture of calming nature, easy to succeed in that realm – a matter of questionable benefit. “C’mon Florence, I’ll guide you.”

“Okay, but, um… I don’t know if I’ll manage, really,” she hesitates, cheeks tinted with a hint of blush, someway embarrassed about the concept that he will watch her like this – a perspective leaving nothing to imagination. “It’s kind of like… I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Just grind your hips,” he instructs, hands sliding down to rest there as an embodiment of the aforementioned guidance. “The rest comes naturally, trust me.”

“Um… okay,” she nods, having decided to meet his needs in the end, even if they require stepping out of the comfort zone – a lifelong pursuit. “I’ll try.”

“Good girl,” he mutters against her lips, catching the bottom one for a brief kiss, adorned with a subtle smirk as a reaction for the breathy gasp slipping past her lips – a manifest of the inborne bashfulness. “Lift up.”

With a movement that someway betrays the subsiding hindrance, she complies, rising up to a seated position with both palms pressed to his chest, surprised when he follows her path, wrapping one arm around the waist, while using the other to support his weight from behind, anticipating the performance. Or an act that she is willing to deliver, and thus shifts her hips for the very first time in such settling, immediate to realize how much she has been longing for that form of friction – a discovery more than perceptible in the way she is squirming atop his lap, squealing once her clit rubs against his pubic bone.

“Oh God,” she moans, swept away with the gradually intensifying sensation, a blinding contrast to the previous lack of stimulation, building up more and more with each grind, now that she has found the most convenient position.

“Feels good, huh?” He rasps after a few longer moments, hand rising up to her chest, since the languid pace that she has chosen requires no support from the back, intent to speed up the process with the repetitive pulsing of her inner muscles – a threat of premature ending – at the same time dying to witness her orgasm once again tonight.

Captivating.

Raw when led by the instinctual prompts.

Ravishing with all the insecurities casted aside.

Candied treat that lures him to take a bite.

A whim manifesting itself in the way he cradles her breast, weighing the flesh in his hand, before he teases the protruding bud, drawing a relieved sigh from the woman, thirsty for more stimulation, a quality evident in the deep-rooted moan, uttered mere seconds later. A noise that he has never heard from Florence, and thus a response that causes him to twitch inside her, all of sudden craving to alter their position, to create the opportunity that will allow him to gain more control over the situation.

(Or to fuck her exactly as I please.)

“C’mon, Florence,” he encourages instead, hissing once she clenched around him, still struggling to control that part of her anatomy, caught in the most peculiar state – delight foreshadowing the denouement.

Having opted out of a verbal answer this time, she covers his lips with hers, suppressing the occasional noises coming from her throat, tongue flicking over his in some frenzied state of bliss, body arching towards him in search for more contact – a factor that she is craving more than anything right now. Which might as well be a lie, considering the greedy grinds of her hips, pushing the woman closer and closer to the second finish tonight, blossoming in the pit of her stomach, spreading akin to a summertime conflagration, consuming acres of land on the course of its existence.

And she would be damned if she was not craving to burn.

To be swept with a wave of tingling delight, squeezing him tighter than ever, which nearly gets him to burst, crying out when her clit bumps with his pubic bone, entirely too sensitive for such form of stimulation, swimming on the wave that has crashed to the shore. Therefore, deprived of the essential ability to comprehend what is happening around her, she utters a whine of protest as soon as he flips them around, intent to pull out before he loses the composure, which he succeeds in seconds later, leaving her pulsing around nothing, eyelids closed to shield herself from the outside world, still lost in some parallel realm. Settled in such position, she misses the sight of him delivering his member the last few strokes – a fast-pace show, with the very intention to follow her path sooner than later – an objective that has been blossoming inside his mind on the course of their developing encounter.

Spasming with the waves of aftershocks, he someway finds his place beside her, laying down on the blanket with a single arm draped over his face, breathing in heavily as he waits for the heartbeat to return back to normal. With his eyes closed, he fails to notice her reaching for his hand, until the first brush of her fingers is tangible atop his flesh, slipping them in between his, pleased with the lack of protest, although somehow disappointed that he does not return the subtle squeeze that she delivers.

Therefore, obliged by the odd need to break the silence, she utters one last statement – a ‘thank you’ adorned in the hopeful plead, eyes glued to his profile as she begins to speak.

“Harrison?”

“Huh?”

“We could do that again some time if you’d want to.”

(Oh Florence, what a silly little girl you are…)

* * *

Once upon a time there was a person who chose to believe, to believe in the aspects of great absurdity, of blind faith, of continuous equivocation – a wayfarer of the traitorous path, surprised by each arising chagrin. In her case the distress is caused by the end of one phase, a transition from the carefree summer to sinister college period, faced with the fretfulness that comes with each change, with each lonely challenge on the walk of life. A defiance that she has forced herself to pursue with, well aware that any sudden alteration will look ridiculous in the eyes of her parents, caught in the ever-present doubt concerning the coping part.

(Liar.)

(…)

(Such a pathetic little liar. Like how can’t you even admit it to yourself?)

(Christ, I’m sorry, okay? Chill out, not everyone is as perfect as you are.)

(There you go, good girl…)

(Ugh, fuck off.)

(Mm… sassy, that’s more I like it.)

(I said-)

“Florence?” A voice that slices through the duel of thoughts, someway attracting her attention, thus pulling the woman out of the contemplational depth, not that she is entirely pleased with such turnabout. “I’d like you to say goodbye to our guest.”

“Sure aunt, I’m coming,” she sighs, reluctant to rise from her seat on the garden bench, surrounded by the cooling summer air – a sign of the approaching evening, presumably the worst of them all.

No more no less than a path to the main entrance, feet padding against the tiles, head bowed low as if it would spare the unpleasant image of him surrounded by the luggage, ready for the departure. Even clad in the same flax shirt from their first encounter (she can tell by the faded stain on his sleeve), he is to greet her with a polite smile, so cold and alien at the same time, as if they barely knew each other.

God, how she hates him right now…

“Give me a hand with the papers?” He asks, gesturing towards the set of tubes supported by his suitcase, a help that she is certain holds no purpose, other than sharing some information with the woman – a communique that is bound to exacerbate her state.

“Fine,” she agrees either way, since it would be ridiculous to refuse him now – a childish behavior that she wishes she will not personify in his memories.

Therefore, intent to get it done as soon as possible, she is quick to reach for the papers, ready to toss them on the backseat – a place that she used to be so fond of in the past, but now… God, she wishes she had the ability to forget that summer, atrocious in its allurement, and thus someway forced to interrupt the track of thoughts, to break the bitter silence.

“We’ve never swum in that lake.”

(Really? That’s the best you can come up with now? Christ.)

“Well,” he chuckles – a teasing tone that unnerves her more than anything, that gets her to regret even initiating that topic in the first place. “I think we had better things to do.”

(God, what was I even thinking?)

“Yeah, maybe we had,” she sighs, almost sobbing out loud when she turns around to face him, already leaning on the driver’s door, mere minutes from the departure.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he flashes her an apologetic smile – a sight that finally manages to break the illusionary composure, forcing a broken sob from her constricted throat. “C’mere.”

Or a prompt that requires no reiteration, calling her to jump straight into his arms, to feel his warmth surround her for that one last time, to engulf in his scent – a calming composition of some woody fragrances that she has adored ever since.

Why does it all have to taste do bitter now?

“Florence?”

“Y-yes?” She sobs, having sensed that any form of hindrance is useless in such state, thus allows the tears to flow freely as she glances at him with these wide, green eyes, chin wobbling in anticipation for what is bound to be his final goodbye.

“Good luck with the college,” he mutters against her hair, lips brushing the top of the head – an action that elicits yet another chocked noise from her throat. “And… give me a call sometimes.”

Having grasped her by the hand, he slips a tiny card in the half-clutched fist – a movement that remains almost unnoticed, with her lost in the process of pondering whether she should kiss him or not. Which in the end turns out as a decision that is apparently not hers to make, as he is quicker to act upon the instinct, and thus lean in to cover her lips with his – their personal farewell, dulcet and dreamy, a brief interval carved from the eternity’s timeline.

Or a prelude to the final disconnection, to the moment when he is obliged to slip from the embrace, leaving her cold and empty on the cobbled path, as he gets in the car, ready to twist the key in ignition, allowing her to witness the terminal drive down to the road – a sight that has Florence covering her mouth, intent to suppress the repetitive sobs that are to consume the woman again once he has chosen to abandon her in front of the mansion – a cycle of continuous nature, deprived of the putative final.

Such a dramatic tendency.

Or a perspective that somehow gets her to wonder what a pity it is that they have never swum in that lake.

“Fat chances we’ll ever be.”

 Created: 03/09/21 Completed: 06/13/21 Edited: 06/18/21

[choco-glow]

Dance With Me Pt. 1

Traveling over the Nibel mountains, past the heartache of five years ago, the death, the destruction wrought so callously…Tifa never wanted to see those mountains again. She was glad they’d met Vincent, found a formidable ally in the dour gunslinger and his hatred for Hojo, for Shin-Ra…But she hated those mountains with a passion. She was glad when they came out of the last tunnel to find that the clouds that had been dogging their journey since Gongaga had finally broken up, sunshine pouring down richly on the northwestern coastline. The scrub-forest that had filled the mountains faded here, leading to rolling grasslands that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Green grasses, a green as bright as any materia, and full of wildflowers, Tifa paused to breathe in the aromas of a thousand blossoms, Aerith doing the same next to her. The grasses mimicked the sea, waves of soft greens and silver rolling gently over the plains under the sunshine, and for a moment, Tifa forgot about Midgar, Shin-Ra, everything… Even Cloud looked a little stunned; small wonder, they hadn’t seen this much…well, life in far, far too long, save for Aerith’s home in Sector Five. This was glorious though, and it was Barret’s voice, soft and full of longing, that brought them all back. Even Red’s eyes were closed, drinking in the aromas, and Tifa imagined that he was remembering Cosmo Canyon.

“…I could stare at this for hours…but we gotta keep goin’, guys. Sorry…” He murmured, and of all people, it was Cloud who patted his shoulder, shaking himself.

“Nah, you’re right…this is just…this is really gorgeous. Rocket Town shouldn’t be too far away; we can restock there, I think. I don’t see a reactor, which is just a plus at this point.”

“We can, I’ve had traders from Rocket Town come through Nibelheim in the past…” Vincent’s voice, dark and quiet, nonetheless carried, and Yuffie gave him a raised eyebrow, one he met with one of his own. It was rare to see him speak up, and Tifa gave him a faint smile, encouraged when he smiled back, just a tiny quirk of his lips, but it was there, nonetheless, and despite his cool demeanor, he was noticeably friendlier now that they were out of the mountains. Small wonder, given the horrors he suffered; I think being down here on the plains is healing for everyone.

“I thought you stuck to the mansion, Spooky.”

“Not as often as you might think, though I did stay there more than I would have liked. I do know this area, for all that it’s been so long; we can cut right across the plains.” He stared her down, clearly unamused by the nickname, and Yuffie threw her hands up with a sigh.

“Fine, fine…I’ll take point, but I doubt anyone or anything will bug us…” She muttered, stomping into the grasses almost as tall as the ninja herself, and the rest of AVALANCHE followed, taking their time and basking in the sunshine. There was a cool breeze off the coast, much to Tifa’s relief, and the grasses were soft and velvety, rather than saw-edged like some of the places they’d visited. The sun wasn’t too hot here, either, and with fluttery white clouds passing over, there were little patches of shade. The path was clearly a walking trail, well kept with gravel that crunched under their boots and kept free of overgrowth.

Lunchtime found them in a small creek hollow with a few willow trees overhead, a welcome bounty of shade after the trek, because even Tifa was feeling warm, and Vincent looked positively exhausted. The only ones who still looked fresh were Red and Cloud, who looked the most content that Tifa had seen him in years. They settled at the base of a gnarled, ancient willow and worked through the jerky and journey bread without a fire, taking time to test the water before everyone refilled their canteens. This close to the mountains, Tifa was glad to see that most of this was glacial runoff, which meant only one purifying tablet was needed to keep them safe.

Tifa was surprised by the quiet; no one really felt like talking, but there again too, they were all exhausted, and so she settled back in the sunshine with Aerith to nap for a little bit while the boys took care of the water. When Yuffie woke them half an hour later, Tifa felt a little more revived, and Aerith looked positively energetic, and so, they continued on. Yuffie found a road soon enough, and that made their trek to Rocket Town even faster. By the time the sun was heading into the west, they had arrived, and to their surprise, the ‘town’ was…well, less a town, more a tiny, bustling market and a sprawling Shin-Ra tourism base.

The tourists looked wealthy but somewhat vapid, and Tifa breathed a sigh of relief, because no one looked askance at them, nor did anyone challenge them for coming off the road. And they weren’t the only travelers by foot, so that helped them blend in…even Barret was keeping his head down, and Cloud had quietly removed his more obvious SOLDIER gear and stowed it in his pack, looking like a true merc with his sunglasses hiding his glowing green-blue eyes.

However, just from what Tifa could see, the base itself was clearly focused on the enormous rocket and launch pad, with technicians and engineers scuttling all over both like busy bees. Cloud was eyeing them curiously, and so the group decided to split up to get intel. Vincent and Cloud headed towards the rocket, while Barret and Aerith hit the market, Yuffie vanished with Red and Cait Sith, and with a sigh of relief, Tifa started towards the main part of town. The town itself wasn’t big, of course, but it was definitely well established, with three large dorms for the Shin-Ra techs, and a group of well-built houses that led to the main square.

There stood the largest house in town, a manor house, by the looks of things, that had clearly seen better days…But it was in good repair, with a sturdy wrought iron fence, soft blue clapboards the color of the sky, and bright white trim, clearly freshly painted. The garden wasn’t in bad shape either, if a little sparse, but the wild dusty pink roses growing over an old trellis were clearly trimmed back, and sea-irises, a trademark of this area, bloomed in bright teal and pink clusters with their long silver-green leaves all around the house, and to Tifa’s surprise, the yard was clover, rather than grass; the hardy coastal groundcover probably never needed mowing.

A sign at the fence read “Mayor’s House”, and since she still hadn’t seen an inn or a hostel anywhere, Tifa steeled her nerves and opened the gate, making her way across the flagstones to the huge wraparound porch, admiring the tall windows with their half-moon transoms and the lovely set of double doors in front, inset with stained glass in every shade of blue to form fantastical birds. With a deep breath, she raised a fist and knocked sharply on the white-painted wood, stepping back and clasping her hands together before her. Please let the Mayor be kind…

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’, hold yer horses…” A loud male voice, raspy and with a heavy drawl, sounded from inside through the propped open transoms above the front windows, and the door swung open, revealing the owner to be a shirtless, tanned, handsome blond man with an unlit cigarette between his lips and goggles holding his shaggy hair back. He froze, blue eyes widening, and Tifa couldn’t help but stare. In admiration; he was taller than her, though not as tall as Vincent, and built like a model, if a little rougher around the edges. His dark brown leather belt hung undone, which let his jeans slip low over his hips, and she blushed furiously, painting a smile on her face even as her cheeks burned because oh that V-line is too delicious to ignore…

He blushed just as scarlet as she felt, having clearly given her a once over in her short skirt and tank top, eyes lingering on her legs and hips and chest, and normally? She got angry about that. With him, though…Well, it’s not like I didn’t just do the same to him, so turnabout is fair play, she thought with a faint smile, and the Mayor of Rocket Town swiftly pulled on the blue tee shirt that had been dangling from his hand, swearing faintly as he tugged the almost too small shirt down over his chest. “Sorry, miss, I uh, I didn’t mean ta stare at ya…”

“No no, you’re fine! I didn’t mean to interrupt your day, but my friends and I just came over the Nibel mountains, and we were wondering where the best place to stay the night might be? We have camping gear, we just need food and supplies. I’m Tifa, Tifa Lockhart, by the way.” She babbled out, and to her surprise, he listened, which, honestly, was a first, and his blue eyes brightened now, lips curving up in an easy smile that made her smile right back in return, eyes crinkling a little in the soft wrinkles from a life lived in the sun. He was even more handsome with that smile, dark blond stubble softening his strong jawline, and though Tifa had always known she’d had a thing for blonds (Case in point: Cloud), this…was new. New and kinda nice.

“Well then, ya came to the right place, Miss Lockhart; name’s Captain Cid Highwind, and I run Rocket Town; we’re mostly the main aeronautics test range for Shin-Ra anymore, so we don’t have an inn since most o’ the tourists head up into Nibelheim at the end of the day, but y’all’re welcome to stay at my place for the night, Gaia knows I got the room. Our market gets a boost ev’ry Thursday mornin’, so if y’all wanna wait till tomorrow, that’s the best time ta get yer gear. Care for a cuppa tea? Ya look a little parched.” In more ways than one… Tifa thought to herself, but she nodded, happy to finally get off her feet, and as Cid welcomed her into his home, he led her to the kitchen on the left. The living room was clearly storage at the moment, though it opened nicely into the kitchen and an office area that had taken the place of his dining room.

Cid motioned to the table for her to sit, and Tifa eased into one of the wooden chairs with a sigh of relief, moreso when he motioned for her to kick off her boots. “Th’ floor can take it, an’ ya said y’all came over the mountain?” She peeled off her socks and settled her bare feet on the cool tile with a faint groan that made him chuckle, and she caught a glimpse of him tugging his jeans up on his hips and buckling his belt, only a little disappointed.

She watched as Cid puttered around his kitchen, barefoot and obviously on a rare day off, but nonetheless, a gracious and kind host. His kitchen was a little beat up, but lovely, marble countertops were clean, if a little scratched up, and the cupboards were well-made and hung right, even if they were just basic plywood. A battered wood-fired stove crouched in the corner, crooked pipe propped up by several long pieces of rebar, and the tile under their feet was faded, but spotless. From what she could see of the rest of the place, it was much the same way; built up from scratch, and pride, even if it wasn’t the prettiest. She liked that; it reminded her of the bar.

“We did, two days of solid hiking. We tried to rent a truck, but there was no hope for it, and we’re…not exactly doing this for pleasure, I’m afraid.” Cid glanced over from his post at the stove, one eyebrow quirked up, and she sighed, giving him a faint smile…and deciding in that moment to trust him. “I’m sure it’ll come out, so I want to give you a head’s up…but how loyal to Shin-Ra are you?” His other eyebrow went up at that, but Cid brought her the tea as promised, in a lovely red mug that was clearly for special occasions, wrapping his own hands around his cracked dark blue mug as he settled across from her.

“…Enough to do what I want in this life, but otherwise, not terribly; I’m sure you’ve noticed there’s no reactor here.”

“…We have…” Blue eyes, hard as steel now, burned into hers, and she swallowed. He knows who we are...but he won’t betray us. They studied one another in that long moment, Cid’s eyes peering into her soul while she did the same to him, and after a time, he nodded, sharp but resigned.

“An’ there won’t be…but I also ain’t gonna get my whole town burned up fer AVALANCHE.” She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat at the realization, and he motioned for her to drink, sighing as he took a long draught off his own mug. “Palmer’s due here tomorrow afternoon; I’d suggest that you lot get out of here before he shows up so that y’all get a headstart. Bastard’s supp’sed to get me clearance on th’ rocket…but I don’t trust ‘im. But I heard about y’all…an’ I ain’t disagreeing with ya. But I ain’t watchin’ my people get hurt fer a cause, or worse, because Palmer sees a quick an’ easy ‘get outta Heidegger’s bad graces’ card.”

“…I promise, Captain, we won’t cause you any trouble. I swear it. Thank you for being so kind, and opening your home to us, but if you’d like, we can camp outside town…?” His eyes softened at that, and Cid shook his head, settling back with a groan as he stretched. Tifa tried not to watch, but it was hard as that tee shirt crept up, showing off the golden dusting of hair on his lower belly, his jeans sliding down just a little farther…she felt a blush touch her cheeks, and busied herself with her tea.

“Nah, yer all welcome here still; Gaia knows I hate th’ bastards as much as th’ next person. Ain’t gonna make a pretty lady camp outside town just ‘cuz I’m a surly fuck.” She blushed again at that, giggling as he winked, and though she felt warm all over…it was a good warmth. A welcome warmth. Certainly, it was much nicer than what she felt from Cloud at the moment…and seizing the courage, she decided that two could play at that little game. She gave him her best flirty smile and batted her eyelashes, playing up her bartender personality a little more.

“Well, I knew when I knocked that I’d find someone here, but I gotta say, meeting a officer and a gentleman is a rare treat.” Cid paused at that, then threw his head back in an honest laugh, blue eyes glittering with delight as he toasted her with his mug.

“Miss Tifa, that’s th’ best thing I heard all week; yer welcome here anytime. Now then, I think some barbecue’ll do the trick for supper if ya wanna call yer friends.”

“Gladly, Captain. Gladly.”

[nijiirorhyme]

NaruMitsu/WrightWorth Fic: Lights, Camera, Action!

Fandom: Ace Attorney

Ship: Mitsurugi Reiji | Miles Edgeworth/Naruhodou Ryuuichi | Phoenix Wright

Warnings: None

Tags:Alternate Universe - Actors, Other Additional Tags to be Added, More characters to be added

Description: Rookie actor Phoenix Wright can not believe his luck as he scores his first major acting role in one of the most anticipated movies of the year. But, what was better than starring in one of the most anticipated films of the year? Starring in one of the most anticipated films of this year with famous actor Miles Edgeworth.

A Wrightworth acting au where two dorks (eventually) fall in love!  

Chapter 1/?

Alternatively, it can be read here!

Text underneath cut!

Act 1 Scene 1

 October 5th, 11:00pm

 Phoenix’s Apartment

Phoenix COULD NOT believe his luck. It was as if lady luck herself were watching over him specifically, feeling so sorry for him that she had to throw him a bone. He could not thank her enough. It seemed as if his life were doing a complete turnabout. Up until now and ever since he had graduated from some third rate university’s performing arts program, he never had the pleasure of striking a role anywhere near being a part of the main cast, but this, this was different. Sure, he had made small cameos as extras in movies, but none of those were enough to give him the boost he needed to put his name on the map. This was the real deal. He would have lines to say, scenes to act, parts where he’d be the one in the limelight. He was just offered the biggest acting gig in his entire life.

‘Lady luck, I know I asked you for help last night,’ he thought to himself, ‘but you didn’t have to go this far for me!’

But, what was better than starring in one of the most anticipated films of the year? Starring in one of the most anticipated films of this year with someone who was currently the world's most famous actor. Miles Edgeworth, a man who the world knew nothing about personally, but that his acting was absolutely phenomenal. Everyone— even their mothers and grandmothers— knew of him, but, it wasn’t until Pearls dragged the man to see one of her cheesy, sappy romance movies starring the mysterious man himself that he finally saw what justified the hype around him.

Romance movies weren’t really Phoenix’s thing as he tended to sleep through most of them. What he could recall of the movie, however, was that the plot was pretty standard; the main female protagonist living her life in poverty while her male counterpart was born into a wealthy family. After the two miraculously begin to date, the couple struggles to find acceptance from the man’s family as they already had a fiance picked out for him. This was all quite cliche in Phoenix’s book, but there was one scene in particular that stuck out to him.

Failing to gain acceptance from the man’s family, the man and the woman impulsively run away together during an explosive argument that erupted between the four. Well, more-so drove away, but that was besides the point. The rain pelted down upon their car as they drove down the winding road as fast as they could, but that had been the man’s fatal mistake. As they came upon their final turn, the man lost control of the steering wheel and the speed they had garnered caused the car to topple over several times before it finally came to a stop. Somehow (though Phoenix thought this defied all odds), the man was fortunate enough to only receive injury to his right arm and was able to wiggle himself free from the car, however, his girlfriend was more than misfortunate. The adrenaline pumped through his blood as he ignored his arm’s cry in pain as he tried to wretch her free from the car. His hands were covered in her blood as he laid her on his lap, knowing the inevitable that she would succumb to her injuries before they were even able to call for help.

His eyes looked into hers, a mix of pain and regret swirling around in his dark orbs. He drove too fast, he should have taken his time, he was about to lose the love of his life— Her voice was enough to snap him out of his thoughts, the booming sound of the thunder almost deafening. She gave him her final words, and just like that, the final bit of life evident in her eyes finally fades and her body goes limp in his arms. The man looked up to the overclouded sky, the rain beating upon his face as he gave  the heavens one last dramatic scream of her name before the movie faded away into a pitch black.

Throughout the entire scene, all Phoenix could do was stare at the big screen. There was something mesmerizing about the way Miles Edgeworth acted. He analyzed the actor’s every move, even the subtle ones that would be invisible to those who didn’t graduate from a third-rate performance arts program, yet contributed an overarching mood to the entire scene. The way his face contorted and twisted and scrunched up in pain as he was filled with regret from his actions, the way his eyes looked into hers in desperation that this was all just a dream— that he wasn’t just about to lose the one he fought so hard alongside, it left a heavy feeling in Phoenix’s chest that almost burst forth from it in the form of tears. Miles Edgeworth brought life to a character from a movie genre Phoenix hated, and not only made him sympathize with the corny character, but almost made him tear up, which to this day he still could not believe.

Phoenix was never a fan of romance movies, especially the ones that Pearls picked out (though he never voiced his complaints aloud) because he thought he could feel his teeth rotting away in his mouth from the sheer sappiness and disgusting sweetness of them, but this one was the only one he approved of.

… Even though it was at the expense of his own friend’s enjoyment.

Phoenix sighed at the memory of what happened afterwards. Pearl was the type of hardcore romance fan who only gravitated towards romance movies where the couple lived happily ever after at the end. Why she chose this movie was beyond Phoenix. Perhaps she glossed over the summary of the story after selectively reading the part where the female protagonist goes from “rags-to-riches” and thought it was something along the lines of Cinderella, completely missing the “this tragic story of her attempt to go from rags-to-riches”... or something. She was so depressed that even Phoenix offering to watch her favourite lovey-dovey romance movie for the gazillionth time wouldn’t cheer her up.

From that point on, Miles Edgeworth swept up the nation’s awards that year for his acting in that movie, including the “Best Male Lead Actor of the Year” award at the Movie of Movies Grand Prix— and to Phoenix, rightfully so. The man’s performance was amazing, yet he couldn’t help wanting to pick a bone with the panel of judges who thought that it deserved “Best Movie of the Year”. He totally thought that the Steel Samurai movie deserved to win (not like he had a bias or anything because his friend Austin Powers starred in it); just because one actor’s acting was remarkable, did not mean that the rest of the movie lived up to such a word.

This was the man that Phoenix had the pleasure of working with and although a part of him was excited, an immense sense of pressure ruined it. Miles Edgeworth was a man who had years of experience under his belt in comparison to himself. That fact in itself was enough to make the butterflies in his stomach awake from their slumber; he hadn’t felt this nervous in ages.

Phoenix glanced at the thick booklet of papers in his hand titled "No Time for Turnabouts: Script”, its thick blocky text staring back at him. With an unsteady sigh, he flipped it open to the first page. If Phoenix wanted to impress Miles Edgeworth at tomorrow’s pre-production meeting, there was only one thing he could do. If he couldn’t rely on his acting skills to impress him, the least he could do was come prepared to what he was about to walk into.

 October 6th, 10:00am

Global Studios: Dressing Room

“For the last time, must I act with such an incompetent rookie?” Miles looked at his manager, eyes narrowed fiercely in an attempt to assert his dissatisfaction at the current situation. “He’s not had any starring roles within the span of his career,” is what a quick IMDb search of the other’s peculiar name told the man. “In fact, I’ve never heard of him before.”

The girl sitting adjacent from him brought a dainty teacup to her lips, taking a sip of her tea before placing it back on its saucer with a cold clink, the cunningness of her eyes colliding with his own, “And like I have told you when you foolishly asked several foolish times before this, it is not within my control,” she shrugged, her mouth curling into a shit-eating grin, “You’ll just have to suck it up, little brother.”

Miles scoffed, but she had a point. It wasn’t his manager, Franziska Von Karma, hiring the cast for this movie, it was the director. This director was someone who he had worked with in the past and every single time, Miles had loved every single creative direction he had taken with the movie; as did the audience, each movie of his being met with positive reviews from viewers and film critics alike. Miles did not doubt his abilities and because of his positive reputation within the film industry, if he wanted to hire a rookie whose career only consisted of being an extra for a few scenes in a few big movies, all he could do was put his faith in him. However, just because he put his faith in him did not mean he approved.

He took a sip of his own tea, before he glanced at the expensive watch adorning his wrist. Today was their first proofreading of the script. There, Miles could finally see who this Phoenix Wright man was.

“Come now, you fool, or we’ll be late.” Franziska was already rolling up her whip in a neat circle and heading towards the door.

Miles put his tea cup down on the glass coffee table, moving his hands to fix his jabot as he stood up. Miles Edgeworth was a man with high standards, and whoever this Phoenix Wright was, Miles hoped he could meet his expectations.

 October 6th, 10:00am

Global Studios

Phoenix’s days couldn’t have been getting any better. The rookie actor was known for never being on time for anything—often receiving a scolding from Maya as a result—but just this once, he had managed to be punctual— if not a little early— for the one thing that mattered the most. He thanked god that he had the foresight to check whether or not he had set his alarm for A.M instead of P.M before he went to bed last night. Phoenix checked himself in the mirror once before he left the house; donning a plain white dress shirt and navy blue slacks. He adjusted the tie around his neck, the last thing he wanted to do was make a bad impression. Giving himself one final hurrah, encouraging himself in the mirror with “you can do this”, and “you got this”, he left his small flat with his head held high.

However, at this point in time, the closer he got to the time of the pre-production meeting, the more nervous he felt. He stood outside the meeting room, checking his wristwatch as he shifted in place from the heels of his feet to the balls of them.

“Nick!” Behind him, a set of hands placed themselves on his shoulder as a familiar energetic voice spooked him out of his nervousness, causing him almost to jump out of his skin. “Are you nervous?”

Phoenix peered over his left shoulder, unsurprised at who it was. It was Maya, who decided to meet him at the studio. If Phoenix had to go in there alone when his agent was perfectly capable of accompanying him, he would curse her to hell and back.

He clutched his chest, heart beating rapidly in his ears. Then, he relaxed and exhaled an exasperated sigh as if this has happened one too many times, “You scared me, Maya!” He exclaimed. “How many times are you going to do this?”

Even if he used the fingers on both of his hands to count all of the times Maya has done this to him before an audition or anytime he was nervous for that matter, he couldn’t. Mainly because for one, he had been to several auditions in the past few years; and two, he didn’t keep track of how many times she did. He stopped counting after the fifth time when he knew it would become a regular occurence.

“Would it be bad if I said never?” Maya giggled.

Phoenix sighed again, “I figured as much…”

“I’m sorry, Nick! It’s just so funny every single time. Remember that time before that one audition when I scared you so bad you spilled your cup of water all over yourself and it looked like you peed your pants-“

Before Maya could say anymore, Phoenix covered her mouth with his hand, wrenching it back in disgust after he felt something wet against his palm. Maya stuck out her tongue and grinned  childishly as Phoenix furiously wiped his hand against his pant leg. He exhaled, “If I asked you to let that go, I’d get the same answer as before, wouldn’t I?” At this point, defeat would be the only option to settle for.

She put her hands together like she always did and with a big smile on her face, she nodded, “You know me so well.”

The two of them continued their friendly banter, most of which consisted of bringing up terribly embarrassing events that had happened to them in the past in an attempt to embarrass the other. This calmed Phoenix’s nerves immensely; Maya always knew how to calm him down despite always scaring him half out of his wits.

“Are you nervous?” She asked, shifting the topic of conversation to something more relevant than reminiscing on their past embarrassments.

The question was like a reality slap, reawakening the butterflies he had thought he thoroughly rid himself of. “Of course, this is my first time ever getting something better than being an extra. A lot is riding on this, Maya.”

“It’s okay Nick!” She jabbed him lightly in the shoulder… Whatever her definition of “lightly” was. Phoenix rubbed his shoulder. That was definitely going to bruise over. “Just remember this, this is your big chance! Your break-through! Your primer!”

“I think you mean ‘premiere’...”

“All eyes will be on you! If you do great, then you’ll get more work!” She encouraged him, jumping to stand in front of him. She closed one of her eyes while she formed her fingers into a rectangular shape as if she were filming him. Even though it wasn’t a real camera, he still felt a little embarrassed, his cheeks flushing a light shade of pink. While he appreciated the sentiment, he knew where this was going.

“But…” He added on for her.

“But, if you mess up in your usual ‘Phoenix Wright Fashion’, then you can kiss your non-existent acting career goodbye!” She said in a type of pure adolescent innocence, putting her hands on her hips.

Phoenix shoved his face into his palm, “Thanks Maya…”  

“Any time.” She beamed at him, genuinely convinced that her words were words of encouragement instead of ones that felt like he had been stabbed in the heart.

Suddenly, as if something had caught in the corner of her eye, she looked down the hallway. “Psst, Nick!! Nick!!” She ecstatically whispered in a half-whisper-half-regular tone. “Is that Miles Edgeworth?!”

Phoenix followed her line of vision to the figure emerging from one of the many rooms down the hall. He knew that burgundy suit from anywhere, the feature that many people recognized him for. There was no one else in the world who could wear a suit that colour and could successfully pull it off, in Phoenix’s humble opinion.

The tall man stalked down the hallway accompanied by a shorter woman which Phoenix assumed to be his agent, Franziska von Karma. Although they weren’t close yet, he could feel the immense pressure in the air from the dignified aura that the two created. There was something intimidating about their aura, an elitist air that clearly separated the two individuals who were experienced in their field from the two weren’t-- almost as if it screamed ‘don’t talk to us’. Was that how it was around every famous actor?

“T-They’re coming closer to us! What do we do, Nick? Do we introduce ourselves?” Maya panicked, the words flying from her mouth at a mile per minute.

“Well, we are standing in front of the meeting room and from today on, he is our co-worker,” Phoenix whispered back to her, his tone more hushed than hers. “I think… I think we should greet them.” He suggested.

The two nodded as if they had come to an understanding by looking into each other’s eyes. Then, on the mental count of three that perfectly aligned with their arrival, Phoenix stiffly began, “Hi! I see we’ll be working together, Mr. Edgeworth. In that case, i-it’s nice to meet you!” He stuck out a hand, hoping the man would outstretch his own to shake it.

The man came to a stop and instead of getting a comforting smile and the handshake he desired, all Phoenix got was a piercing glare full of annoyance. “Mr. Wright,” he scoffed. “I would ask that you keep your interactions with me at a minimum and you do not waste my time by trying to talk to me.” With that, Edgeworth strode past him into the now open meeting room, his agent following behind him, smirking at Phoenix as she entered.

After recovering from the utter shock known as his first impression of the famous actor he had only seen on the big screen thus far, Phoenix turned to Maya, hoping that she would confirm that what just happened was just his mind’s cruel idea of a joke. Unfortunately, Maya nodded at him, confirming that what just happened was in fact not a figment of his imagination. For some reason, the famous Miles Edgeworth disliked the unknown rookie, Phoenix Wright.

‘What…’ Phoenix gulped. ‘What did I do..?!’

[blog-sliverofjade]

Hearth Fires 3: Feline Tactics

Pairing: Remi Denier x OFC

Summary:  Lorel Maddox just wants to live as a human, run her bakery in peace, and forget. Unfortunately, the alpha of the local leopard pack has very different ideas.

Remi Denier doesn’t know what to make of the female Changeling who wants nothing to do with him or the RainFire pack. He does know that he has a driving need to protect her. Even if it’s from herself.

While they’re embroiled in a battle of wills, there’s a war brewing on the horizon. The outside threat could not only destroy everything they hold dear, but tear apart the fragile new bonds of the Trinity Accord, plunging the world into bloodshed to rival the Territorial Wars of centuries past.  

Word count: 2783

Hearth Fires Masterlist

Beta read by the magnificent pandabearer

Tien and JoJo hadn’t been back but three minutes before the rest of the pack came sniffing around.  Remi could practically see their animals’ tails arched into question marks of curiosity. Taking a snickerdoodle for herself, Tien set the box on a table and stepped back to let the others swarm.

“Suddenly my cooking’s not good enough for you?” Avery scowled and folded his arms.  “Fine, then you can cook for yourselves.” The lanky male threatened to stop running the kitchen in the communal aerie whenever someone irritated him, which was nearly on a weekly basis.  He never did, though, because the offending party usually made reparations before the next mealtime.

“Hmm, it’s good enough for me, baby.”  Tien nuzzled her nose against his with the soft, lazy smile she reserved for her mate and fed him a bite of snickerdoodle.

Avery chewed thoughtfully before muttering, “Not bad.”  She stroked and petted his back until he wrapped an arm around her and fed her small bites.

“Oh man, I don’t care what you gotta do, we need this woman,” moaned Elijah around a cupcake, the senior soldier’s eyes rolling back into his head.  “ I need this woman.”

“One look at you and she’d run,” Lark snorted and waved her caramel apple at him.  A few slices of pecans fell off his cupcake and Elijah caught them with cat-like reflexes.  He eyed her like he was considering pelting her with them, but after a moment he tossed them in his mouth with another groan.

“Besides, why do you automatically assume she would cook?” Tien frowned at Elijah.

“I’m sure I could coax the kitten into it,” he smirked and licked the frosting from his fingers.  The male never had a shortage of lovers, all of whom looked like the cat that got into the cream when they shared skin privileges.

Normally, Remi would be more concerned about a submissive female tangling with a dominant male, particularly one as deadly as Elijah was under the jokes and openly sensual nature.  Despite a face that was just shy of being beautiful and a body nearly as packed with muscle as his own, Remi doubted the other man could coax the reticent Lorelei into anything.

Remi, on the other hand, was certain he could entice her.

“She turned you down.”  Theo’s quiet, but deep, voice drowned out the yumyumyum noises Elijah was making.

Everyone stilled and turned to look at their alpha.  Merde, he’d hoped to gloss over his failure, but it was too late.

“Do you think I’d get arrested if I kidnapped her?”  Elijah’s musing broke the silence as he contemplated the best way to attack the caramel apple he held.  Remi smacked the back of his head.

“You’re a leopard, not a bear.  Act like it,” he growled. The male soldier waggled his brows and bit into the apple, nearly unhinging his jaws in order to fit the damn thing in.  His unrepentance slackened into concern when the caramel melted around his teeth and he appeared stuck.

“You’re just grumpy because she resisted your charms,” teased Lark.  The sentinel was at the back of the room and therefore safely out of smacking range.  While he knew that the teasing denoted an ease and a sense of safety, sometimes Remi braced himself to see if he would lose his temper.  Some alphas didn’t permit such familiarity, holding more Machiavellian views, and he still worried that he fell into that group.

Instead of taking it as a challenge, his leopard rolled its eyes and flopped on its side with its back to Lark.

“I’ll remember that when the first snow hits and it’s time to do perimeter rotations.”  He narrowed his eyes at Lark.

Elijah managed to break away from his sticky trap, taking half the apple with him.

“How’d she manage to defy our fearless leader?” he asked around the chunk of fruit.  Or at least that’s what Remi assumed the garbled noises coming from the soldier’s mouth were.

“Ms. Maddox doesn’t see the need for pack.”

The soldiers and maternals stared at him.  Most cats were solitary creatures, but their human halves needed community, family.  Dominants needed to protect, and maternals needed to nurture. Each needed the other to feel whole.  Even those who chose to go it alone understood those who preferred pack life.

Moreover, they could not afford to have a predatory Changeling living within their borders that wasn’t one of them, it might give ideas to those with purposes darker than creating sinful concoctions.  RainFire was just large and powerful enough to make outsiders think twice before trespassing, but there were those who would be emboldened by her presence. They couldn’t hold off many repeated comers, and they had to protect their young ones.

None of the soldiers pointed any of that out, but they did exchange glances.  Like him, they were uneasy at the prospect of having to drive Lorelei off, their instincts wanting to bring her in where they could watch over her along with the rest of their vulnerable.  Not all of them had met the ocelot, but all were aware of her, just as they were the herd of elk that occasionally roamed through part of their area, the flight of crows to the east, and each individual non-predatory Changeling who lived on their territory.

“I do enjoy proving people wrong,” Tien said mildly into the silence, momentarily diverting the martially minded.  Sly grins broke out around the room.

“No caveman tactics,” said Remi with a pointed look at Elijah, who gave him wide eyes in return.  “We’re cats; at least try and be sneaky. If you can’t figure that out, I’m sure one of the cubs could give you tips.”  Elijah clasped a hand to his chest as if mortally offended, then grimaced when his t-shirt adhered to his caramel-coated hand.

“Now that you’ve all been bribed and some of you are glued to your seats.”  Elijah shifted and had to pry his palm off the table he sat on. “An email has been circulating in the area.”  Remi brought it up on the screen at the front of the conference room. Everyone’s attention snapped to the display.

He smiled to himself.

The poor baby had no idea what she was in for when an entire pack of cats focused on a single goal.

“Of course they want it delivered,” Lorel muttered sarcastically to herself as she bobbled along the road, which was barely deserving of the name.  A particularly large pothole had her worrying about cracking a tooth.

The hover option in her ancient sedan had given out that morning, and she had neither the time nor the money to get it looked at.  She couldn’t even appreciate the patchwork of trees because she had to keep one eye on the rutted-out dirt track and the other on the cake in the backseat.  If it bounced right up into the ceiling of the car, they weren’t getting a refund. And she was going to charge them to have the car detailed.

The donkey trail dead-ended in a turnabout circle; no buildings appeared to be in sight, the only sign of life was what looked like game trails leading off into the woods.  Did they live in burrows like animals? She didn’t think that there were any caves in this part of the mountains.

Just as Lorel was contemplating whether or not to dump the goods and bail, a tall black woman materialized from the trees and motioned her to the right.  What she’d thought was merely a grassy berm raised on hydraulic lifts to reveal a plas-crete reinforced bunker. The guide loped inside to lead her to an empty spot amongst rows of parked vehicles.

“Come into my parlour,” she muttered as she eased into the space.  The door closed, leaving her in a dimly lit cavern. “That wasn’t ominous at all.”  She popped the back hatch and sweat burst out of every pore when she stepped into the coolly neutral atmosphere of the garage.  “That’s great, go into the leopard’s den reeking of fear.”

She was too busy muttering to herself to notice the man who swooped in and grabbed the cake before she could; she tried not to stare at his size.  The man was built like a freaking tree.

“Thanks.  Is the exit automatic or does someone need to let me out?”   Please say it’s automatic.  The man-tree was too busy admiring the neon green cake crowned with black chocolate that looked like it was oozing; black tentacles and strawberries with fanged maws of frosting emerged from the top.  She was a little worried that he might start drooling. At least the boxes of cookies and cupcakes in her hands had lids and were therefore safe from him.

“If one speck of frosting’s out of place, you get to be the one to tell Tien,” the woman warned him, and shut the hatchback.  He affected a shudder and stepped back to flank Lorel.

The two of them shepherded her towards a door set into the wall at the back of the lot.  A bead of cold sweat slithered down the small of her back. Her cat did not like having two dominant predators at her back pushing her into unknown territory.

They led her through the thick, steel door and up a gently sloping corridor.  It would be easy to move something heavy along the slight incline, like a dead body.  And that thought certainly didn’t help her anxiety.

Her escorts ushered her through another door, also thick and steel, and into a clearing filled with sheer chaos.  JoJo ran past in a pirate costume- Lorel only recognized her because she wore the same glittery, purple boots- and a leopard cub wearing a miniature cowboy hat nipped at her heels.  Several other children, some of whom were on four paws, frolicked in a giant leaf pile at the other end of the clearing.

In the center there was a las-fire.  Most of the adults either stood in groups or sat at tables off to one side.  At one edge, far from the kids and the tables, the rest were playing a game of football.  Full contact, of course.

All in all, it was a far cry from the church gatherings her grandparents had dragged her to.  And yet, if not for the fact that they were strangers, both sides of her nature felt a curious sense of rightness, like she was home.  She shut that in a box and locked it tight before she could analyze that.

Lorel managed to follow tree-man and tall, dark, and deadly over to the tables to deposit the treats.

“Welcome to the madhouse.  Beer?”

She had to do a double take.  The man who had come up on her left with a couple of longnecks was probably the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen, with deep aquamarine eyes that contrasted against flawless, brown skin.  It was the fine angles of his face combined with the lithe musculature of his body that gave him the unreal perfection of a model. Although she preferred people who were more rugged, she could still appreciate a pretty face.

Then she had to mentally slap herself.   Don’t fall for the bait .

“Um, no thanks,” she blinked, still attempting to process the pandemonium.

“Cider?”

“I don’t drink.  Look, I think I’d better go.”  Lorel took a step backward and ran into a wall.  A tall, warm wall.

“Runnin’, catin?” the wall rumbled in that lyrical accent.  Hairs along her arms and the nape of her neck stood at attention and she had to repress a shudder.

“Hardly.”  She turned to Remi with an arched brow.  “I would hate to trespass. I know that ruffles your fur the wrong way.”  She wanted to clap a hand over her mouth before any other snarky comments spilled out of her.

To her surprise, he merely chuckled.  Her ocelot cocked its head in confusion, having been hunkered down in a defensive crouch.

Before she could marshal her scrambled brains into some form of order, a little boy of maybe four or five clambered up Remi and clung to his back.  Without looking, the alpha put a hand back to steady the climber.

“Hey peeshwank.”  Ok, wow, that smile was dazzling enough to make even the model seem drab in comparison.

In response, the boy roared at the top of his lungs and bit Remi’s shoulder.  Since he was in human form, his mouth didn’t even fit around the hard curve of muscle, let alone do any damage.  If anything, Lorel was more worried about the child than the adult. Reaching back, Remi grabbed the kid’s ankle and hauled him around to scowl at his upside-down face.

“I’m a dinosaur!” the child giggled, his stick-straight hair hanging down in a short blonde curtain.  His free leg kicked idly so he swung slightly in his alpha’s firm, yet gentle, grip. The blue t-shirt he wore had “When I grow up, I want to be a dinosaur” blazoned across the front.

“Dinosaurs don’t bite people,” Remi scolded, a gleam dancing in his eyes that couldn’t be hidden by his glare.

“Is it ‘cuz they’re dead?”  The boy feigned innocence, widening baby blues that probably had gotten him out of trouble before, but it was his huge grin that gave him away.  Every adult in the vicinity did their best not to laugh, some succeeding more than others.

“Yep, ‘cuz I ate dem.”  With a growl, Remi lunged forward as if he was going to bite the soft belly that was exposed because the boy's shirt had bunched up around his ribcage.  The kid let out a shriek that quickly dissolved into giggles at the raspberries Remi blew above his belly button.

Just when the child looked like he might pass out from lack of air and the blood rushing to his head, Remi gently tossed him to the giant who’d escorted Lorel.  He caught the living projectile easily, his arms moving with the trajectory to cushion the landing. The kid shrieked with laughter and begged to be thrown in the pile of leaves.  His wish was granted, albeit from a low height, once his playmates got out of the way. Soon, the man was bombarded with similar demands from the other children.

She felt as if someone had clubbed her between the eyes with a two-by-four.  Of all the things she’d been led to believe when it came to changeling packs, none of what she had seen so far fit with that understanding.  While the two men laughed and indulged the kids, she cast about for a way to slip away without being noticed and accidentally made eye contact with Tien.

The other woman took that as an invitation to come over.

“Lorel, the cake looks great!” she beamed.  “Has anyone shown you around?”

“Um, no.”  Lorel wished she could teleport herself out of there like a telekinetic; as it was, she had no idea how to extricate herself without offending nearly a hundred predatory changelings.

“You’ve already met Angel.”  Tien pointed out the model-gorgeous man who’d offered her a drink.  He was sharing it with the woman who’d met her out front. “That’s Lark with him, her cousin Theo’s the one swamped with cubs.  And you remember Jojo.”

She gestured towards her daughter, who had joined the others frolicking in the leaves.  She disappeared in a shimmer, shifting to her leopard form, and leapt into the leaf pile.  Lorel blinked and glanced around at the adults, who carried on as if the little girl hadn’t just sprouted claws and fangs and jumped into a maelstrom of leaves and kids, some of which were human.

“You let the children run around…?” she broke off, searching for the right words.

“In leopard form?  Of course.” Tien looked at her as if anything else was unimaginable.  “She knows better by now. At least she has a spare Halloween costume,” she said with a fond sigh and rueful shake of her head.

“You’re not upset about the clothes?”  When a changeling shifted, their clothing disintegrated around them.

“Normally she gets a reminder, but I’ll let it go this time,” she shrugged with a nonchalance that had Lorel feeling like an invisible band had tightened around her chest.  “Got to pick your battles, you know? Did your poor grandparents ever have to rescue a naked cub from a tree?”

“Um, no.”

“Rescue” wasn’t the word for it.  Did everyone here know her history?  Was that why they were so keen on getting her to join?  The thought of any of these strangers pitying her had claws pressing at the tips of her fingers